“A vacation? To a wedding at aplantationin the Lowcountry? Dad, be so for real.” I offer him an incredulous look.
Hie eyes bulge. “She’s getting married at aplantation?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. His great-great-great grandfather’s plantation.”
“Wow…” My dad shakes his head, clearly as flabbergasted as I was when I found out my mother was marrying a man who comes from…that.
My mother’s wedding is the event of the year, just like her second wedding was, and probably her first to my father. She’s marrying a surgeon this time. Her surgeon. The surgeon who did her facelift last year. That’s all I need to know about him. I’ve never met the guy, but something tells me that if he’s the kind of man who flouts his responsibilities as a doctor and marries one of his patients—at his family’s plantation no less—he must be a real catch…
“I’ll call her,” I say on a resigned sigh, checking my phone. And while I’m thankful to see there are no more dick pics from Happy, I’m devastated my trainer, Silas, hasn’t cancelled on me like I’d been secretly hoping he would. A Sunday training session sounded amazing… on Tuesday.
“I have to go,” I say, finishing the last of my chai latte. “I have training.”
“That’s my girl.” Dad winks.
Standing, I shrug on my jacket. “I’ll see you at the game tomorrow night.”
My father rises from his chair, giving me a peck on my cheek. And, with a wave, I turn and head down the street, crossing at the corner and taking the stairs for the subway.
When I turn the corner onto the SoHo block where my gym is located, I’m stopped dead in my tracks in the center of the sidewalk when I notice a familiar vehicle parked on the street.
No. Fucking. Way.
It can’t be.
I mean, my gym is known to train some pretty big-name celebs, so it’s not unheard of to see a flashy car parked outside,but surely there’s no one else in New York City ridiculous enough to have a completely chromed-out Mercedes G Wagon.
With my hackles sufficiently up, I continue, pulling open the door, smiling politely at the receptionist who buzzes me through. Holding my breath and hoping for the best, the second I enter the gym, I’m momentarily stilted and almost trip over nothing at all.
Happy Slater, shirtless, wearing only a pair of black athletic shorts that bunch around his huge thighs and a backward fucking ball cap, smooth skin beading with sweat, back muscles flexing tight, glutes straining as he pushes the stacked sled weight from one side of the gym to the other, while Silas yells words of encouragement at him is where wet panties come from.
When Happy makes it to the far side, he pauses for a breath, turning, and that’s when he spots me, staring at him with my mouth agape like a goddamn goldfish. But honestly, the man is perfection. Abs stacked on top of one another that flex with his heavy, panting breaths, broad pecs, rounded shoulders, and… a stupidly cocky, shit-eating grin that only accentuates the knowing glint in his eyes.
“Baby Draper?” He chuckles, taking a swig of water from his bottle. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I deadpan, my teeth gritting as I glance from him to a confused-looking Silas and back again, arching a brow. “Since when doyoutrain here?”
“Uh, since I was about sixteen,” Happy muses.
“Sixteen?” I scoff in disbelief.
Happy laughs out loud. “Baby Draper, my mom and her husband own this place.”
I rack my mind a moment, wondering if somewhere deep in my subconscious I already knew that. Happy’s mother, Linda Estes, is one of the OG supermodels from before I was even born. She’s graced the covers ofVogue, walked catwalks all over the world, and starred in her ex-husband’s music videos. Andnow that I think about it, I’m pretty sure she ended up marrying some professional boxer. What are the fucking odds?
Silas pipes up. “You guys know each other?”
I balk, gaping at Silas like he’s lost his damn mind. “Hi,” I say sarcastically. “My father is the head coach of the New York Thunder, remember?”
“Oh, yeah.” Silas chuckles. “Cool. Well, you’re early. Wanna join us?”
I would rather eat glass. I wish I’d just cancelled today. I normally stick to Tuesday and Friday mornings. But when I couldn’t make Friday and Silas suggested Sunday, I was likegreat idea, Silas. Now, it’s taking everything I have not to hop in the ring and start kicking my own ass.
“Whatever,” I mutter, removing my jacket and my hoodie, leaving me in my leggings and matching sports bra.
When I find Happy watching me as if he’s trying to undress me with his gaze, I flash him a warning glower, turning away and placing my things into one of the cubbies that line the far wall.
“Now I know where that mean right hook came from last night,” a low voice murmurs, suddenly right behind me, doing things to my insides I’m not willing to admit.
