DITCHED Read online

  He winks, then gestures for me to climb the stairs. “Come on up. The girls have only asked for you about twelve million times this morning.”

  I tuck my helmet beneath one arm and ascend the stairs. As soon as I reach the top, I peer up at him and wonder how it’s possible that he appears even more handsome.

  His eyes darken, and he reaches for me. One hand smooths down my hair, and his gaze is unnerving, as though he’s memorizing me at this moment. His regard possesses a hint of reverence shimmering within it.

  He dips his head, the dark depths of his eyes mesmerizing me. “You still respect me this morning?” he says in a husky whisper.

  I raise a hand to his chest, splaying my palm flat over the center. Heat radiates through the layers of fabric covering his hard-muscled body. I lift to bring my lips barely an inch from his. “I might if you kiss me alread—”

  His mouth closes over mine, cutting off my response. Hands delve and thread through my hair as he kisses me as if his life depends upon it.

  Becket kisses much like I’m learning how he goes about living his life. With a fervor and an unrivaled enthusiasm. He puts everything into it, and there’s no half-assing. It’s all or nothing.

  When his tongue slides in to spar with mine, the hand I have pressed against his chest clenches his apron in my fist. I step closer and wish I wasn’t holding my helmet in my other hand because I want to touch him. I need to feel his body with my bare hands and—

  “Uncle Becket!”

  We jerk apart, both of us breathing heavily. I stare up at him, my lips parted and slick from his kiss. He turns his head toward the open front door. “Be right there, Violet.”

  “Is Miss Ivy here?” she calls out.

  “Yes, ma’am.” With a smirk, Becket dips his head and dusts a soft kiss on my forehead. “I’m chopped liver now, thanks to you.”

  He stealthily snags my helmet from my grasp. At my look of confusion, he gestures to where he now holds my helmet directly in front of his crotch. “I’ll be needing this for the time being.”

  Suddenly, I catch the sound of nails gently clicking on hardwood floors. Within a moment, a small dark-haired dog bounds up to me with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.

  I drop to a crouch and smile at the adorable pup as it immediately nuzzles my jawline. “Well, hello there.” I pet the impossibly soft mane of hair.

  “This is Daisy.” Becket’s eyes meet mine over Daisy’s head. He smiles. “Think it’s clear she’s already joined your fan club.”

  “She’s adorable.” With a final affectionate pat, I straighten.

  Becket steps aside to let me enter first.

  “Such a gentleman,” I tease and step into the foyer of his home.

  “Not really. It’s an excuse to check out your ass.”

  I laugh, and he closes the door behind us. I remove my boots, unfasten my bag, and then my riding jacket. Becket directs me to set my belongings on one of the large chairs in the massive dining room area off to the left. He settles my helmet carefully upon the cloth table runner.

  “Wow.” I take in the impressive size of the room. “Do you actually use this room?” I have to ask because, well…he’s a bachelor. I don’t exactly see him holding dinner parties every night.

  He appears amused by my question. “Yes, I actually do. Normally, I use it when it’s my year to host Friendsgiving.”

  “Friendsgiving?”

  “Instead of Thanksgiving, the guys who don’t have families or places to go get together, and we have a huge feast.” He glances around the room, and the way his eyes crinkle slightly, it’s as though he’s recalling fond memories.

  I take in the sight of the large table with more than a dozen chairs around it and imagine the room bustling with life, frequent laughter, and boisterous male voices. “Sounds incredible.” And I mean it. Simultaneously, I hate the tiny seed of yearning he’s planted. Yearning to be a part of something like that.

  I’ve always avoided attending get-togethers at other people’s homes for the holidays because it doesn’t matter how much anyone tries to include Darcy and me; we’re still outsiders. There are always inside family jokes or stories that only they know and can appreciate. There’s a connection we’re not a part of.

  “Maybe you can join us this year.”

  My eyes dart to his and widen with surprise.

  He must notice because he rushes on with, “I mean, you probably have a big family and whatnot.”

  I shuffle my feet on the sleek cherry hardwood floors. God, this is awkward. Just when I’m about to brave the conversation of, “I don’t actually have a family” and try to make a joke about how I was left by a stork, we’re interrupted.

  A little face peers around the corner of the doorway. “Unc Beck? I’m hungry.” Little Emilia meets my gaze and smiles shyly when I wave.

  “You’re hungry?” Becket gapes dramatically. When Emilia nods, he rubs his flat stomach. “Actually, I think I’m so hungry I might have to have a quick snack.”

  She giggles and holds out a tiny, chubby hand as if to stop him. “Don’t eat me, Unc Beck!”

  He rushes to her and scoops her up, pressing his face to her stomach. She giggles uncontrollably as he places dozens of loud, smacking kisses to her abdomen. The noise immediately gathers Daisy’s attention, and she comes rushing around the corner. Her head tilts to the side as she watches, her small body vibrating with energy as if just waiting to join in.

  “I’m so hungry, Em!” he mumbles against her while she squirms within his hold. Finally, he gives her a reprieve.

  “Again!” she demands, her face flushed with joy.

  “After we eat, okay?” He sets her on her feet and scoops up Daisy in his arms, snuggling her to his chest. The mere broadness of his torso makes her appear even tinier. “Let’s go have breakfast, toots.”

  Emilia smiles up at Becket. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  God, the way he smiles down at her sends an unfamiliar sensation of longing through me.

  She scampers off, and he looks at me. Extending a hand, he smiles. Daisy turns her head, her blue eyes staring at me as if to say, Isn’t my dad the best? “Ready for breakfast?”

  I slide my hand in his large one and ignore my inner taunt of warning that I’m in dangerous waters.

  15

  Becket

  My mother used to tell me and my brother, Brantley, to always pay attention to people’s eyes. She claimed they could often tell you more than the person ever could.

  I always knew my mother was wise, but today, her words rang so undeniably true that I felt like she was beside me, whispering, “See, Becket? I told you.”

  Often, when I gaze into Ivy’s eyes, I witness a myriad of emotions. A yearning, a gut-wrenching sadness, and pain.

  But for a few moments today, I witnessed something else. Something that made me promise myself I’d do whatever magic it took to put that same look in her eyes.

  Happiness.

  “I don’t know how you do it.” There’s a hint of wonder in her voice.

  “It’s exhausting but fun.”

  Both girls have now been picked up. Dax scooped up Violet, his niece who likes me more than him, hence the sleepover requests.

  Okay, so maybe that’s not entirely true. Dax helps out his single-mom sister with Violet, who happens to love coming over and hanging out with Emilia—and Daisy, too, of course—when I babysit.

  “Remind me again how Emilia’s related to you.”

  Laughter escapes my lips at Ivy’s request. “She’s not.”

  She flashes me an amused look. “Why am I not surprised?”

  Playfully, I nudge her shoulder with my own. “I went to college with Presley, her mom. She’s my chiropractor as well.” With a half shrug, I add, “We stayed friends and kept in touch.”

  Ivy clears her throat, and I already know what her next words will be since both Presley and her formidable-looking husband, Hendy, came to pick up Emilia. E
specially since it’s hard not to notice the scarring on Hendy’s face.

  “And her husband?” Her words are tentative, polite.

  “He’s a former SEAL.”

  “Oh.”

  She doesn’t say more, but I feel compelled to explain because these people are my family, albeit not necessarily blood-related.

  “Hendy was captured and tortured on his final mission. He’s been through hell and back.” I inhale deeply because I still can’t fathom anyone enduring what he’s had to. “He’s a good guy and great to Pres.” My lips curve up into a grin, and I turn to Ivy. “But don’t tell him I said that. I like to give him shit, so he doesn’t go all soft on me.”

  She shakes her head and rolls those gorgeous blue eyes at me.

  I reach for her hand. “Come on. I never got to give you the two-cent tour.”

  She follows me up the stairs, and I show her around. I point toward the end of the hall opposite where we stand.

  “Typical spare bedrooms are down there.” I gesture to the open door behind me. “This is my office that really doesn’t get much use.”

  Shit. I never realized how egotistical this room looks. Mom had insisted I display my trophies and awards somewhere. I’d never been one who wanted to gloat about my achievements and shove it down people’s throats, so I figured this room was the safest bet.

  I wince. “Uh, yeah. It’s a pretty boring room…” But it’s too late. She’s already stepping inside, flipping the light switch to better illuminate what Dax has dubbed my “I love me” room.

  Yeah. He gives me shit for it all the time.

  “Wow. Two of these?” she muses, peering up at the Heisman Trophies perched on a shelf.

  I run a hand over the back of my neck, uneasy with the attention. “That was a long time ago.”

  Ivy’s head whips around, and she stares at me, surprised amusement etching her features. Gesturing to my Super Bowl rings, she quirks an eyebrow. “And what about these fancy rings, here?”

  In an attempt to change the subject, I flash her a wide, suggestive smile. “My bedroom’s right across the hall here.” I wave my hand in its direction. “Want to see where all the magic happens? And when I say magic, I mean sleep.”

  She makes a derisive sound. “Right.” Before I can protest the fact that, yeah, I actually get more sleep than sex in that room, she peers at one of the framed awards hanging on the office wall. “Best karaoke singer ever.” Her eyes are alight with interest. “Do tell.”

  God, I hate this. Why did I even point out this room to begin with?

  “Those are the awards from the Children’s Cancer Institute.” I draw in a deep breath. I point to the one on the far left. “Cole is now eleven. He’s been in remission for the past four years and loves old Beastie Boys songs his dad got him hooked on.” I gesture to the middle one. “That one is from Adeline when she was almost six, and she was still firmly entrenched in her Taylor Swift obsession.”

  The frame on the right is one I wish had a different ending. “That’s from”—I clear my throat, hating the huskiness my voice takes on from the emotional memories—“Evan. He, uh, always wanted to learn to play the piano.” I clench my jaw at how unfair it is that cancer took his life so soon. “The two of us buckled down to learn to play ‘Love Me Tender’ by Elvis Presley on his little Casio keyboard while he was in the hospital. Unfortunately, he…” I trail off with a shake of my head.

  “I’m sorry,” she replies gently. There’s a brief pause. “What about this?”

  I know it’s her attempt to talk about something lighter, but what she’s pointing at is both my most favorite “award” and the one with the most painful memories attached to it. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to overcome such an immense loss.

  “Favorite Son Award?” Ivy turns to me in question with a small hint of a smile playing on her lips.

  Fuck.

  I scrub a hand down my face roughly. “Ivy,” I begin.

  “You know what?” she offers suddenly. “Never mind. I’m sorry. I’m being nosy and—”

  I gently encircle her wrist with my fingers. “Hey.”

  Her eyes meet mine, her expression one of nervous hesitancy.

  “That’s from my mom.” I avert my eyes, instead focusing on the award. “She made that for me as a joke. It ended up being the last note she wrote me before she died.”

  Ivy pulls her wrist from my grasp enough to lace her fingers with mine, giving my hand a quick squeeze. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

  “Don’t be.” I drag in a deep, calming breath. With a tiny chuckle, I gaze at the framed paper. “I always gave her shit about how I was her favorite son. Brantley, my brother, and I both did, and she’d always play along. When she had me alone in a room, or we were on the phone, she’d say, ‘Now you know you’re my favorite, Becket. Just don’t tell your brother.’

  “Of course, she’d say the same to Brantley.” I shake my head with a laugh. “And this”—I reach up to carefully remove the framed note from the wall and bring it close—“is what she made just before she passed.”

  Ivy sidles closer, her fingers tightening their grip on our joined hands, and the comfort I immediately feel is surprising. Especially since I haven’t known her very long.

  “She called us into the hospital. She’d been brought in mainly because of dehydration, and the doctors had even said she was reacting well to cancer treatment.” The memory of that day floods my mind. “But, somehow, Mom knew. Said it was time. That she’d fought long enough and she was simply…tired.” I swallow hard past the massive lump in my throat and fight the tears that prick my eyes. “She said, ‘Becket, you finally got your ass in gear and helped your team win the Super Bowl. Brantley has a wonderful boyfriend and loves his job. I feel good leaving you both now.’

  “Then she smiled and squeezed my hand and said, ‘Find yourself a wonderful woman who loves you for the amazing man you’ve become.’ Then she got this serious look on her face, and it worried me.” I break off with a choked laugh. “She whispered, ‘She’d better not be a floozy who can’t cook or bake either.’”

  Ivy’s light laughter reaches my ears, and I finally brave a glance over at her.

  “She died in her sleep that night.”

  “Becket,” she whispers raggedly, her eyes mournful.

  I replace the frame on the wall with care and drag a hand along the tight muscles of the back of my neck. “So that’s why this one gets its own wall space. Because all that”—I gesture to my athletic awards and trophies on the opposite side of the room—“means nothing compared to this right here.”

  Silence hangs over us for a beat before I do my best to shake it off. Arching my eyebrows, I smirk. “So…care to see where the magic really happens, now, Miss Hayes?”

  Ivy shoves at me playfully, an easy laugh spilling from her lips. And just like that, the mood lightens. I show her around the lower level of the house, into the game room with the pool table and the small piano that’s off in one corner.

  Ivy stops short when she sees it. “Oh, wow.” There’s an odd hint of something in her voice that almost sounds…haunted.

  “I only play a little.” I advance to the piano and lower myself onto the bench. Tentatively, Ivy stands beside the baby grand. “This was my mom’s. She taught piano lessons on the side.” I place my fingers above the keys before I abruptly stop and glance over at her. “You won’t think less of me as a man if I play a Pink song, will you?” I tease.

  She carefully props a hip against the piano with a sassy grin. “Depends on which one.”

  With our eyes locked, I begin to play the beginning notes of Pink’s “Glitter in the Air” and watch as her expression shifts when she recognizes the song. I’m no singer, but I can occasionally carry a tune here and there. I hum my way through most of it and softly murmur the words at other times while I play.

  Ivy shifts and slides onto the spot on the bench to my left. A time or two throughout the song, I glance over and find h
er eyes closed as if she’s absorbing the sound of the music and my voice. I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed anyone get lost in the music as she does.

  Once I play the final note, I remove my fingers from the keys and sit back.

  “That’s it.”

  Ivy’s eyes flare open. “That’s it?”

  “That’s all I’ve got in my bag of tricks to impress you.”

  A crease pops up between her brows as she appears disappointed. “Oh. Well, then.” She rises from the bench, lets out a sigh, and gives me a little wave. “Nice knowing you, Jones.”

  “Dammit.” I hang my head dejectedly. “Knew I should’ve done ‘Chopsticks’ instead.”

  When she tips her head back on a laugh, I feel my damn heart lurch as if it’s screaming, “I’m with her!”

  With the one woman who doesn’t believe in relationships.

  The woman who breaks up relationships for a living.

  This can only mean one thing.

  I’ve got to bring my best A-game to the table to ensure I’m not the one getting ditched in the end.

  16

  Ivy

  We’re slumped on his oversized couch. Becket has his long legs outstretched, his bare feet propped on the edge of the coffee table. Daisy’s curled up on her small, pillowy doggy bed in the corner of the room.

  “I had fun today.” And I mean it. I had a great time hanging out with Becket and the girls.

  When he showed me his office and told me about the awards displayed on the walls, I saw another side of him. The way he spoke about the kids and his mom was powerful, but when he played the piano for me…I found myself yearning to show him the part of me I haven’t shared in years.

  “Me, too,” he says softly.

  Our gazes hold for a beat before I clear my throat and sit up straight, rising from the couch. “I should get going. I’m sure you have a ton of things to do today.”

  He reaches out a hand. “Help me up?”

  I peer down at him suspiciously but place my hand in his. The moment I do, he abruptly tugs me to him. Adjusting his position on the couch to lie back with my body atop his, he grins up at me. My hair cascades around his face like a curtain.