The Supermodel's Best Friend (A Romantic Comedy) Read Online Free PDF Page A

She put a hand on Fawn’s arm and squeezed.
“Since I didn’t date much, and you know me better than anyone else
in the world”—she took a deep breath—“I want you to pick out
the next one. My new guy.”
    Laughter fading to smiles, her friends looked
at each other.
    “And whoever he is,” Lucy went on, “I’ll
marry him.”
     
     

Chapter 3
     
     
    The last week of July, when the rest of the
country wore tank tops or sweltered in business clothes, when the
national media ran daily news features on how to stay cool and
which sunscreens lived up to their SPF claims, San Franciscans
zipped up their North Face parkas and laughed at the
teeth-chattering, shorts-wearing tourists standing in line for the
cable cars.
    It was freezing. The sun hadn’t pierced the
ceiling of fog since Memorial Day, and though he loved the cold
nights for sleeping, Miles was starting to resent the lack of
vitamin D.
    Riding his motorcycle over to Berkeley to his
clubhouse brought a little relief; the East Bay had sun in the
afternoons, though the wind was fierce, and only teenage girls wore
summer clothes, because when else could they wear them? But a
little sun was better than nothing and Miles was glad he’d invited
Huntley to meet him at work instead of in the city.
    Since Felicia had dumped him, Miles had
become a little defensive about his humble lifestyle. Huntley had
earned more from investments by his first birthday than Miles would
earn in a lifetime. Maybe his rich best friend would agree with his
ex that a two-bedroom condo in the Mission was unsuitable for a
thirty-four-year-old man who’d once attended Stanford.
    Even if that attendance had been rather
brief.
    No, better to meet him at the clubhouse, his
pride and joy, something he really cared about.
    And it would give Miles the opportunity to
hit him up for a donation. While he would never ask for anything
for himself, he’d happily prostrate himself to beg for his kids.
Not as if Huntley would miss a million bucks. Hell, he probably had
that much in change under the seats of his Porsche.
    Miles parked his bike in the narrow spot he’d
had painted just for him, right at the front door of the small
yellow cinder-block building in a semi-industrial neighborhood near
the bay. Lots of his kids lived in the neighborhood, though many
got a ride from all over Berkeley and Emeryville, Albany and El
Cerrito—kids with protective parents who wouldn’t let them play
outside, kids with parents who worked late, or kids without anyone
at all. The schools sent home flyers, the word got out, and they
came.
    The Porsche Huntley kept in the Bay Area (one
in every port) was already there, parked in the red with a man—not
Huntley—in the passenger seat staring at his phone. Only a rich guy
would have a chauffeur who rode shotgun. Miles tucked the helmet
under his arm and strode into the clubhouse, rehearsing his speech
about self-esteem and physical fitness, male role models and the
devastating effect of the recession on charity coffers, but before
he could say anything, Huntley jumped out from behind the door and
dumped a bucket of ping-pong balls on his head.
    “Heads up, coach!” his friend cried, running
past the foosball table into the gym.
    Miles paused and took a deep breath. Stepping
carefully over the rolling balls, he made his way to the office
while he unzipped his motorcycle suit.
    Ronnie turned from his computer and raised an
eyebrow, his forehead wrinkles cascading up his bald head. “What’s
with your friends throwing things at you?”
    Miles pulled open his desk drawer and locked
his helmet inside. “I wish I knew.”
    “He like kids? We could use him on Wednesday
night basketball. All that energy.”
    “Peter Pan has a big trust fund,” Miles said,
stepping out of the suit. “I don’t think he’s ever had a job.”
    “Some woman’s going to marry a guy who’s
never had a job?”
    Miles snorted. “She’s never had one either.
Some kind of model. And