DITCHED Read online

  “Hello, Ivy.”

  “Hey, stranger.” Her voice has a tinge of huskiness to it.

  “So”—I shift to stretch out on my couch, resting my head on the pillow—“let’s get the routine stuff out of the way. Are you a smoker?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Recreational drug use?” This is important since I hold my health in high regard and have zero desire to lose my job or be fined for that kind of shit.

  There’s an odd undertone in Ivy’s voice when she responds. “Never have and never will.”

  Perfect answer. “So…I heard about this shirt of yours. Massive vocabularies do it for you, huh?”

  She laughs softly. “They do.”

  “Well, I have a confession. I have this Word of the Day app on my phone. I save the ones I find most interesting and try to use them.”

  Ivy’s gasp startles me. “Are you serious?”

  I let out a small laugh tinged with embarrassment. “Yeah, I know it’s nerdy, but that’s me.”

  Silence greets my response. So much that I actually bring the phone away from my ear to check to see whether she’s disconnected. But nope. She’s still there.

  “Ivy?”

  “I—” She clears her throat. “I have that app, too.”

  The biggest smile forms on my face. “Seriously?”

  “Yes.” Her voice has a tinge of surprise to it. “Today’s word was—”

  “Charlatan,” we say in unison.

  My phone vibrates with a reminder I set for myself. Glancing down at it, I accept and silence it.

  “I hate to cut this short, but I have to be up early and head to Gainesville tomorrow for work.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  I hesitate. Dammit, I hate that I’m so rusty with this shit. “I’d, uh, like to chat again if you have time.”

  Surprise edges into her tone when she answers, and I can’t quite grasp if it’s a good thing or not. “I’d actually like that.”

  6

  Becket

  University of Florida campus, Youth Football Clinic—FIRST SESSION

  LATE MAY

  GAINESVILLE, FLORIDA

  It’s not that I don’t enjoy taking part in the designated community service projects the Jags’s owner requires each of us to complete. Quite the opposite. I appreciate being able to return to my alma mater and donate my time to others. God knows, I learned a lot from this program years ago.

  But, man. There’s no denying some of these parents are just straight-up douchebags.

  Case in point, Sammy Tate’s dad.

  “Hey, Jones!”

  I literally feel the muscles in my face tightening, anticipating a scowl, because I recognize the fact that Nathan Tate is about to have yet another complaint. Or request. Either will end up sounding like a complaint, so it doesn’t really matter.

  Slowly, I turn from where I’ve been ensuring none of the kids have left behind any personal belongings, like water bottles or sweat towels. It’s crazy to consider, but even eight-year-olds have superstitions. If they had a great session on Monday and used the white sweat towel with red stripes, you better believe they’ll have that same damn towel during the rest of their sessions.

  “Sir?” I force myself to maintain a casual tone. Unbothered. Like I haven’t already picked up on every single indicator that he’s about to light into me and get pissy over something I did—or more importantly, what I didn’t do.

  “I think we need to chat about you giving Sammy more opportunity to get his hands on the ball.” Nathan slips his hands into the pockets of his athletic shorts. This pose causes his cotton shirt to stretch over his large, protruding rounded belly as he fixes a menacing look upon me.

  I can’t seem to get through one of these youth sessions where I’m tasked with helping these kids with the basics of throwing passes and the fundamentals of football without this guy trying to steamroll me with the way he believes I should handle things.

  “I spend the same amount of time with every participant.” It takes every ounce of my willpower not to speak through gritted teeth and prevent a snarl from entering my response. This guy is one of those typical parents who’s trying to live vicariously through their kid, to make their dreams come true.

  Dreams that usually have nothing to do with what the kid wants.

  The man takes a step toward me. “Well, you and I both know he shows more promise at being a QB when he graduates and heads here to UF.”

  Jesus. The kid’s eight years old, for Christ’s sake.

  “Mr. Tate, if you’re unhappy, maybe you’d prefer to take Sammy over to GHS where they have another summer football clinic available.”

  I offer this casually, calmly, while I internally chant, Please go give the people hell at Gainesville High School for a change.

  I hate shoving a troublemaker on others, but this dude is pissing me off.

  “I might just do that.” He huffs out his response and stalks off toward the bleachers where the rest of the parents are seated. Dude has a stick up his ass, that’s for sure. Poor kid’s got to hate having to deal with him on a daily basis.

  “Sorry, Mr. Jones.” A small voice draws my attention from Mr. Tate’s retreating back, and this time, I offer an easy smile to the young boy standing before me. His eyes peer up at me with hesitance as if he’s preparing for me to tear into him.

  Makes me wonder just how often his father does so. And that thought is far too disturbing. I sling an arm around the lanky boy’s shoulders and tug him in for a split-second hug that’s long enough to let him know things are cool but quick enough not to draw attention from the other kids because I don’t want them giving him shit. Winking at him, I say, “No worries, buddy.” I lift my chin in the direction of where the others are lining up for a speed drill. “Let’s head over and get started.”

  At the bright beam of his smile, I’m reminded exactly why I’m doing this. He starts jogging off, then stops abruptly and turns slowly. His expression is devoid of the smile from a moment before. Now, he’s somber; his features tainted with such desolate sadness that it makes my chest tighten painfully.

  “You miss your mom, too?”

  At first, my brain bypasses the implication and instead zeroes in on the fact he’s bringing up my mom. The subject isn’t exactly off-limits, but I certainly don’t enjoy talking about it. She passed away from ovarian cancer and not a day goes by that I don’t wish she could be here and witness everything I’ve accomplished.

  Then it dawns on me. The “too” in his question.

  I clear my throat, uncomfortably tight with emotion, and I’m grateful for the dark sunglasses that disguise the sheen I know my eyes have. A million responses flitter through my head, but instead, I choose the simplest one. Simple but truthful.

  “Every day.”

  He nods and appears far too serious—far too mature—for a kid his age. Turning, we fall into step as we make our way to the others. “Think they’re watching us?”

  “Without a doubt.” I grin, thinking about the completely unexpected way my best friend, Emma Jane, or Blue, came into my life. “In fact, I’m pretty sure she’s helped me out a few times along the way.”

  “Cool.” He flashes me a shy smile. “Thanks, Mr. Jones.” Then he runs off and gets in position.

  Throughout the remainder of the drills and even after the final boy has left the field for the day, I find myself wondering if Mom has something else up her sleeve.

  And whether it has anything to do with Ivy.

  7

  Ivy

  “Have you heard from him?”

  I don’t bother looking up from the screen of my computer. Darcy has asked me this every single day since I made the mistake of telling her that Emma Jane’s friend, “B,” and I had spoken on the phone that first night.

  “No, Darce.” I finish reading the application we’ve received. It sounds a little…off. Sometimes we receive odd requests, like people asking us to break up other relationshi
ps, which is decidedly not what we’re about. I open a message and ask Leif if he can dig around and find anything.

  “Well, I think he sounds like a great guy.”

  I level her with a look. “Really?” There’s no disguising the sarcasm in my voice.

  Darcy releases an exasperated breath. “Sometimes you can just tell. He didn’t send you a dick pic or ask you for inappropriate photos.”

  I lean back in my desk chair with a sigh. “Wow. You’ve set the bar high, Darce.”

  “You know what I’m saying.”

  I shake my head. “Fine. Yes. He seems nice.”

  “So why don’t you two meet in person?”

  “He’s in Gainesville for work this entire week.”

  Darcy steps into my office and sprawls into one of the chairs across from my desk. “So ask him if he’s free once it’s over.”

  “No.”

  She stares at me. “Why not?”

  God, no matter how many times we’ve been over this, she refuses to believe it.

  “Because, I’m not looking for a relationship, Darcy.” Tiredly, I repeat this for what has to be the trillionth time.

  Look, I adore my sister, but she’s stubborn when it comes to my views on relationships. She thinks I’d be happier in one. She doesn’t understand I’m already happy with my life the way it is.

  Her expression sours.

  “Well, it doesn’t mean you two can’t be friends and hang out, right?”

  I type a quick message to Leif to thank him and keep me posted if he finds anything else. Then I raise my eyes to meet my sister’s hopeful ones.

  “I don’t know.” It’s a non-answer, and I fully recognize this.

  She purses her lips and points her index finger at me. “I’m telling you, you need to rethink your anti-relationship view. I don’t want to visit you and your houseful of cats when you’re old and decrepit.”

  “Thank you for that lovely image,” I deadpan.

  “Whatever.” Darcy stands and smooths her skirt. “We need to set up a time to go over that next file from…” She snaps her fingers, at a loss for the name of the potential client.

  I flip through my notes until I find it. “Dax Kendrick.”

  He’s a unique one. Apparently, the athlete needs help getting rid of a woman who’s been his arm candy. He’s afraid of making waves since he’s in the public eye, which is understandable.

  I glance over my notes before raising my eyes to meet hers with a mask of innocence in place. “I don’t know, Darce. Dax seems like a really great guy. Maybe you two should hang out sometime.”

  She sticks out her tongue at me. I cross my eyes at her. Same thing we used to do when we were trying to get under each other’s skin in our shared bedroom all those years ago.

  We could have never known we’d end up liking each other and becoming the closest thing to a family either one of us has ever had.

  “Want to go over his file at two?” I call out to her back as she walks to the door of my office.

  “Sounds good.”

  She disappears, heading to her own office in the small building we rent. It’s a great space and not overly expensive, considering the growing neighborhood. We lucked out when we stumbled upon it.

  I pick up my pen and tap the end against my notepad, allowing my mind to wander. I wonder how B’s doing with his work. I never did ask him what he does for a living because I didn’t want to open myself up to a line of questioning about what I do. But I’m curious.

  I’m also curious as to what he looks like. His voice is admittedly sexy, but that can be misleading. I hope he’s not four feet tall because that wouldn’t do, with my five-foot-ten stature.

  Crap. What am I thinking? None of that matters anyway.

  I peer out the window that overlooks part of downtown Jacksonville. This city has been a haven for me. It was like divine intervention when Leif brought up the idea of us moving our business to his hometown. Once I’d researched it, I felt it deep in my bones that this could possibly be the safest place for me. This city is said to be the largest, by area size alone, in the United States. I imagine anyone can go unnoticed here if they want to.

  And I want—no, need—to.

  My phone vibrates against the hard wood of my desk, and I reach for it. My lips curl up before I realize it, so I school my expression. This is ridiculous.

  B: Hey. Sorry I’ve been out of touch. It’s been crazy here. Can’t wait to head home to my own bed. Plus, according to my buddy, my girl’s missing me.

  Wait, what? What girl? Before I can type a response, he sends a photo depicting an adorable black puppy. Whoever snapped the picture placed an issue of Sports Illustrated magazine by the dog’s side.

  Weird. Like the dog wants to look at some muscular guy on the cover. Pffft. Not likely.

  Me: I think your girl is super cute. Although, she looks bored to tears by that magazine.

  There’s no response from him for a full minute. Just when I’m about to set down the phone and get back to work, a message comes in.

  B: Did Blue tell you anything about me?

  I stare at the screen of my phone and reread his odd question.

  Me: No, actually.

  B: So you don’t know anything about me?

  I’m starting to get weirded out by this whole exchange. I finally press the call button because he needs to just spell out whatever the hell it is he’s trying to get at.

  “Hey.”

  God, his voice. This man has the sexiest voice I’ve heard in years.

  “Hi.” I decide to dive right in. “Look, I’m not sure what you’re getting at, but I figured it would be a lot quicker to chat.”

  “Sorry.” He exhales. “I’m just kind of nervous because of my job.”

  I frown and run my fingers along the crease between my brows. “Why are you nervous? Does your job involve something illegal?”

  “Oh, hell no.” His adamant and quick response sets me at ease. “I just…I’m pretty active in the city.” He says this slowly, as if he’s choosing his words carefully.

  “Okay,” I answer with the same slow hesitance.

  “Look.” He releases another sigh. “I’ve just had some not so great experiences in the past, with people wanting or expecting stuff from me. Basically using me because of my job.”

  Oh, wow. That’s certainly not what I was expecting him to say.

  “Kind of like how kids tried to get me and my sister to give them free rentals at the video game store we worked at in high school, huh?”

  He laughs, and it’s husky. The sound wraps around me, encapsulating me in warmth. “Guess you could say that.”

  “Well, not to put down whatever you peddle for your job, but I don’t need or want anything from you.”

  Another gravelly chuckle reaches my ears. “Oh, Ivy. You’re something else; you know that?”

  I release a dramatic sigh. “Don’t I know it.”

  He laughs again. “I actually missed talking to you this week.”

  “Same here.”

  I’m sorry, what? Noooo. I do not miss anything when it comes to men. That’s asking for trouble.

  I thump my head back on the headrest of my leather desk chair while mentally chanting, You idiot, you idiot, you idiot!

  “You okay over there?”

  Crap, he heard me thumping. “Yep, just working.” Working on control-alt-deleting my brain to reboot it, that is.

  “Well, I’ve got to pack up my stuff and drive home, so I’ll let you go.” He pauses. “Hope the rest of your day goes well.”

  “You too. Bye.”

  “Bye, Ivy.”

  We end the call, and I stare down at my phone. Bye, Ivy. Lord Almighty, that man’s voice could melt panties worldwide.

  Even after I force myself back to my task, his voice is on repeat in the back of my mind. And I can’t help but wonder if it matches the rest of him.

  “Okay, I think we’re all set with Mr. Kendrick.”

  D
arcy and I have finally finished poring over his filed application and details as well as a few other applications we’re considering. Mr. Kendrick submitted first, and as a rule, I always try to respect and maintain that order when I reach out to schedule an initial meeting.

  It was a bit of a challenge to set up a time to meet with him since, according to Mr. Kendrick’s personal assistant, the man is quite busy. We were finally able to coordinate a meeting at one of the little coffee shops where I normally consult with clients.

  “I think so. Seems like a pretty simple job.”

  “You sure you don’t need me to come along?” Darcy asks.

  “No, but thanks anyway.” I flash her an easy smile because she’s always giving me a hard time about working so much. “I don’t mind the duties that go along with being an owner.”

  I like meeting clients one-on-one because I can get a feel for their personality and gauge the sincerity of their needs. Often, I’m able to weed out a client who might sound legitimate on paper but is less than ideal once we’re face-to-face.

  “I worry about you, you know?” Darcy crosses her arms and leans back against the wall. “I wish you’d delegate more.”

  “Maybe in a few years.”

  She raises an eyebrow skeptically. “Right. I’ll hold my breath.” With a playful wink, Darcy turns to leave, but before she steps out of sight, I stop her.

  “Hey, Darce?”

  She must hear it in my voice.

  “Thanks.” With that solitary word expressed in my subdued voice, she knows, understands what I’m not saying. I recognize it in her soft, affectionate smile.

  She cocks her head to the side. “That’s what family’s for.”

  My throat is tight, and I simply nod. Because I’m thankful she’s my family.

  But not a day goes by that I don’t wonder about the one I was once part of.

  Ivy

  Eight years old