Page 103 of Fit for Love

Her eyes go wide.“You did?”

“I did.And now I’m all the way fallen.As in…” I bring her hand to my lips and kiss it tenderly.“I love you.”

A huge smile lights her face, turning her beauty incandescent.Unlacing our fingers, she pulls me closer, until her lips are brushing my earlobe.“I love you too,” she whispers.“And I want to be with you.Date you.Be your girlfriend.Even if it means I’ll have to wear Crocs.Or even UGGs.”

We kiss then and make love, this time gently, mindfully, punctuating the words we’ve spoken with our bodies.And when we’re lying there, spent, I have to admit that Kendall was right.

MMA sessions with her are far, far superior to those with Marcus.

Epilogue

Kendall

Squeak.

Squeak.

Squeak.

No, these are not the proverbial wheels that get the grease.It’s the sound of my bad idea.I figured if I’m using fitness celebs instead of models in this fashion show, why not have them wear sneakers?Turns out, rubber soles plus the vinyl floor of the runway equals ear torture.

I run over to the DJ, take a microphone, and tell him to crank up the music—a remix of an old recording my parents kept, one that features yours truly in a marching band.(Hey, it’s my show, and I do what I want to.) As I hoped, the sounds of the sousaphone muffle the squeaking, and for all I know, that may be what it was invented for.

Returning to the stage, I stand next to Ashton and examine the crowd.

Anyone who is anyone has come to see the VersaWear 2.0 show—and not just because of how popular the original VersaWear is.No, as usual, I can thank my fitness mogul boyfriend.He’s clearly pulled some strings.Also, and surprisingly, some of the people from the fashion world are here at Tierre’s behest.As soon as VersaWear became a hit, Mr.Former Boss started telling anyone who would listen that I was always his protégée, so is it any wonder I’m as good as I am?

“This part is a little surprise,” Ashton whispers.“One that I helped with.”

Uh-oh.I’m not sure I want any more surprises.

Too late.The more muscular of the models does a backflip—not ripping her outfit in the process, which is a win that I’ll take.The problem is, she loses her balance and falls onto the woman behind her, who dominoes into the one behind her, and so on until there’s an orgy of windmilling models in a heap on the runway.

To my shock, the audience claps, enthusiastically.

I guess they thought it was all carefully choreographed.I mean, such a clusterfuck couldn’t happen by accident, right?

I make sure my mic is on mute before I hiss at Ashton, “Any more surprises I should know of?”

As if to answer, one of the models gets back on her feet, pulls out a jump rope, and hops down the runway over said rope like a demented bunny.

Again, the crowd applauds.

“I didn’t know about that one,” Ashton whispers.

Another model starts doing pushups, and the one next to her, burpees—a word that should have no place in the world of high fashion.

“I didn’t know about that either,” Ashton says before the crowd applauds yet again.

By the time the models leave the runway, I sprout at least a couple of gray hairs, but luckily, given everyone’s reactions thus far, it’s a success.

Now for the dramatic finish… I clutch the microphone tightly and get on the runway, where I face the crowd and give a thank-you speech.

“And last but not least,” I say toward the end.“I want to thank the love of my life, Ashton Vancroft.”I gesture to where he’s standing and do a come-hither gesture.“Please, come join me.”

Ashton looks confused—and it serves him right.

When he’s standing next to me, I whisper, “Not so fun when you’re the subject of a surprise, is it?”

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