by RC Boldt
“Dax Allen Kendrick! I forbid it!”
I rear back, confused as hell. “Why would you forbid it?”
Her jaw drops, and she gasps indignantly. “Why would I forbid it?!” She turns to my sister, her voice increasing in volume. “Why would I forbid it?!”
“Say it again, Mom. Not sure we heard you the first time,” my sister deadpans.
If my mother didn’t have a freaking wooden spoon in her hand, I’d let out the laugh aching to break free. I got to know that sucker really well through my early years, and even though I’m older, I don’t put it past my mother to come at me with that thing.
Speaking of which, my right ass cheek starts to throb in remembrance at the mere sight of that spoon.
I hold up my hands. “Calm down, Mom.” Shit. I didn’t expect this reaction. “Look, she’s great at what she does and—”
The hand holding the wooden spoon rises another inch, and I flinch in response. “Don’t you tell me what she’s great at, young man!”
I look at my sister, silently pleading for help. She merely shrugs, wide-eyed, with an I don’t pretend to understand her look.
Great. I’m left to fend for myself once again.
“Can you just put that thing”—I gesture to the spoon in her hand—“down, so I can explain?”
My mother’s lips purse like she’s just bit into the sourest of lemons. Her eyes practically spew fire at me. “Fine.” Her tone is curt. “But you’re not too old to get swatted with it, young man,” she warns with a pointed look.
My hands fly to my ass protectively, and my sister snorts. I glare at her, and she simply sticks her tongue out at me in response.
Some things never change.
“Okay, so Ivy, Becket’s wife—”
My mother’s expression instantly softens. “Such a sweet girl, that one.” Then with a stern look, she adds, “You need to find someone like that.”
I draw in a deep breath, praying for patience. “Ivy’s business partner, Darcy, runs a matchmaking service and—” At the odd expression on my mother’s face, I stop. “What’s that look for?”
“Oh, honey.” She lets out a long sigh before spinning around to tend to the saucepan on the stove.
I stare at my sister expectantly. Her lips twitch as though she’s attempting to restrain a smile. I wave her on. “Say it.”
She snickers. “Mom thought when you said ‘professional,’ you meant prostitute.”
I whip around to stare at my mother. “Are you serious?!” What the hell? “You really think I’d hire a freaking prostitute?”
“Apparently so,” my sister chimes in with a smirk.
I toss up my hands in exasperation. “I can’t believe you think I’d resort to that.”
“Well,” my sister starts, “you have been single for a while.”
“That doesn’t mean I’d hire a prostitute for fu—” Mom’s head whips around in warning, and I correct myself quickly. “For God’s sake.”
“What’s a prostitute?”
Fucking hell. Violet’s just come back inside.
“Nothing.” That’s my mother’s response.
“A person who makes bad choices.” My sister’s no-nonsense response.
“A woman who sells—” This time, I really do get swatted with the wooden spoon. As if it doesn’t sting enough against my bare forearm, I now have a line of pasta sauce on it too.
I grin and make a show of licking the sauce off my skin. Mom hates that.
She raises the spoon threateningly, and I hold up my hands in surrender. “I just want to be loved. What’s a guy have to do to get some love these days?”
“Pretty sure you already know what you have to do to get some love,” my sister mutters under her breath.
I jab an index finger in her direction and give her a sharp look. “Watch it, or I’ll tell Mom who broke that angel statue she brought home from a garage sale.”
Ava’s expression morphs into astonishment. “You swore you’d never bring that up!” Her lips curve suddenly in a devious smile. “As long as I never tell Mom what happened to that pair of booty shorts she got you for twenty-five cents.”
“What shorts?” my mother asks.
I stare at her in complete disbelief. “Seriously? You’re more worried about the hideous shorts that put my junk on display than the statue she broke?”
My mother sputters. “But you said you loved those shorts!”
I glance up at the ceiling, hoping for divine intervention, which, of course, never comes. “Mom,” I say with exaggerated patience. “The shorts were cut so high I would’ve had to wax.”
“Well, you could’ve said so,” she huffs, turning back to the stove. “They were a great deal.”
“I’m sure they were a steal for a quarter.” My sister snickers at my sarcastic response, and we burst out laughing.
Our mom’s been a fan of garage sales for as far back as we can remember. Sometimes she brings home some decent stuff, but more often than not, it ends up being some hideous “treasure.”
Hence the shorts.
“You two are gonna get it!” Mom warns, raising that infamous wooden spoon once more.
Man, it’s good to be home.
“You look tired.”
I keep my voice lowered since Dad’s asleep in his recliner.
My sister rolls her eyes. “Gee, thanks. Just what every woman wants to hear.”
I’m not trying to be a dick, but it’s the truth. The dark circles under her eyes appear more pronounced. I worry about her pushing herself too hard. God knows being a single mom—even living with our parents and having help from them—while being a pediatric nurse can’t be easy. I worry she’s pulling too much overtime and long hours to provide for Violet and failing to take care of herself.
Ava’s stubborn as hell and won’t take any money from me, insisting she do it on her own. So damn stubborn and prideful. Violet’s biological dad—or sperm donor, as I secretly refer to him—skipped out on his responsibilities and signed over his rights at birth.
“Just tired, that’s all.” She tucks her thick black hair behind her ear.
“Aves,” I say gently. “Stress kills your body.” I wait for her eyes to lift to mine. “Please promise me you’ll take better care of yourself. You know I can—”
“Dax,” she murmurs with a soft smile. “I know you can. And when I need you, I’ll ask. But right now, let it be.”
Her gaze is pleading, and I wrestle with the urge to steamroll her and force her to slow down at work. But I know she’s not just doing it for the money. Violet was born premature and had to be monitored after birth due to the doctors’ concerns about her low birth weight and organ development. I think she feels like she’s giving back to everyone who went above and beyond to help back then.
Reluctantly, I nod, then grasp her dainty wrist and tug her hand away from me to lean in and press a quick kiss to her cheek. “I just worry about you.”
Her eyes crinkle at the corners with her affectionate grin. “I know.” She lifts my arm and leans close to rest her head against my shoulder. I drape my arm around her and tighten it. “And I love you for it.”
“Love you, too, Aves.” I lean my head back against the couch and close my eyes when I hear her breathing even out. My poor kid sister is so damn exhausted, and even though I should head home, I don’t want to disrupt her nap.
The memory of holding her in my arms shortly after she was born is one of my favorite memories. She’d been so damn tiny, and even though I was four years older than her, it was hard to contain my excitement at having a sister.
That would mark a lot of firsts for me. When she cried because her gums hurt from teething, I’d make her giggle with silly faces. When she fell and scraped her knees on the driveway, her cries killed me. And when she’d cried on my shoulder the first time a guy broke her heart, I’d have broken his arms and legs if Ava hadn’t reminded me how much was on the line with my football scholarship. Instead, I reso
rted to heavy threats, and that did the trick even though it hadn’t left me feeling as satisfied. No one messed with my sister and got away with it.
I still remember the night she told me she was pregnant. I’d never been so worried before in my life. At only nineteen, she was scared shitless, but even then, she knew she wouldn’t terminate the pregnancy. I promised her then that I’d do everything in my power to help. Thankfully, my parents, although initially disappointed since they’ve always been more conservative and expected both of us to be married before starting a family, rallied around her.
Violet rushes into the room only to draw to a sudden stop when she sees us. Quietly, she tiptoes over and carefully joins us, curling up against my other side.
“Hey, love bug,” I whisper.
She peers up at me with her beautiful big brown eyes and smiles. Then she snuggles against me, much like her mother is. “I love you, Uncle Dax.” Her whispered words bring a smile to my face.
While I sit here on my parents’ couch curled up with two of my favorite girls, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll find a woman who’ll fit in with my family so well that she’d curl up on this couch with us.
5
Darcy
Hitched® Tip #2:
Make eye contact. But not in a creepy fashion. Just enough to show your attention is on the other person.
And remember, no roving eyes.
♥
“How’s it going with Dax?”
My head snaps up, and I jump at my sister’s voice. She caught me off guard while I was busy poring over his file and going through potential matches.
“Whoa.” Ivy holds up a hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I grimace and lean back in my chair. “I think I’m stressing over this more than usual because he’s Becket’s friend…”
I also can’t deny the unsettling desire driving me to prove to Dax that I can do this.
She sinks into the leather chair across from my desk. “And because of the circumstances,” she finishes in an understanding tone. “It’s tough, Darce, when you have so many variables, like the income, the public profile, and the schedule.”
With a wince, I blow out a long breath. “Well, out of the handful of matches I’ve found, I think a few women would be a great match.”
Her eyebrows arch in surprise, zeroing in on my hesitation. “Really? Only a few?”
I barely manage to stifle a groan when I tap the mouse to wake up my computer and peer at the results on the screen. “Well, for right now. Otherwise…”
“You’d be reaching,” Ivy supplies thoughtfully. And she’s right. Though she’s more talented when it comes to helping people break off relationships fluidly, without drama, it doesn’t mean she fails to understand the dynamics of matching people. Especially with the program I use in conjunction with good old human intuition.
That’s where a lot of people go wrong. When they stop listening to their gut instinct, they’re often led astray. Technology is a wonderful tool, don’t get me wrong, but it doesn’t completely replace human intuition.
“Tell me about your top matches as of right now.”
Tapping my capped pen against the screen, I fill her in on what I have so far. Afterward, I lean back in my desk chair. “But I’m still mulling over these.” I can honestly see him with two of the possible matches, which is a great thing, but it doesn’t explain that slightly queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Once we wrap up, Ivy slowly hauls herself out of the chair while I’m still ruminating, ensnared in dangerous thoughts.
The light rap of my sister’s knuckles against my wooden desk draws my mind away from its dangerous destination. Her lips form an affectionate smile. “I’m proud of you, you know that?” she says softly.
The sudden tightness in my chest has me nodding and muttering a quick thank-you. Ivy, of course, knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“More than anything else, though, you should be proud of yourself, Darce.” The gentle way she speaks the sentiment brings tears to my eyes, and I furiously blink them away. Before I can steer the conversation in a different direction, my sister’s hand flies to the side of her stomach. “Oooh!”
Immediately, I shoot up from my chair. “What is it? Should I call Becket?”
She waves me off with a laugh. “No, no. She just caught me off guard, that’s all.” Ivy rubs a spot on her belly. “She likes to press her little foot against the side, and if I rub it, she’ll press harder, like she likes it.” Wonder laces her tone, and for a split second, I find myself envious.
“Am I interrupting?”
The male voice startles us both. When I see Leif’s familiar face, I immediately rush to hug him.
He could double as a surfer with his naturally bleached blond hair and thin athletic build, but his pale complexion hints at the fact he’s practically a hermit, chained to his computers and other tech devices day in and day out.
“Whoa,” he mumbles when I squeeze him tightly. “I might have to stay holed up this long more often if I get hugs like that.”
I lean away and peer into his eyes, which sparkle with humor. “Don’t you dare,” I admonish before softening my voice. “I just missed you.” I step away to make way for Ivy.
Leif’s jaw drops wide open as he takes in the sight of my sister. “Ivy Hayes.” He waves frantically to her stomach in mock horror. “What the hell happened to you?”
Snickering, she swats at his shoulder. “Stop it. And it’s Ivy Jones. You were at the wedding, you goofball.”
His expression morphs into a wide grin, and he slings an arm around her, pulling her close for a careful hug. “I know. I had to mess with you.”
“What are you doing here?” Ivy’s pretty features turn panicked. “Wait! Did I forget an appointment with you?”
Leif settles a hand on her back. “Calm down, little mama. I’m here for Darcy.”
My sister visibly relaxes. “Oh, thank goodness.” She presses a hand to her temple. “I swear, I’m so forgetful these days.”
Leif and I exchange an amused look before we say in unison, “Prego brain.”
She sighs. “I’m trying to fight it.” With a glance at the clock on my wall, she snaps her fingers. “I need to touch base with a prospective client, but”—she turns to Leif—“do you think you’ll have a few minutes once you two are finished? I need to run something by you.”
“Anything for my favorite pregnant lady.”
Ivy flashes him a grateful smile and heads in the direction of her office. Leif strolls over to the small rectangular table on one side of my office and sets his thin bag on it. Sliding out his laptop, wireless mouse, a notepad, and a pen, he settles into a chair. I quickly grab my own laptop and the files and join him.
“Thanks again for putting a rush on things for me.”
He glances at the empty office doorway before lowering his voice. “I remember we had to dig up background info on Kendrick a short while ago,” he muses thoughtfully. “I refreshed my memory with what I found back then and referenced it against anything new I discovered in my digging.”
“And?” Please don’t tell me you found anything bad, I silently beg.
“And”—Leif pulls up a file on his computer—“the only things that’ve changed are his income and endorsements, really. He signed a contract that put him at the top tier of highest-paid wide receivers, making eighty-two million per year. Plus, he landed the Old Spice body wash campaign, is the new underwear model for Under Armour’s men’s line and the spokesperson for Gatorade, and has a MasterCard endorsement deal.”
“I’m still stuck on eighty-two million a year,” I mutter. Geez. And here I’ve been pretty pleased with my own salary, considering I’m technically an entrepreneur—even if I did get my start with Ivy’s business.
Leif makes a face. “I know. It’s insane to even consider.”
“Did you end up uncovering anything crucial?”
My friend wrinkles his brow and
leans back in his seat. “Honestly, I feel like he’s another unicorn.”
“Another?”
He tips his head in the direction of the doorway. “Aside from Becket Jones, of course.”
“So, he’s a legitimate good guy,” I muse.
“Seems to be the case. Of course”—he gestures at the laptop screen—“with those endorsement ads come morals clauses regarding their required expectations that he maintain a pretty damn pristine public image. No bad press, or he loses those deals.”
“And that’s definitely not on his list of things to do.” I gaze out my office window thoughtfully before focusing on him. “His family and providing for them are a priority for him.”
“He seems like a genuine guy.”
I nod slowly. “He does.”
A quiet moment passes before Leif speaks. “Speaking of genuine, when’s the last time you went out on a genuine date?”
I let out a half groan, half snort. “As if I have time these days?”
His gaze is watchful. Too imposing. “You realize I’m in charge of bookkeeping, right?” He arches a brow. “Darce, you had to turn away some clients already. You’re making really great bank.”
His praise makes me uncomfortable. I glance down at our paperwork. “I know, but—”
“But you’re still aiming for that benchmark that never seems to be within reach.”
My breath stutters. “Leif,” I say in sharp warning.
Of course, it doesn’t faze him. Though we didn’t grow up together, when Ivy and I met him at LSU our first year, we instantly connected. We don’t have much in common with the tech-savvy brainiac, but his natural aloofness called to us as two foster kids used to flying solo and being self-sufficient. But it’s times like this when I resent how well he knows me.
“If you don’t stop working yourself to the bone, you’ll never be able to stop and enjoy life. You’ll still be here when you’re eighty years old, single, lonely as hell, and a workaholic.”
“Wow. Thanks for that super pleasant image,” I reply drily. Shooting up from my chair, I’m eager to change the conversation.
