With a Hitch

by RC Boldt

  My hand runs soothing strokes down her back. The only indication of her tears is the subdued sniffling and the dampness seeping into the fabric of my shirt. A part of me wishes she’d let loose with sobs instead of trying to maintain her façade of strength. This woman has every right to give in to the vulnerable moments we all experience at some point in life. The ones that catch you off guard. Ones that zero in on your weaknesses. If you keep it in, it only festers.

  I reposition myself with my back more firmly against the wall, widening my stance to accept her weight and allow her to lean on me—not just emotionally but physically as well.

  Finally, she wipes at her eyes as surreptitiously as possible before tentatively raising her eyes to mine.

  “I’m sorry.” She shakes her head, then focuses on the collar of my shirt like it holds the secret of the world. “I’m not normally a mess like this.”

  With a gentle nudge of my finger beneath her chin, I tip her face up, forcing her to meet my eyes. “You’re not a mess. You’re human.”

  “Yeah.” She doesn’t sound the least bit convinced.

  I search her features, unsure of whether to ask, but I don’t want to leave her like this.

  “Want me to stick around for a bit tonight?” My voice is a low murmur. “I don’t have anything going on tomorrow aside from my plans to go for a run. We can chill and watch a movie.”

  Her lips curve ever so slightly, and the shadows in her eyes subside. “You mean like Netflix and chill?”

  I laugh softly. “Except in the literal sense. None of the sexual stuff.”

  Her expression sobers, and she bites her bottom lip apprehensively. “You’re a handsome guy who could be out doing just about anything else and…” She trails off with a wince.

  “And?” I prompt gently.

  Her blue eyes meet mine, emotions churning in the depths. “Yet you’re here with me. Offering to stay and hang out because I’m”—she breaks off with a grimace that’s heavy with self-deprecation and averts her eyes—“feeling weepy and vulnerable.” She still refuses to meet my gaze. “I’m sure you’d rather be doing a million other things tonight.”

  “Well, maybe not a million,” I say with mock thoughtfulness. “Probably closer to a few dozen things, though.”

  Her head snaps up, and she stares at me.

  “I’m kidding.” My teasing smile is wiped clean as a sober expression takes its place. I frame her face with my hands, grazing her cheekbones with my thumbs. “There’s no place I’d rather be right now.” I duck my head to press my lips to her forehead, and her eyes flutter shut at the soft kiss. “Why don’t you go change into something comfortable?”

  I lean back, dropping my hands from her face. Her eyes open, and she nods before turning in the direction of the hallway leading to her bedroom. She only makes it two steps before she suddenly spins back around. Advancing on me, she draws to a stop once we’re toe-to-toe. With her hands on my shoulders, she dusts a featherlight kiss on my cheek and whispers, “Thank you.”

  As she skitters down the hallway and out of sight, I’m left with the faint and unsettling hint of disappointment at the loss of contact.

  16

  Darcy

  “What the hell?” I hiss at the reflection in my bathroom mirror. The handful of deep breaths does nothing to tamp down the embarrassment that lingers from my tearful outburst in front of Dax.

  I hate appearing vulnerable. It’s dangerous. I discovered that long ago, around the same time I became determined to ensure I’d never be in that position again. I became hell-bent on making something of myself to prove that I was strong.

  That I was enough.

  I raise the hem of my shirt to bare the tattooed words trailing along the right side of my rib cage. Stars shine brightest in darkness. I trace my fingertips along the ink and recall the moment I’d gotten this tattoo to accompany the simple word etched on the other side of my ribs. I’d needed a reminder that I can and still have the ability to shine.

  That I refuse to allow the darkness of my past to snuff me out.

  I draw in one final fortifying breath and exit my bathroom to head to the living room. I discover Dax sprawled on my couch with one thick, muscled arm draped along the back. The TV’s on, and I can’t restrain a snicker of surprise at what’s just started playing. Mean Girls.

  His head snaps around, surveying my loose-fitting pair of pajama pants and a well-worn graphic T-shirt. I swear I detect the slightest flicker of something odd in his gaze, but it vanishes before I can give it more thought. I mean, my shirt’s baggy, and I’m not exactly well-endowed, so I didn’t think twice about going without a bra. I can tell the exact moment he reads what’s written on my shirt because his mouth forms an amused grin.

  “Nice shirt.”

  I laugh and sink down beside him. “It’s one of my favorites.” It’s the truth. Ivy and I share an appreciation for graphic tees with amusing sayings on them. This one, in particular, says, I’m just a girl, standing in front of a salad, asking it to be three tacos and a margarita.

  As soon as I curl my legs beneath me, I’m caught off guard when Dax slings an arm over my shoulders and pulls me against his side. I peer up at him, but his attention remains on the TV.

  “Feel better?” he inquires gently.

  I nod against him, relishing in the warmth of his body radiating through his cotton shirt. “Thanks to you,” I murmur.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something…” There’s a mixture of cautiousness and amusement in his tone. “How long have you lived here?”

  “In this condo?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Unsure of the reason behind his question, I answer slowly. “Um, a few years now.” I hesitate before adding, “Why?”

  “I, uh, noticed the lack of décor.” He lifts a shoulder in a faint shrug but aims a curious look at me. “That and this place just doesn’t seem in line with…” He falters, and I know what he’s not saying.

  It doesn’t seem in line with my income. Our office floor alone is indicative of such. Not only that, but I’m sure he’s gathered that I do well for myself by my clothing. Especially since he’s a guy who’s modeled for some of the higher-end fashion brands.

  I focus my attention on the TV and quietly answer. “It’s probably the result of bouncing around as a kid. Tough to get in the routine of nesting or making a space your own when you know you’ll be uprooted again and again.” I glance around at my modest condo. “And, honestly, this place suits me just fine.”

  His hesitance is palpable. “How many foster homes were you in?”

  I shrug. “About six different homes.”

  It’d been expected that my father would lose custody, and when I’d been placed in the orphanage at age six, it’d been more of a relief than anything else. The orphanage had been a welcoming environment run by nuns, and for four years, it had been my haven. But once Saint Mary’s Home lost their funding, everything had gone downhill quickly.

  When I entered my first foster home, some not-so-stellar experiences had accompanied it. Foster parents who only wanted an extra stipend and offered borderline harsh accommodations and only the barest of necessities and food. But it was still a world apart from what I experienced later when I’d been moved to a new family midway through my freshman year of high school.

  The mere memory of it, and what transpired, elicits a jarring shudder. God, that had certainly served as a hard lesson that nothing good ever lasts and that I can never rely on securing the unattainable happy ending. Because they simply don’t exist for people like me.

  Dax notices, and the arm draped around me tightens, anchoring me to him. If only I’d had a Dax Kendrick back in the day. He never would’ve allowed anything to happen to me.

  “You know, if you’d like, my mom would help you decorate. She loves that kind of thing.” His offer catches me off guard, and my initial reaction is to politely decline.

  He, of course, somehow anticipates this. “Just… thin
k about it and let me know.” His tone isn’t forceful or demanding but contains a gentle undertone of understanding.

  My oven timer buzzes, and he shifts, carefully disentangling his arm from me. “I’ll be right back.” He saunters into the kitchen, and I watch curiously, wondering what the heck he’s up to.

  Dishes softly clink before he emerges again with two small plates, one of the turmeric muffins he made a few days prior placed on each.

  “Aww,” I gush sweetly. “Are you on your menstrual cycle, too?”

  He merely laughs, eyes alight with humor. “Totally.” Returning to his seat beside me, he hands me a plate. “I heated them up in the oven because they’re always better than when you use the microwave.”

  I break off a small piece of the warm muffin and pop it into my mouth, watching him while I eat. “You’re like a male Betty Crocker, you know that?”

  He winks and turns back to the TV. “That’s Mr. Crocker to you.”

  We eat our muffins while watching Mean Girls, and when we place our empty plates on the coffee table, it seems totally normal to snuggle back up against his side.

  When he drapes an arm around me again, it feels right. Safe.

  I can’t help but wonder how I made it this long in life without a friend like him.

  17

  Darcy

  Hitched® Tip #5:

  Having something in common is key. Otherwise, you’re just sexual partners, and there is no genuine relationship foundation.

  ♥

  September

  I’m displaying my workaholic card today. I don’t mind, though. It’s Saturday morning, and I’m freshly caffeinated and actually embracing the silence in our offices. I didn’t think I’d be able to feel anything but a sense that something was awry with Ivy away on maternity leave, but somehow, I’ve come to appreciate the quiet surrounding me while I work.

  I figured I could take advantage of the morning to get ahead on some tasks. It has nothing to do with the fact that a certain wide receiver is out of town.

  Nope. Not at all.

  As I finish the spreadsheet of top matches for another client, an intraoffice message pops up in the center of my computer screen.

  It would be alarming if our silent partner in this company, Leif, weren’t a hacker.

  Leif: Congratulations, Duchess. Do I bow down before you? Dare I kiss the back of your hand like a true peasant?

  I frown at the message, then type back.

  Me: I’m confused. What are you talking about?

  Leif: You haven’t seen the article?

  My chest tightens nervously.

  Me: What article?

  My cell phone vibrates with an incoming call, and I offer the display a cursory glance. Knowing it’s Leif, I answer without saying a word.

  “Let me preface this by saying it’s the highest honor to speak with the Duchess of Dating this fine morning.”

  “Leif,” I warn. “Spill it. What are you talking about?”

  “I’m sending you the link now.”

  A second later, a hyperlink pops up in our message window, and I click on it with a cautious wince.

  The name of the well-known magazine Entrepreneur Today dominates the top of the page. Holy shit. There’s no mistaking the bold font article titled, “The Duchess of Dating: She’s got us ‘Hitched’ and enamored with her company’s bottom line.” Below is a photo of me they must have pulled from my website bio.

  Breath is sucked from my lungs as I hurriedly skim. Bits and pieces stand out.

  This entrepreneur has the talent and capability to make love connections unlike the multitude of automated online dating sites.

  well-sought after

  client list includes many celebrities

  exclusive and personalized screening process

  true love matches

  sister company of Ditched

  Raking in a cool 2.3 million in revenue in only the second year

  Entrepreneurs everywhere should bow down to the Duchess. We look forward to seeing her company’s progress in the upcoming years.

  “Holy shit.” My subdued murmur has Leif chuckling on the other end.

  “Congratulations, Darce.” Affectionate pride fills his voice. “I’m so damn proud of you.”

  Dazed, I continue to stare at the article. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Or Ivy.” Emotion clogs my throat. “Thank you.”

  “Hey,” he admonishes playfully. “You earned this.”

  I murmur another, “Thank you,” and turn the conversation away from myself. We discuss a background check I’d asked him for help with regarding a potential client. He managed to dig up information that had been “buried,” meaning he’d done a bit of hacking to get to the nitty-gritty. I want my clients to feel confident I’m matching them with safe candidates, and Leif helps to ensure that’s the case.

  After we wrap up, he congratulates me once more before we end the call.

  I lean back in my desk chair with a sigh. Wow. I gained the attention—positive attention, at that—from a well-known publication. Without even thinking, I open an email, copy-paste the article link, and press send.

  Promptly, a panic ensues.

  “Shit, shit, shit.” Why did I just do that? I mean, come on. A famous NFL player doesn’t care about something like this. It’s not even a blip on the radar of someone who’s featured in commercials, for God’s sake.

  Plus, he’s busy preparing for the game on Sunday against the Giants.

  He probably won’t have time to see it. Or maybe it’ll slip past him.

  An hour passes, and I’m so fully entrenched in my work that the vibrating of my cell phone startles me.

  Dax’s number flashes on the caller ID display.

  I wince and slowly reach out as though the device could snap at me, before accepting the call. I press the button to place it on speakerphone.

  “Hey.” I try to maintain a casual tone.

  “I’ve been in meetings this morning, and now we’re headed to the airport to catch our flight. I would’ve called sooner, but I just now had a chance to check my email on my phone.” His voice deepens. “I’m so damn proud of you, Darce.”

  The husky timbre causes a flush to spread across my skin, and I smile in response. “Thank you.” I falter. “It’s… it’s honestly surreal.”

  “Guess I should call you Duchess from now on, huh?”

  A mental image flashes in my mind. Dax on his knees between my spread legs, his fingers firmly gripping my hips. Those golden eyes watching me with unnerving intensity.

  “Does my duchess want her pussy licked?”

  Oh, holy shit. I jerk so fast I rustle the paperwork beneath my arm.

  “What’s wrong?” Concern lines his tone. “Holy shit, what?”

  Crap. I said that out loud. Quick, think of something!

  “Uh… holy shit, I can’t believe this happened.” Good save.

  He chuckles softly. “Hard work pays off. Be proud.” When he lowers his voice, the gravelly quality acts like a seductive caress. “I wish I could celebrate with you.” I hear male voices and raucous laughter in the background.

  “Oh, Duchess,” a male voice singsongs in a high-pitched tone, “wanna help me shower? It’s always better with the sports-fresh-scented Old Spice body wa— Ooof!”

  More laughter erupts. Then there’s shuffling like a sudden scuffle has broken out.

  He must cover the phone with his hand because his words become muffled, yet I can still decipher them. “That’s enough outta you clowns!”

  It suddenly grows quiet with a few apologies sprinkled in. I press a hand to my lips to stifle a laugh.

  He comes back on the phone. “You there, Darce?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Sorry about that.” He sighs. “I’ve got to run, but how ’bout we plan to celebrate once I get back from New York?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Don’t work too hard. Talk to you soon.”

  “B
ye.”

  “Bye, Duchess.” He ends the call immediately, getting the last word.

  Five minutes later, I realize I’m still smiling.

  The more worrisome part is, it’s not entirely due to that article.

  18

  Dax

  We exit the locker room in our other team “uniform” mandated by the Jags: sport coat, dress shirt, and tie with nice slacks, and dress shoes. No jeans or even khakis permitted. Some of my teammates bask in an opportunity to be flashy and include a fedora, a colorful handkerchief in the pocket of their coat, and expensive Italian loafers. Others prefer to keep it simple and low-key.

  The instant we begin filing out of the tunnel that leads to our awaiting buses, flashes erupt. Photographs are snapped, and some of the guys eat up the attention while others plod straight ahead without giving anyone so much as a side-glance. I just want to sit on the bus and rest.

  I’m wrecked and still sore as hell from getting drilled by New York’s lineman who had to weigh three hundred pounds and some change. Dude led with his helmet straight for my ribs when I was diving to reach the five-yard line.

  No doubt, Coach will be ripping into our asses on Monday morning when we go over the film. The lack of protection was shitty. Thankfully, Tank helped, but he pulled more than his fair share of work today.

  “Hey, man.” Watson sidles up beside me. “Got a question for you.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Do you know if Darcy’s seeing anyone?”

  At the unexpected question, I nearly misstep. It takes everything in my power to keep my cool.

  But why?

  “I don’t think she is,” I answer carefully.