Boyfrenemy Read online

  “Hey, Jess.” He checks his watch. It should tell him that he’s half an hour late for our trip to the bridal expo. He cringes. “Sorry. Golf game. I’m ready to go though. You want to take my car or yours?”

  “I don’t drive.”

  He raises a brow at me. “Okay. I’ll be five minutes. Hi, Mom.” He walks up to his mother and gives her a kiss on the cheek.

  “Good golf game, pet?”

  “Deano kicked my ass,” he says, making me wonder if he’s talking about our high school classmate, Richard Dean—the arsehole who’d coined the term, “The Fat Chicks’ Club” for Isabella and her group of friends. “The clients had fun though so…” Keats shrugs, a corner of his mouth lifting. He sees me looking at him, and repeats, “Five minutes,” before he heads to his room.

  I watch him walk down the hall, disappointed when he doesn’t take his shirt off on his way there. God, I’ve missed him. I haven’t seen him since the café, so that’s a whole nine days. When I look back at Mrs McAllister, she’s watching me with a small, sad smile.

  Busted.

  “What do you do, Jess?”

  Oh, God. Is this the daughter-in-law applicant’s interview? “I’m a receptionist in the lobby of the Styler building in the city.” And I run my own erotic website for plus-size women. But that’s a secret from everyone who knows me. “It gives me time to write,” I add because I have the sad need to impress her.

  Her eyes widen with interest. “Oh, what do you write?”

  I should’ve known she’d ask. “Just fiction, and advice about fashion and products.” By “fashion” I mean lingerie for bigger women, and by “products” I mean lotions, lubricants, novelty contraception and sex toys. Again, I don’t tell her this.

  Mrs McAllister nods. Thank God she doesn’t ask where she can read my work.

  “All right, Hay-gen. Ready?”

  I look up and my breath catches. Cap off, I can see Keats has had a haircut—short all over, professional but stylish, and he’s got the cheek bones to pull it off. In jeans, light grey Cons, a dark vee-neck T-shirt and a light, navy blue jacket, he is distractingly gorgeous. It seems that in our week apart, he’s regained his ability to eat and sleep because he looks fresh-faced and back to his ideal weight.

  There must be comfort in thinking he’s on his way to winning back Isabella.

  “It was nice to meet you,” I say to Mrs McAllister—another lesson in etiquette learned from TV.

  Heather McAllister smiles up at me and I genuinely hope she calls the number I gave her.

  ***

  “Nice car.” I run a finger along the shiny roof of Keats’ black Audi sports coupe, parked just outside the gate on the road. The vehicle shines like a beetle in the autumn sun—obviously well-maintained, its chrome wheels and detail are clean and glossy.

  “Thanks. I’ve had her less than a year—took me ages to decide what to get.”

  He presses the unlock button on his keys and we open our respective doors. I have to bend my legs a lot to slip into the low passenger seat. Immediately, I’m enveloped by the new car scent I’ve hardly ever smelled, mixed with leather from the upholstery of the vehicle. It’s so luxurious inside the car that I fist my hands on my lap to stop them from touching the leather and leaving marks on the immaculate interior.

  “What else did you consider getting?” I’m sure I’m acting like a country mouse gawking at all the buttons, lights and features of his ride.

  Keats shrugs as he presses the button to start the car—no need to insert the key in this fancy vehicle. “Maybe a Beemer or a Merc. Or a Porsche.”

  I can’t help the snicker that escapes as we join traffic.

  “What?”

  “Nice choice of cars…for a poser.”

  “I suppose you think I should’ve gotten a souped up Nissan or Ford to go hooning?” He guns the engine and the luxury sports car rumbles beautifully around us as we go over the speed limit. “Is that how you lost your license?”

  “I did not lose my license. I never had one.”

  “You can’t drive?” He scoffs, changing gears so effortlessly, it’s sexy how well he can control the powerful vehicle. “How old are you?”

  “Shut up. I couldn’t afford a car growing up.” Honestly, why would I ever want my own driver’s license when I just know I’d be the type to drive angry, or do my make-up on the highway. I’m really doing a public service by not getting behind the wheel.

  “And now?” Keats probes.

  “I’m used to public transport. Besides, you need to do like a million hours of driver training these days and fill in a log book to get a license, don’t you? Doesn’t seem worth it.”

  “So you can’t drive?” The curve of his lips is too sexy and too amused for my liking. When I don’t say anything, he adds, “Not really the best qualifications to give car advice, is it.”

  I make a rude sound. “Please. Dad was a car mechanic.” When he wasn’t drunk. “So I was around cars a lot.”

  “Do you know how to fix cars, too?”

  “Yep. But not these new cars. The cars my dad fixed never had internal computers.”

  “Hm,” Keats says with a thoughtful smile.

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing. This just reminds me of what they say about male gynaecologists.”

  I get goose bumps at the fact he’s thinking about lady parts right this moment while I’m only a handbrake away from him. “What do they say?”

  “They’re like mechanics who can’t drive.”

  I huff, making him chuckle.

  “So, how have you been?” His light blue eyes flick to me briefly before he resumes watching the road, and I’m treated to a view of his profile.

  “Good.” I finally give in and touch the round air vents on the dashboard of his expensive toy. “You?”

  “Better than the last time we saw each other.” He indicates and turns into the car park of the Convention Centre—it’s only a short drive from their home, and, as usual, Brisbane’s weekend traffic is light.

  “How was New York?” I ask him.

  “All right.”

  “That’s all you have to say about the home of Sex and the City?”

  His brow lifts a fraction at the mention of my all-time favourite show.

  “It’s my dream to go there,” I tell him, still surprised by his underwhelming response to the Big shiny Apple.

  “It just wasn’t as fun going alone,” he admits through a tight mouth.

  “Oh.” Knife through the heart alert! Eject, eject before he can twist it!

  But the car is still moving, so I have no choice but to stay in my seat.

  “Isabella and I had talked about going together.” His lips form a harsh line as his expression becomes stony. With a turn of the wheel, he slides his sports car into a space, and kills the engine. “You decided yet if you’re helping me?”

  Last time he saw me, I told him I’d consider it. I haven’t quite made up my mind. Would more time with him be worth the heartache? Watching him chase after Isabella now is more painful than seeing her pine after him in high school.

  Keats turns in his seat to look at me. There are those bedroom eyes again. Is this why he’s a successful banker? He just turns on the charms—what am I saying? They’re on all the time—and he gets what he wants. How did Isabella manage to resist when there’s a constant curve to his lips, like he’s on the verge of a smile or a seduction?

  I remind myself to breathe, the air knocking about the sides of my constricted throat. Stuff it. It would hurt either way. I might as well have some fun. I’m only pretending to help him stop the wedding anyway.

  “Well?” The slight movement of his Adam’s apple is the only indication he’s not as sure of himself as he appears.

  “Yes. But keeping in mind I’m possibly the only Isabella expert who’d agree to help you, I have one condition,” I say, as if I was still undecided.

  “What is it?”

  I run a manicured fing
er along the Audi’s shiny dash. “You teach me how to drive. Using this car.”

  Chapter 7

  The bridal expo is unmissable as wave after wave of women make a beeline for the giant doors of the Convention Centre. Most are brides attending with a good friend (probably the maid of honour) or a mother, though some are surrounded by their entourage of bridesmaids. Keats balks when we come within sight of the front doors and the swarm of women beyond.

  I grab his arm and pull him along.

  “Come on, best man.”

  He groans. It wasn’t his idea to tag along. I had to get Isabella and Byron to pull the Best Man’s Duties card on Keats to pressure him to attend this event with me. “What exactly are we supposed to do here?”

  “Get an idea of prices for photographers, videographers,” I say, checking my list, “wedding cakes, bridesmaids’ dresses, groomsmen’s outfits, bridal cars, string quartets, harpists, DJs and florists.”

  “No shit? And why do you need me?”

  “Because of that.” I point to the groups of women with plastic forks in hand at a stall for wedding cakes visible from the entrance. The loud chatter reminds me of seagulls at the beach when someone is silly enough to offer them hot chips. “I’m not going in there alone.”

  “And the other bridesmaids?”

  “Too busy.” I don’t bother telling him that I hadn’t exactly pressured the others to come with me because he’s my preferred companion.

  There’s a table covered in white cloth and sprinkled with wedding themed scatter at the entrance. A couple of middle-aged women in staff T-shirts are sitting there with big smiles as they greet the flow of customers, and take their entry fee.

  “When’s your big day?” the permed, ginger-haired of the two asks us when it’s our turn to pay to get in.

  “Sixteenth of November,” I say at the same time Keats scoffs, “We’re not together.”

  The expo staffer looks at me, waiting for clarification. I lean in and explain in a stage whisper, “I meant, the wedding we’re here for is on the sixteenth of November. I’m maid of honour and his brother’s marrying his ex-girlfriend, so he’s a bit touchy.”

  The staffer puts a consoling hand on Keats’ forearm. He regards her appendage like he’s got a whole Brussels sprout in his mouth, then frowns at me.

  “That’ll be thirty dollars for two tickets, dear.”

  “You’re kidding?” Keats takes his wallet out and extends to her a platinum credit card. She looks at it like he’s a clueless, hot guy.

  I take out a ten and a twenty and give them to the woman, pushing Keats along as we’ve already held the line long enough.

  “They charge you to get in here? It’s a big promo for all these companies.” He sounds disgruntled but takes a twenty out of his wallet and gives it to me.

  I reach for change in my purse but he shakes his head. I don’t argue. Fine by me.

  We stop just beyond the wide entrance of the exhibition hall. There’s practically a football field of stalls and displays, with a stage and catwalk at one end of the cavernous hall. I’d never been involved in a wedding before, so I never realised it was such a big industry. Have these weekend expos always been around?

  “So, what now?” Keats stands at my side, stance wide, eyes taking in the enormity of our task ahead.

  “Now we stroll.” I must’ve sounded like an expert because he falls into step with me and lets me take the lead.

  The big group of giggling, raucous women have thankfully moved away from the first cake stall. The vendor is busily restocking her cupcake stand and cutting up a wedding cake into bite-size squares.

  She smiles at us as we near. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but I see her give me the once over, like she’s worried I’d eat everything she’s just laid out.

  Keats heads straight for the free cakes while I resist the urge, instead going for the display folder on the table. He inspects each one closely before picking up a cube and tentatively nibbling a corner. Once it passes the taste test, he puts the whole thing in his mouth and chews with a slightly bored expression. He doesn’t look like he’s ever worried about his weight all his life—that’s great genes. I’m so jealous.

  “The cupcakes are really popular these days,” the stall owner tells me, offering a white frosted one with a silver heart outline on it to Keats. “Do you have an idea what kind of cake you want?”

  Keats shakes his head, chewing on the heart that he demolished in one bite.

  “Probably something more traditional,” I answer. “Do you have a price list?”

  “I could give you an estimate on how much it will cost but it really depends on how many tiers you want and what each tier is made of. If you could find a design you like, that would give us a better idea of price. If you wait here, I’ll just get the other folder of cakes.”

  “Any good?” I ask Keats.

  “The mud cake was a little dry. But this cupcake’s all right. Here.” He extends the untouched half of it to me.

  I look at it so close to my mouth. The gesture seems to mean nothing to him, but my heart jumps at the intimacy of shared food, and being fed.

  “I don’t have boy germs,” he says when I don’t try the cake immediately.

  I take a small bite, the fresh butter icing sticking to my upper lip. I quickly lick it off, not wanting to look like a slob.

  “Aw, practising for the big day?” the vendor says, returning with the cake folder. Keats and I exchange a smile, sharing the private joke that we’re not really together. He doesn’t bother correcting her this time, instead nodding while he continues to demolish the remainder of the cupcake. “You two make a lovely couple. You’ve probably noticed, we don’t often see such hands-on grooms. There are hardly any men here.”

  I love this woman. I want to recommend her to Isabella because surely a person this nice deserves our business.

  “You two will have tall kids, I can tell,” she continues.

  Aw, stop. You already have my business.

  “How far along are you?”

  And now you don’t.

  The way she looks like she swallowed one of her cupcakes whole tells me my expression must’ve turned murderous.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. It’s just that you, ah, have, ah…such a lovely glow!”

  “Thank you. Come on, Keats.” I grab him by the arm and pull.

  He reaches for the cupcake stand and grabs another one, this time with a carefully crafted white rose on top.

  “For the baby,” he tells the blushing vendor with a wink.

  When we’re a few metres away he turns to me.

  “Cupcake?” He holds it out towards me.

  “No thanks.” I already look pregnant. I could do with one less cupcake. And I’m never wearing this bloody outfit again.

  “Come on. You’re not one of those boring girls who don’t eat anything fun, are you?”

  I fix him with an impatient glare. Clearly, I’m not.

  Keats smiles at me, more tempting than the sugar-filled food in his hand.

  “I’ll go halves with you,” he negotiates. “Look at this place. We’ll need all the strength we can get.”

  “Fine. Give me half.”

  He peels the white paper off half the cake, plucks the sugar rose on top and bites off his share of the sponge. He extends the remainder to me with his left hand, the white rose with his right.

  “Thanks.” My fingers graze his as I take possession of the sweets, tingling afterwards even when we’re already walking to the next stall which has miniature cars on its table. I grab a couple of brochures, and an expo-only discount voucher.

  “You’re taking your bridesmaid’s duties very seriously,” Keats tells me as I file the hire car info away into a display folder. “Remember, we’re trying to stop the wedding.”

  A florist near us looks alarmed, while at least five other attendees to the event stop in their tracks and turn their attention to Keats. He huffs and pulls me by the wrist towards a photo
booth. We sit side by side on the bench in front of the camera, my big arse making it a tight squeeze for both of us. With the little half-curtain closed, I’m suddenly very aware of the small space we’re in.

  Keats turns his head because there’s not enough room to angle himself towards me. As it is, one side of our bodies is already touching from our shoulders to our ankles. I sit tense, my nerve endings revelling in Keats’ warm, hard body against me.

  “Damn. Those women looked ready to murder me.” He runs his fingers through his hair, but with the style so short, only half his fingertips dig through his shorn locks. “What I was saying out there is, there’s no need to put too much effort into the wedding. It’ll just be for nothing anyway.”

  “You know something I don’t?” I say as the booth’s camera clicks.

  “I’ve had more time to think this through—it was a long flight to New York and back.” He grins at me, wide and cheeky as the camera clicks again.

  “Our first gown here is the latest from MikiMee,” I suddenly hear someone with a perky voice announce via a microphone.

  “Oh, shit! The fashion show’s starting!” I shoot up, almost hitting my head against the booth’s ceiling. I want to see the dress styles on real people—and by real, I mean in 3D. I wonder what bunch of anorexics they’ll have on show for us today?

  I step out of the cramped photo booth, pulling Keats along by the wrist.

  “Don’t forget your photos!”

  I look back over my shoulder and the stall owner is there with a strip of photo booth shots and a brochure of his business.

  “Thanks.” I grab the promotional material off him, and tuck both away in my folder. “Come on, Keats. Hustle!”

  Other attendees converge towards the stage at the other end of the gigantic hall. By the time we get there, it’s standing room only. Luckily, we’re both tall and most of the women are in flat shoes, probably expecting a day of walking around the expo.

  “This dress, also by MikiMee, combines traditional lace with the silhouette of the bride of today,” the emcee announces as a new model and gown make their way to the front of the catwalk.