Boyfrenemy Page 3

  I’m such a fraud. The website is an extension of my love-hate relationship with my body. Or rather, it’s the love part. The part that says, if I can’t beat the fat, I’ll enjoy it. The other part of me is on a diet plan that I would never tell my subscribers about.

  I check my list of new members. Five more since I checked this morning. Two of them have signed on for the deluxe membership which gives them a bigger discount on anything they buy on the site, as well as access to all areas of my webpage. This includes the Write in for Advice column, and the “sealed section”—weekly erotic fiction instalments that I’ve been posting for the last three years since I launched my website. A lot of subscribers who choose to go deluxe, also do it to receive Jiggle magazine—a publication totally dedicated to fat fetish. I don’t publish that myself but any subscriptions sold through my site earns me 5% of those sales.

  The image of a giant phallic sex toy flashes on my tablet, making me jump. I have new products set on alert, even for me—which is fine when I’m alone at home. I scramble to tap the X and close the image. I quickly look around, wondering if anyone else saw it. Miz Peggy is probably my biggest achievement in life. A website that started from a blog I began four years ago, it now earns me enough money to slowly but surely save up for the minimum deposit on a home loan—the very first I would live in that’s not a rental, even if it would technically be the bank’s for at least twenty years.

  “Would you like to order something to drink?” the waitress comes up to the table with a smile, extending the menu to me.

  I peruse the choices, start to order the mango frappe, then change my mind when I remember the sugar content of a drink like that. Gah.

  “Just tap water, thanks. Two glasses.”

  The slightest of frowns flits across her face, her eyes clocking the raunchy images on my screen before she turns on her heel to get my free order. Her disdain is exactly why I’m not outwardly proud of my tawdry site. In fact, no one, not even Jillie, knows that I’m the brains behind Miz Peggy. That I’m Miz Peggy.

  A minute later, she’s setting down the chilled bottle and two glasses in front of me.

  “Are you ready to order?” the waitress asks.

  I look down at the menu again, determined to find something.

  “Crap. Shit. Fuck. Good. You’re still here. Sorry. Sorry. Mad house at the bank today.”

  I lift my gaze to find the bearded Keats McAllister in a grey suit and dark aviator sunglasses which he tears off and sets on the table top. There’s a film of sweat along his brow, and his chest heaves with every breath. Did he run here?

  The waitress and I both stare at him. She regards me, then Keats, then me again, this time with admiration like she’s ready to give me a high-five for landing him. Keats is even more delicious in the day time, the bright sun making his light eyes stand out, and his wavy hair and almost-beard shimmer. With his designer business suit and tie on, he looks more like the angst-filled lead singer of a band than a banker.

  “Could I have the club sandwich, please, no onions, and a cup of doppio,” he tells her, flashing his easy smile at the waitress before looking at me and cuing her to do the same.

  “I’ll have the green salad with the balsamic vinegar dressing,” I say, then add, “Thanks,” because I’ve learnt from other people, not my parents, that that’s what functioning members of society say.

  “Hey there,” Keats says to me as he finally takes the seat opposite mine. “Shit’s going down on Wall Street today and it’s affecting our market. It’s so bad, the bank’s sending me there tonight to meet with our biggest shareholders. Thanks for sticking around and waiting for me, Hog-gen.”

  I cringe, as I cover up and pack away my tablet with crisp moves. “It’s fine. Can we just get this over and done with?”

  He raises a brow. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve got the shits with me again? I thought we settled things last night?”

  “Me, too.” I give him a pointed look which he returns with a blank one. “I’ve told you not to call me that name.”

  “Your last name?”

  “Yes. It’s pronounced, Hay-gen.” Actually, it’s not. Haugen is said as “Hoggen” with a little less emphasis on “Hog”. But Keats doesn’t need to know that after high school, I stopped answering to that way of saying my name.

  “Sorry, I never knew. Hay-gen,” he sounds it out, eyes dipping to my chest.

  I follow his gaze and see my frilly top that shows off my cleavage. It’s taken me until very recently to appreciate my bigger breasts. They were always a source of embarrassment throughout high school and my early twenties. It didn’t help that my mother wasn’t around to teach me about supportive bras or dressing for my shape.

  “Are you checking out my girls?” Please say yes.

  His mouth curves into a half-smile as he shakes his head. “Um, no.” He indicates my staff ID with a tip of his chin. “It looks a little like Hog-gen.”

  “It’s not.” I take the lanyard from around my neck, and stuff my tell-tale ID into my bag. “So, let’s talk about the wedding…”

  “You’re fine with it going ahead? I thought last night, maybe you weren’t…”

  Oh, that’s right. I “admitted” to being into his brother—not sure what I was thinking there. “Well, it’s not like we can do anything about it. Byron and Isabella have already set a date. They’ve chosen the bridal party. You’re the best man and I’m the maid of honour.”

  It’s sad how tickled I am to say that out loud.

  “Yeah, you’re right.” From the hardness in his voice, I can tell he’s clammed up. The tight set of his mouth speaks volumes about his continued feelings for the bride. “You contacted the church yet?”

  Oh, shit. I knew I forgot something. “I’m calling them today.”

  He nods, pouring himself a glass of water, watching the action with blue eyes hooded by long, light brown lashes. After politely thanking the waitress for bringing his double shot of espresso, he takes a long sip like he wants to finish it and get out of here quickly. I half expect him to call the waitress back to cancel his food order. And I start to fear that my chance to get closer to Keats McAllister is slipping through my fingers.

  I study his face, trying to read him. How can I get him to stay and talk to me? “What exactly do you want to happen with Isabella.”

  I must have sounded properly sympathetic because he lifts his gaze straight to meet my eyes. “I want my girlfriend back.”

  My throat tightens, threatening to choke me as something inside my chest constricts. Ouch. I’m so stupid. What did I expect? He only seemed interested in me last night when he thought I wasn’t so keen on the wedding going ahead. My instincts tell me to get up and run, because if this hurts now, it will only get worse the more time I spend with him.

  I reach for my bag, but another idea comes to me before I can touch it. What if, for a change, I don’t run away from possible rejection? What if I see where this goes, maybe get Keats McAllister in my bed, and get him out of my system? Because, frankly, a crush since Year 7 is way too long. This unrequited stuff is bullshit.

  And this isn’t high school. It’s not like I want to marry him, or anyone, anymore. I may not be cut out for close romantic relationships, but that doesn’t mean I can’t just have fun with him. He’s more of a jerk in person than I ever imagined. Maybe, if nothing else, time together would cure me of my infatuation?

  I don my emotional armour and pretend his feelings for Isabella don’t hurt me. “So, you don’t want me to call the church?”

  He shakes his head, absently running a finger along his almost beard. And suddenly I am fixating on his expressive hands that move and touch the handle of his cup and the table when he talks. “We can’t be that obvious. No, we need to plan the wedding like it’s going to happen. It’ll have to be Isabella and Byron’s decision not to get married.”

  I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with the whole thing. Is he really planning to break up his brother and
Isabella? “I thought you weren’t in love with her? Byron asked you flat out at the reunion, and you couldn’t answer.”

  Keats’ brows shoot up. “You know about that?”

  I nod with a sarcastic stretch of lips. “Everybody at the reunion heard that.” And he obviously hadn’t noticed me standing just a few feet away while he and his brother had fought over Isabella.

  His eyes narrow like he’s trying to access that memory of me but can’t. “Well, I didn’t know if I was in love then,” he justifies, “but I’ve never been this messed up at getting dumped before—not that I’ve been dumped a lot, mind you. But I can’t eat…I can’t sleep…my work is going down the toilet…That’s love, right?”

  Or hurt male pride. I don’t answer but I notice that his cheeks do look a little gaunt.

  “Isn’t that how you’re feeling right now? Isn’t this just eating away at you?” He leans forward, forearms resting on the edge of the table top, fingers steepled in the middle, touching his chin.

  I nod, even though the cause of my pain is not his brother’s feelings for Isabella. We pause while the waitress lowers our food before us.

  Good. I’m starving.

  I pick up my fork and start but Keats just glances at his club sandwich with little interest. I sit up, put my fork down and stop shovelling the lettuce into my mouth.

  “So, this isn’t totally insane, right?” His eyes capture mine. The invitation in them for a roll between the sheets, unintended or not, pulls me in.

  “Yes.” I belatedly realise that I said that word out loud. I was merely responding to the proposition in his eyes. Great. Now he thinks I agree with his crazy plan to break up Isabella and Byron.

  A wide, relieved grin cracks his features, transforming his intense expression into a boyish one. He picks up one of the triangle-shaped sandwiches on his plate and takes a bite. I don’t know why I’m relieved—probably because now I can continue attacking my rabbit food again.

  “All right,” he resumes after chewing and a forced swallow. “Byron sometimes comes home on weekends. I’ll work on him; you work on Isabella.”

  “How exactly do we ‘work on’ them?”

  Keats’ cocky grin wavers and the sandwich stops its trek to his mouth again. “I haven’t really thought that far. I’ve never tried to break up a couple before. Have you?”

  “No.”

  He lets out a big sigh and leans back in his seat, so casually sexy that I want to leap across the table and just grab him. I return my focus to my salad so he can mistake the hunger in my eyes for hunger for food.

  “Some pair we’re going to make,” he says with a sigh. “Look, I love my brother, but Isabella was my girlfriend first. She should be with me. I just want both of them to realise that.”

  “That sounds a little cuckoo. Are you sure you’re not just thinking with your pants? Was Isabella the best sex you’ve had or something?” I’m not sure why I asked that? Frankly, I don’t want to know the answer.

  He lowers his eyes to his coffee. “It’s not like that. I haven’t…we never…Look, I’m aware some people might think I’m being selfish but she’s the one that got away—probably The One—and if I don’t find out now where it could’ve gone with her, I’d regret it for the rest of my life.” He shifts in his seat with a frown, as if he’s realised how mushy he sounded.

  I sip my water and say nothing, my heart struggling to beat with the proverbial knife lodged in it. I think his words might have cut an artery. It sure feels like it.

  “Dad left Mom after twenty plus years of marriage to be with the one that got away. I’m not waiting that long.” He sets his mug down and levels his gaze at me. “Maybe Byron doesn’t even love her like I do. He changed his mind about becoming a doctor. And he was with Jada for five years before breaking up with her. Maybe this is just another—.” He releases a frustrated breath, like he’s annoyed to be in this situation in the first place. “Don’t you want to find out if you could have something more with Byron?”

  This lie is going to be a bitch to maintain. “I’m not sure about breaking them up though.”

  “Because you’re such good friends with Isabella?” he retorts with a snicker.

  Good point. I haven’t felt that close to her in ages. And if I don’t really break her and Byron up, just pretend to so I can spend more time with Keats, no one really gets hurt. Right?

  “What exactly are you proposing?” Marriage! my brain fills in—honestly, maybe I should stop watching too many rom-coms.

  Keats pushes his cup handle from side to side. “I haven’t thought it through too much yet.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “But look, all we need is time to show them they should be with us. Marriage is difficult enough without rushing into it.”

  “What’s so special about Isabella?” Because if you tell me, maybe I can copy her. “I mean, it’s not like you don’t have other choices.” Like me. Pick me!

  He scratches the side of his mouth and doesn’t answer immediately. I get the sudden urge to reach across the table and run my fingertips through his beard. Is that even a beard? It’s more like an overgrown five o’clock shadow. I wonder how long it took him to grow it. And is he hairy anywhere else? I’ve seen a photo of him shirtless on Isabella’s phone, so I know he has a fairly smooth, muscled chest with a tattoo of a lion in a cowboy hat.

  I notice my fingers absently stroking the table’s smooth surface. I quickly grab my glass of water to occupy my hand and my mouth before I start drooling. “So, what’s the deal with Isabella?” I ask again before I take a sip.

  Over the rim of my drink, I watch as his sexy eyes turn inwards while he thinks of her. His top teeth play with his lower lip like he’s deciding what to say first. Finally, he looks at me with a poignant smile on his lips. “She’s the whole package—funny, sexy, smart as hell…”

  He goes on. I’m sorry I asked, so I just tune him out with imagined mental pictures of him in a T-shirt and jeans. With his hair on the long side, the outfit would definitely make him look even more like a rock god.

  “…and she was someone I was happy to take home to Mom, and to work functions. People look up to Isabella and treat her seriously. You just know she was raised right.”

  I barely suppress a flinch. That hurt. He didn’t mean to but his comment chokes the air out of me. “Raised right”. Another criterion I don’t fit thanks to my dysfunctional family. My hand goes back to my handbag. This time it’s not because I’m considering leaving the café. No. I shove my tablet further in as I wonder what the strait-laced-loving Keats McAllister would think of my online source of income.

  “All I need is a little time to convince Isabella that she should be with me,” he finishes. Finally.

  “You sound deluded.”

  His brows furrow for a second, probably wondering why I’ve changed my mind about the sanity of his musings. But then he shrugs. “I’m in love. And it’s turned me into this mushy, desperate idiot who can’t function properly. I need a resolution to this, Hay-gen, or at least some kind of closure. I need to try. Isabella needs to know what her choices are. My brother—my brother will forgive me one day. This isn’t personal—all’s fair in love and war, right?”

  I give him a sideways glance. I never imagined that my first proper conversation with Keats would be so dastardly. And yet, a part of me is thrilled he’s trusted me with this information.

  Still, I should warn him. “They’ll never forgive us for breaking them up. Isabella would hate you too much to be with you. I mean, you want us to plot the downfall of their relationship.”

  “They plotted together to get me to date her, remember? Or at least she did. Byron just made goo-goo eyes with her the whole time—God, I should’ve seen it coming a mile away.” His voice hardens at the last. “Considering Isabella schemed with my brother to nab me, I think she’d be fine now that the shoe’s on the other foot.”

  I’m not convinced, but I don’t need to tell him that. The prospec
t of spending more time with Keats, in his inner circle, is dangling in front of me like tempting forbidden fruit. All I need to do is take one bite. Actually, I don’t even really need to take a bite, just pretend to—the double, double cross. Can I pull it off?

  “Look,” Keats says when I don’t say anything. “I’m going to do this with or without you, but my chance of being with Isabella again is probably higher with your help. And if everything goes to plan, there’s a bit of romance at the end of it for you, too. So are you in?”

  Chapter 5

  The friends of my frenemy are my frenemies.

  I hung out with Isabella’s friends in high school, but I was never close to any of them. And now they seem to resent my title as maid of honour like I chose it. They should’ve been there to volunteer when Isabella had made her big announcement and asked.

  My brooding is interrupted when a waitress sets my Diet Coke in front of me. I’m at a café in South Bank, overlooking the artificial beach and swimming areas right in the heart of Brisbane. It’s Saturday, so the place is teeming, especially since it’s a warm day for April. Autumn seems to be arriving late this year. The blue-green water sparkles in the sun, inviting me. Even the brackish Brisbane River beyond is tempting in this heat. But I’ll just have to settle for a cool bath when I get home.

  The last time I swam in public was in primary school for Physical Education and swimming sports days. My height and size gave me an unfair advantage in the pool—even at twelve, I was already close to six feet tall. But by high school, I was too shy to put my hand up to swim for my sporting house, and don togs in front of my peers. I haven’t thought about swimming in years. On hindsight, maybe I could’ve taken the sport further if my dad had been a better-functioning alcoholic.

  Mia—the “Bitch of Bridgewater High”—arrives first. With her curly red hair down and those striking hazel eyes, she looks like a doll from the neck up. From the neck down, she has on a loose kaftan and sandals, accessorised by colourful beaded necklaces and bangles that she no doubt crafted herself. They look like the stuff she makes and sells at the South Bank markets. Getting knocked up at nineteen and raising her daughter by herself has really forced her to grow up faster than all of us.