Page 41 of Weddings, Revenge & Fake Dating

Curiosity pulls me like a cord from the bed, and I stop at the mirror to see what he saw. Glowing and rested is what I hope for. Instead, I’m mortified at the nest of tangled hair on top of my head and a rainbow smear of makeup. It’s left over from a test-run meeting with the wedding makeup artist. I harrumph.

He says nice things with such honesty, but how could this be anything else but getting life-coached? But let’s be real. At this point, I’m pretty sure he’s not changing his career path to make people’s lives better, at least not in the life-coaching way. Still, I’ve played along because I enjoy conspiring and hanging with him.

I like him. A lot. Too much.

I wash my face in the sink with freezing water and then forcefully brush my hair. Unsure what to do next, I awkwardly sit on the vanity, facing him. The glass inside the shower fogs up, allowing me to look in Nathan’s direction without feeling like a creeper.

“In this life-coach company you want to start, will you be,” I pause, looking for the right words, “this hands-on?”

“This is a bit of a special situation.” He faces me, soaping his Hercules-sized chest and grins.

“How so?” I test his commitment to his so-called life-changing career. How long will he pretend? Trying to act nonchalant, I pick a piece of lint from my top.

“I think what you need is a friend, not a coach. Isn’t that what friends do when someone they care about needs help?”

He cares about me? We’re friends?

Scoffing, I look his way. “Someone like you must have lots of friends and girlfriends, for that matter. Why bother with some random lady in Miami Beach?”

“The truth is, I don’t have a lot of close friends, and there hasn’t been a girlfriend for a long time.”

He holds his face under the stream of water and runs his hands through his drenched hair, slicking it back. The water flips off, and the door slides open.

I stare at the ceiling while he dries off his body and wraps his lower half in a fresh white towel.

“You’re not online very often, are you?” He passes me to stand in front of his suitcase, searching through his clothes.

I follow. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It sounds conceited when I talk about this with someone.” He speaks cryptically as he swipes a deodorant stick under his sculpted armpit. Even his armpit is sexy.

“I don’t understand. You always sound conceited.”

“Confidence is different. I’m confident.”

I roll my hand as if to say get to the point.

He huffs. “I have a little bit of a following, okay?” He shrugs into a faded T-shirt.

“Are you trying to tell me you’re a famous stripper?”

“Exactly.” He faces the mirror above the dresser and rakes his hand through his hair. It settles in a beautiful anarchy of wet waves.

“Like, how famous?” I sink into the mattress and stare.

“A few million followers across my social media platforms, a substantial fan club, a website with paid content, a merchandise shop, an upcoming centerfold in Q Magazine, a few cameo appearances on cable shows, and if I’m lucky, the lead in an upcoming reality show. Nothing major.”

“A reality show?” I sit up straighter.

“It would be life-changing.” He stops primping to stare into space like he’s seeing his career skyrocket in his mind. “I’d tell you more, but it’s all hush-hush for now.”

“How do you go from that to life coaching?”

“Are we going to pretend you haven’t figured me out?” He gives me a look.

I’m busted. Or he’s busted. Or we’re both busted.

“Or you could say, ‘Hey, Jeanie, I love my stripper fame but it’s not my passion. I want to help people. I want to use the platform I’ve built to segue into my new business.’” I punch the air with fake moxie.