Misadventures of a Curvy Girl (Misadventures #18)(60)

I usually had most of the place to myself during the week. Everyone in Southern California was so health conscious and worried about wrinkles that sun worshipping had fallen prey to self-tanners and fake ’n bake salons. But I’d grown up in rural Iowa, where the summer was barely a quarter of the year and not a decent four-fifths. I hadn’t yet given up appreciation for how the sun warmed my skin and gave me a sense of peace like nothing else in my regular routine.

I usually worked out five days a week, but I took an extra day off this week because—honestly?—I just wasn’t that into it. It was so much easier for me to get motivated when I knew I had a shoot coming up or a show to walk. Since my phone had been unusually silent, I lacked the drive to hit the weights. Where were the job offers from Harrison?

The pool was particularly busy, and I questioned if I’d mistaken today for a weekday when it was actually a weekend.

No. Definitely not.

Skye Delaney, my best friend and amazing roommate, had been out the door at five thirty this morning like she was every workday without fail. Her punctuality used to annoy me, but I’d learned to admire her for her dedication to her career. I might not like the asshole she worked for, but she loved what she did and made a great wage doing it.

We’d been best friends since sophomore year at UCLA, and she’d been my rock when my family abandoned me for dropping out—and also through the crazy ride of my modeling career. It probably looked like we should’ve just hooked up and called it done. Been there. Tried that. We had less sexual chemistry than the leads in a bad rom-com. We could laugh about it now, but at the time, it was a disaster.

As I surveyed the crowd at the pool, a vacant lounge chair near the deep end called to me from across the deck. Three little shithead kids were screaming “Polo” in the shallow end while one of their pals turned in haphazard circles randomly shouting “Marco” to coax out their clap backs. Who was the sadistic bastard that came up with that game in the first place? I sent up a mental thank you to the ingenious creator of the AirPods in my backpack that were about to drown out the racket.

A cluster of empty chairs just a few feet from mine could pose a potential problem if those kids took a break and decided to camp out there, but a quick scan of the rest of the pool-goers yielded a view of their mothers across the deck. Two were absentmindedly watching the game in the water; the other two were huddled together, obviously talking about something they didn’t want the others to hear.

I loved people watching. I’d done a good amount of traveling in the last few years, and often times I was alone. Making up people’s backstories had become one of my favorite pastimes. I didn’t even try to get it right. I just tried to make it interesting.

My own parents were two of the most boring adults I’d ever met. They met in high school and had been stuck with each other ever since. When I’d come along as an unwelcome party favor from their senior prom night, any hope of leaving that small town and making something of their lives went down the toilet with the first flush of morning sickness.

If the rest of middle-class America were in the same boat, I’d have begged that sucker to pull a Titanic. In the stories I created, people were happy, had adventures, and made the most out of every day.

A nasally voice broke through I Prevail’s rendition of “Blank Space” being belted into my ear canal. “Anyone sitting here?” Judging by the “annoyed mom” look on the woman’s face when I opened my eyes, she had already asked more than once. I pulled the little white pod from my ear and gave my practiced grin.

“Oh, excuse me. I didn’t realize you had— Hey, what is that?” She pointed at my AirPod.

“They’re the new AirPods. Perfect sound without the bothersome cord. They connect to your phone or any other device by Bluetooth.”

“Well, I’ll be… Janine, check this out!” She looked over her shoulder to her three approaching friends. Apparently, the leader of the posse was named Janine.

The bedazzled word Diva on her impossibly white ball cap threw tiny rainbows on her friend’s face and chest as she spoke to her. “Honey, don’t point at him like he’s a piece of meat. I’m sure he has a name. And I saw him the minute we walked in. You’d have to be unconscious not to.” Janine gave me a conspiratorial wink, like we were sharing a joke at her friend’s expense. Except, when I thought about it further, it was really at mine.

She pushed her way past her friend and offered her hand. “Forgive my friend here. She doesn’t get out much. We signed her out for a few hours before the nurses came by with her medication.”

I took the offered hand and turned it over to place a light kiss on the slope of her inner wrist, but not before noticing the enormous pear-shaped diamond on her ring finger. And I’m talking enormous, as in “my husband works like a dog and we never have sex, but he buys me whatever I want” enormous. The way her mouth hung open after I grinned at her reinforced my assessment.

“Pleased to meet you, Janine. Oliver—”

“Connely. Shit! You’re Oliver Connely!” She stammered and stared, and I had to admit, the effect never got old. For all the emotional scars they’d dealt me, I was eternally grateful to my parents for the physical attributes they’d bestowed upon me. Gene pool for the win.

“I am.” I grinned again, motioning to the ladies to make themselves comfortable in the neighboring lounge chairs. It was becoming clear we were going to be spending the afternoon together.