DITCHED Read online

  DITCHED

  RC Boldt

  Contents

  Title Page

  About The Book

  Prologue

  1. Ivy

  2. Ivy

  3. Ivy

  4. Ivy

  5. Becket Jones

  6. Becket

  7. Ivy

  Ivy

  8. Becket

  9. Becket

  10. Ivy

  11. Becket

  12. Ivy

  13. Becket

  14. Ivy

  15. Becket

  16. Ivy

  17. Becket

  18. Ivy

  19. Becket

  20. Ivy

  21. Becket

  22. Ivy

  23. Becket

  24. Ivy

  25. Becket

  26. Ivy

  27. Becket

  28. Ivy

  29. Becket

  30. Ivy

  31. Becket

  32. Ivy

  33. Becket

  34. Ivy

  35. Becket

  36. Ivy

  37. Becket

  38. Ivy

  39. Becket

  Dear Reader

  He Loves Me…KNOT Excerpt

  About the Author

  Stay Connected to RC Boldt

  Acknowledgments

  DITCHED

  Copyright © 2018 by RC Boldt

  All rights reserved.

  Editing: Tamara Mataya; Lawrence Editing; Editing 4 Indies

  Proofreaders: Deaton Author Services; Judy’s Proofreading Services

  Cover design: Cover Me Darling

  Photographer: James Critchley

  Model: Ashley Rogers

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by trademark owners. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features in any media form are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if one of these terms are used in this work of fiction.

  Please note: Although the Jacksonville Jaguars are an actual NFL team, liberties were taken in order to accommodate the storyline.

  Visit my website at www.rcboldtbooks.com.

  Sign up for my mailing list: http://eepurl.com/cgftw5

  Excerpt from He Loves Me…KNOT Copyright @ 2017 by RC BOLDT

  Dedication

  To my father,

  I know in my heart you’ll beat this. You have to stick around for at least a few more decades because I have a lot more books for you to read. ;) I love you, always.

  To Matty,

  Thank you for not only being my own HEA, but always being my muse.

  P.S. I still love you more.

  A,

  I love you more than you’ll ever know.

  But, honestly, if you’re reading this, put the book down and don’t pick it up again for another fifteen years.

  About The Book

  He’s playing for the heart she’s had sidelined for years.

  IVY HAYES

  Dating can be a rocky journey. Once the new shine wears off, you may end up with a case of buyer’s remorse.

  That’s where I come in. I set the backdrop and coach you through the breakup.

  Don't want overblown drama, hard feelings, or a drink tossed in your face? Then I'm your fairy godmother, child.

  BECKET JONES

  As an NFL quarterback, endorsement ads and the media pandering after me are all part of the game.

  Ivy Hayes is the first woman who doesn't care about my money and the notoriety that goes along with it.

  But I'm a long-term guy, and she operates strictly in the now. Which means I need to bring my A-game.

  Otherwise, I’ll end up getting ditched.

  Prologue

  IVY

  SUPER BOWL SUNDAY

  Miami Gardens, Florida

  I wring my hands nervously before realizing this won’t do me any good.

  The overwhelming pandemonium from the NFL fans in the Hard Rock Stadium is nearly deafening, and I stare down at my palms, flexing my fingers as an anxiety-ridden anticipation courses through my body. I don’t want to do this, but it’s my only choice. There’s no other way.

  Even though I’m certain it’s too late.

  A slap on my shoulder jars me, drawing me from my conflicted thoughts, and my gaze locks with Corbin Hartson, the coach of the Jacksonville Jaguars.

  “All set?” he yells to be heard over the raucous crowd.

  I nod. “All set!” I holler back with far more conviction than I feel.

  “Then get out there. Let’s do this!” A slap on my shoulder punctuates his enthusiasm, and I resist the urge to rub the spot. What is it with coaches and players and the slapping thing? Geez.

  I close my eyes and drag in deep breaths meant to be soothing, attempting to psych myself up to follow through with this plan. And I can’t help but be amazed at how this all came to be.

  My eyes flash open, and I know this is it. It’s time. I can do this.

  With my first step onto the field, carpeted with crunchy Bermuda grass, I force myself to put one foot in front of the other. My focus is centered on one thing—on one object—sitting on the fifty-yard line.

  For the first time in my adult life, I’m wagering what I’ve long believed was cold and bitter. Useless.

  My heart.

  1

  Ivy

  HOW IT ALL BEGAN

  SENIOR YEAR

  HIGH SCHOOL

  PIGEON FORGE, TENNESSEE

  “You’re brilliant!”

  Instantly following this declaration, I’m practically suffocated by my foster sister when she tugs me in for a tight embrace without any warning. My face is pressed against her shoulder, and I’m certain I have numerous strands of her long blond hair embedded in my cheek.

  Patting her on the back awkwardly—I don’t exactly do well with physical displays of affection—I carefully ease away and draw in a deep breath of welcomed oxygen. Phew. That was a close one.

  “For real, Ivy.”

  I shrug it off. Compliments make me queasy. “No biggie.”

  Darcy stares at me with her eyes wide in disbelief. “You have no idea how much you helped.”

  She links her arm with mine and leads me down the hall of our high school. “You’ve just rescued me from being the talk of the school—in a bad way.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Now I don’t have to switch classes like Angie did or have my name added to the varsity Wall of Shame like Emma or Michelle. You know what a death sentence that is.”

  She does her semi-subdued squeal of joy with a little side-to-side bounce, jiggling me in the process, and I nearly lose my grip on my books.

  “I’ve been thinking about this…”

  Those five words cause me to tense with apprehension. Because when they slip out of Darcy’s mouth, there’s a ninety-nine percent chance I’m not going to be on board with whatever she’s thinking.

  We stop at her locker to gather her things before we head home. A
s she dials the combination on the lock, she leaves me waiting, rocking on the heels of my Chucks and antsy as heck. When Darcy hesitates and doesn’t immediately spill whatever’s on her mind, it does not bode well.

  At all.

  “Darce.” I drag out the syllable impatiently.

  She pops the lock open and glances over at me with a gleam in her blue eyes. Grabbing what she needs, she slams the metal door closed on the locker and spins the combination on the lock for good measure. After glancing at the sparse number of students hanging around after school, most of them here for club meetings or athletes heading to practice, she focuses on me and leans in.

  “I think you should put yourself up for hire.”

  I rear back, scrunching my face in disgust. “Ew! Are you nuts? I’m not a hooker!”

  With a heavy roll of her eyes, she shakes her head. “Not like that, Ivy. I’m saying”—she leans in and whispers—“you should charge people for how you helped me.”

  “What do you mean?” My words are slow, the wheels already turning in my head. Because money is safety. Security.

  That’s the life of a foster kid. Or rather, of this foster kid.

  “I mean,” she begins as we start walking toward the front of the school to exit the building, “this could be something. Something big.”

  “Like a business?” I frown in thought.

  “Exactly.”

  We push through the doors of our high school and are instantly faced with the beautiful backdrop of Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. The breathtaking view of the Great Smoky Mountains causes me to always take a moment to appreciate the scenery.

  She matches my stride as we head toward the car we share. It’s nothing to be jealous of, but it runs, and it isn’t totally obscene looking. Our ’88 Honda Civic might have four hundred thousand miles on it, but it’s still going strong. The paint job leaves much to be desired, but for two high schoolers, it’s the best thing in the world and probably the greatest gift either of us have ever received from foster parents.

  Darcy and I met two years ago after we were thrust together at the Nadalsen’s. She’d been kicked out of her last foster family’s home because their son had accused her of trying to coerce him into taking a trip to “third base.” She’d been adamant that the accusations were untrue, and I believed her. Darcy Cole was the last person who needed to beg someone to get handsy with her.

  Guys are always flocking to her. She’s the Merriam-Webster definition of gorgeous with long blond hair and blue eyes. Though she’s tall and statuesque, she has all the right curves in all the right places. She’s also toned and fit, thanks to good genetics—one of the only good things her birth parents gave her. I know this only because we share a room and she hoards Doritos and those little disgusting chocolate snack cake rolls with the fake white crème in the middle. I swear those things have a shelf life of about a million years.

  Basically, she’s perfect. And me? Well, I’m definitely not. My dark-brown hair is just blah, and as far as curves go, I’m pretty sure it’s safe to say my butt is only slightly larger than my chest. I’ve been waiting for my boobs to finally wake up and get with the program, but I’m seventeen years old and too smart to continue with the delusions of grandeur. Sadly, I’ve considered implants—in my dreams, of course, because there’s no way I’d waste good money on boobs instead of a house or reliable vehicle.

  The worst part is my height. Where Darcy is barely an inch shorter than me, with her beauty, her height sets her on the spectrum of a runway model. Me? I look like a dude.

  A dude with tiny pectorals.

  But, hey. It’s fine because I have brains and big plans for my life. My guidance counselor saw how much I loved my Intro to Psychology class and suggested I apply to one of the programs offered to select high school students. Now, I’ve already acquired more than a year’s worth of credits toward my psychology degree at the famed Louisiana State University in Shreveport, Louisiana. LSU is my ticket out of Pigeon Forge and the gossip that followed me here from my hometown of Huntsville, Alabama.

  To me, LSU gleams and glistens like the pearly gates of Heaven do to those dying to get in.

  Darcy slides into the driver’s seat and presses the automatic locks to let me in. Once I’m seated and buckled in, she pulls out of the school parking lot to head home since neither of us has a shift at the local video game rental store tonight.

  As she navigates the streets nearing our neighborhood, I release a long sigh. “I can’t wait till we start college in August.”

  She tosses me a quick glance before returning her attention to the road. “Look, I’m serious about what I said. We can work together and help people. Using what we’re good at.”

  I let out a derisive snort. “I’m good at helping people break up.” I hold up an index finger and circle it in the air. “Woo. Hoo.”

  “You’re good at helping people part ways on friendly terms. Without drama or absolutely crushing their feelings.” She pulls into our driveway and off to the side, in our designated spot. Turning off the engine, she looks at me. “That’s a gift.”

  “And you’re just good with people in general.” I wave my hand in emphasis. “You can talk to pretty much anyone. That’s more of a gift than… What? Why are you staring at me like that?” I eye her warily because, in truth, she’s creeping me out right now.

  Her smile is slow to form. “You can do this.”

  “Do what?” I draw out my question slowly, cautiously.

  “A business.” She beams at me. “You and I can work together to help people.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  “I can see it now.” She slides out of the car with her backpack and slings it over her shoulder. She strides around the front of the vehicle, waiting for me to grab my things and close the door. Darcy radiates excitement, rocking back and forth on her heels. “I can help from the social aspect of things, and you’ll be able to analyze things to help them get ditched.”

  “Ditched.” I let the word roll around in my brain, pondering the idea. A business where I’d help people break up...

  “Ditched,” Darcy repeats, and I must admit, it has a certain ring to it.

  We could have never predicted what the future had in store for us.

  2

  Ivy

  LOUISIANA STATE UNIVERSITY (LSU)—Undergrad

  SHREVEPORT, LOUISIANA

  “I thought you could stay a little longer…”

  The questioning lilt at the end of his words causes my spine to stiffen, muscles tightening throughout my body.

  It’s made worse when he dips his head to mine, and I eye him uneasily as his lips draw near.

  Nope, nope, nope. This isn’t what I do. He knows this.

  God. I knew this was a bad idea. Even recognized the signs he was getting attached. But, no, I had to go and give in because, well…

  He’s really great in bed. Like in the world of food, he’d be a perfectly cooked filet mignon with tender broccolini and buttery garlic mashed potatoes.

  Oh, holy moly. I think I just had a foodgasm.

  I turn my head in the nick of time and slip out from underneath him. Slither is more like it, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

  This is definitely one of those moments.

  “You know I can’t.” I roll over to the side of the bed and reach for my clothes in the haphazard pile nearby. An arm snakes around my waist.

  I don’t turn around. The heavy, restraining weight of his arm elicits a powerful urge to shove it off.

  “Can’t…or won’t?” His gentle words send shards of unease racing through me.

  “Both.” I extricate myself from Teegan’s hold and hurriedly rush to the en suite bathroom. Thank God he’s one of the lucky ones who has a great dorm room setup. Guess it pays to be a star player on the baseball team.

  Once I clean up and finish pulling on my clothes, I emerge from the bathroom and slide on my flip-flops. I grab my messenger bag and phone just as the alarm goes off
, alerting me to my upcoming appointment.

  “Gotta run.” I raise my eyes to meet his and work hard to hold back a violent cringe at his affectionate gaze. I don’t do attachments, nor am I a cuddler. I like sex—safe sex, mind you—but monogamous sex buddies who don’t get delusions in the form of a relationship are harder to find than one might imagine.

  At his forlorn expression, I release a resigned sigh and wave a hand, gesturing back and forth between us. “You know I don’t do this.” I adjust the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “Which is why I’ve gotta run.”

  “So that’s it, huh?” Teegan’s tone is flat, and a tiny part of me feels sympathy. Until I remind myself I was completely up front about things in the beginning.

  Nothing’s changed. Hell, anyone I know would attest to the fact he’s the last person who’s ready to settle down with a girl.

  “Just running away?”