Contents
Untitled
All right reserved. No pat of this book my be reproduced
Part One - THURSDAY
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Part Two - FRIDAY
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Part Three - SATURDAY
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
When we arrive back at Brady’s, everything is chaotic
Chapter Twenty-Two
Part Four - SUNDAY
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Part Five - MONDAY
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Author’s Notes
Read about Fletch in book one, CRUSHED
HITCHED
All right reserved. No part of this book my be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording without prior written permission from the publisher.
HITCHED
Dawn Rae Miller
Copyright 2015 by Dawn Rae Miller
Cover Design: Copyright 2015 RBA Designs
First Edition
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events ares solely of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Part One: THURSDAY
Chapter One
My car won’t start.
I turn the key again, and the car shimmies before sputtering out.
I hop out of the worn driver’s seat and pop the hood of the silver Ford. Not that I know anything about cars, but it seems like the right thing to do.
Nothing is smoking or making weird noises. It just looks like car guts, so I pull out the dipstick, stare at it for a minute, and put it back in place. There seems to be oil.
What the hell is wrong with my car this time? Other than it’s really, really old and hates me.
Sweat drips down my neck, and I wipe it away before it hits the collar of my blouse. I spent an hour blowing out my hair, but the humidity is killing it, and I’m going to look like a stressed out, frizzy mess by the time I get to the airport.
That is, if I ever get to the airport.
In the dimming light, there is nothing I can do to make my poor little Ford go. At some point, before the AAA guy begins to think we’re dating, I’m going to have to buy a new car. But for now, this is all I have. It’s what I can afford.
I walk around to the passenger side and reach through the window to grab my cell phone off the seat. I have to leave in the next ten minutes, or I’m going to be late. AAA is not an option. So I do what I really can’t afford: call a cab.
“Northpoint Cab service. How can I help you?”
“I need a cab to Logan.”
“I’ll send one right over. What’s your address?”
I rattle it off before shoving the phone into the back pocket of my skinny jeans. I’ve had guys tell me I look like a model, but they’re usually the ones that want to seep with me. At least that’s what I’ve learned from Brady: be wary of compliments. I squat down and check my reflection in the side-view mirror. Despite the humidity, I don’t look too bad. Dewy even, if I want to put a positive spin on it.
“Ellie Jacobs?” a man’s gravely voice says.
Spider-like sensations crawl along my back, and I turn around slowly. Once, I was used to this, but it’s been awhile. “Yes?”
“Can I ask you a few questions? About Fletch Colson?”
Damn it. Like I needed anything else to go wrong today.
“Not now. I’m running late, if you haven’t noticed.” I gesture to my broken down car.
“Where you off to?”
I huff. These reporters. Always snooping around for information about Fletch. Always wanting to dig deeper into the mysterious world of his mind. And lucky me, I’m the collateral damage he left in his wake for the vultures to pick at.
“The Cape. For a friend’s wedding.”
“Will Fletch be there?”
“I don’t know,” I lie. Why I lie, I’m unsure, but it’s my first instinct. It always has been when it comes to protecting Fletch. “Why don’t you try calling his office? You’ll probably have better luck than me getting through.”
“So you don’t talk to him anymore?”
I glare at the reporter. “Fletch and I…”
“Fletch and you what?” the reporter says. He’s practically salivating all over himself. I could make his day and give him something salacious. Something no one has ever reported.
Then, as if floating back into my body, I snap my head up and shake it vigorously. No. I’m not going to do this right now. Or ever.
I’m over Fletch Colson, and the drama he brings with him.
“C’mon, Ellie. Give me something,” the reporter says. “I know you two were close. That he used to crash at your place. Maybe even that the two of you were dating?”
From the backseat of my car, I grab my suitcase and drop it next to my feet.
“Sorry,” I say with a carefree shrug. But inside, inside my heart hammers against my ribs. “I’ve got nothing for you.”
I lock the car doors and give the tire closest to me a firm kick. I’ll deal with this disaster later — after I get back from “The Wedding of the Century.”
The wedding. To say I’m not a fan is an understatement. Brady shouldn’t be marrying anyone. It feels wrong. Like something is up. And who is this Sophie, anyway? Sure, she’s one of Calista’s friends, but what do we really know about her besides the fact that she’s French and works in fashion?
Brady insists she’s a keeper, but I don’t know. In my opinion, Brady Pearson has no business marrying anyone, at least not for many, many, many years.
The yellow cab pulls up to the curb, and I rush over to it. The driver opens the trunk, and I throw my suitcase inside before hopping into the ratty backseat. Nasty vinyl sticks to my jeans, and the seatbelt is jammed, so I scoot over to the other side.
“Look, I have to go,” I say, hanging out the door. “Sorry I couldn’t be more help.” I give the reporter what I hope is a sad look. And maybe it is. Maybe there really is part of me that wants to assist in writing the tell-all story of Fletch Colson. It would be scandalous, that’s for sure. At least the parts I know.
“Can I give you my card?”
“Sure,” I answer, taking the piece of paper from the reporter’s outstretched hand. James Roberts it reads. “I’ll make sure to call you when I have something to say.”
It’s not that I’m protecting Fletch. I’m not. He has plenty of people who do that for him now. I’m just sick of reporters and gossip hounds bothering me. After a year or two, you’d think they’d forget about me - and most of them have - but the ones who still search me out make me seem distant and secretive. As if I’m the one who can unlock the mystery of Fletch Colson.
Who knows? Maybe I am.
I slam the door shut and say to the driver, “Logan. United Airlines. Baggage.”
The driver nods and hits the meter.
This ride is going to cost me a small fortune, but there is no other way. I slump back into my seat, nauseous and wanting to vomit.
I want to see Fletch, but I’m afraid. I’ve read so much about him over the past two years - the girls, the dates, his tenacity when it comes to business - that he doesn’t seem like the boy I knew. More like some random celebrity. His picture is everywhere. At least it seems that way. I can’t go into a grocery store without seeing his name or face.
And then there’s GroundFloor, the company he runs. Everyone, and I mean everyone, uses it. There’s simply no escaping GroundFloor.
I check my texts again. There are a few from Brady, reminding me to pick up Fletch - as if I could forget - and one from my boyfriend, Michael. Normally, he’d be coming to the great event with me, but as luck would have it, he’s on the road this week. He could have flown in for Saturday and Sunday, but it wasn’t worth it. By that point, the damage will be done.
I open Michael’s text. We’ve been dating for six months, which is a lifetime when you’re twenty-three. Or so I’ve been told. Fletch and I dated for three years. Three long, wonderful, heart-wrenching years.
There’s nothing much to the text - kind of like our relationship. Michael tells me to have fun this weekend. I swipe left and delete the message. Here’s the problem: Michael’s a nice enough guy, but I know our long-term prospects aren’t great. To start with, he’s five years older than me. I don’t get all his jokes. He doesn’t understand mine. It’s like we talk two different languages at times.
Still, he’s nice enough. Or as Dad likes to say, perfectly non-offensive and completely non-memorable.
Unlike Fletch.
Dad grew to like him, love him even, despite their rocky start.
The Fletch I knew had that effect on people. Everyone loved him, but the Fletch of magazines and gossip rags seems like a total ass.
I press my head against the cool window glass, enjoying the blast of air-conditioning. For late May, it’s unseasonably hot, and my apartment doesn’t have air-conditioning, so I’m going to soak this up the best I can.
The city blurs past. While I was at Harker, our boarding school, I never thought I’d end up in Boston working as a consultant. I had dreams of working in New York in finance. But as I quickly learned, that was an old boys’ club. A guy like Brady could make a killing, but someone like me? I’d need to work ten times as hard just to get them to see me as a person and not a pair of tits.
And once anyone found out I had a connection to Fletch Colson, that’s all they cared about. Could I get them an interview or meeting? Was he going to take the company public? What was it like being friends with someone like him?
I wanted my life to be more than Fletch.
I needed it to be.
So I got into consulting, and now I get to travel. A lot. More than I want, sometimes. When your bed begins to feel more foreign than hotel rooms, you’ve been on the road too long.
Busy, busy, busy…that’s been my life since I graduated from Brown two years ago. Who am I kidding? It’s been my life since Fletch disappeared out of it. It’s been a way not to think.
The cab comes to an abrupt stop. “Sorry,’ the cabbie says. Traffic around Boston sucks. That’s why I thought I gave myself extra time, but then my car broke down and now I’m in a cab and…and I’m going to be late.
Panic consumes me as I check the time on my phone before staring at the taxi meter.
I can’t be late. And I can’t afford to be stuck in traffic either. I can barely cover the cost of this trip.
Traffic begins crawling forward. “How much longer?” I ask the driver.
“Ten. Fifteen minutes.”
I suck on my bottom lip. That should get me there just in time.
We weave in and out of traffic, but don’t seem to be making much progress until we pass a car pulled off to the side of the road. “All that for that?” the driver spits. “I swear, drivers around here.”
Up ahead the airport looms. Somewhere inside, Fletch waits for me. Why he couldn’t take his private jet to the Cape is a mystery. After all, if I had the means, I’d totally take a private jet.
I guess that’s the difference between Fletch and me. I’m struggling to pay off my crushing student loan debt and dream of a day when I don’t have to live paycheck-to-paycheck, and he’s trying to be normal by flying commercial.
Go figure.
The cabbie zooms through the mess of cars around us and pulls up to United baggage claim. I hand him my credit card and hold my breath.
Please, please, please go through.
The machine chirps and whirls before spitting out a piece of paper. I quickly scribble in a tip and hand the paper back to the cabbie. He glances at it, probably to see what I tipped, before jumping out of the cab and retrieving my suitcase. He drops my bag on the curb, and I stoop to pick it up.
The revolving doors keep going around and around. Kind of like me, debating whether this is a good idea or not.
I inhale deeply. All you have to do, Ellie Jacobs, is walk through the doors. That’s it.
Still, I hesitate. Something momentous waits for me on the other side, and I’m not sure I’m ready for it.
Chapter Two
A man hauling a large suitcase barrels into me. "Move or get run over," he says. No excuse me. No I'm sorry. Just move. Out of defiance, I keep standing there, daring him to knock me down.
"Sassy one, ain't ya?" He passes by me and gives me the all-over glance lecherous men do so well. My skin crawls, but I place my hand on my hip and give him my best, 'don't fuck with me look.'
He walks away.
When he's gone, I jump out of the way and continue to stare at the doors.
God, how many times have I walked through airport doors? A hundred? Maybe five? So many, I can't count them anymore.
And yet, I am stuck on this one set of doors.
From the way my heart clenches and squeezes in my chest, it's entirely possible I'm having a heart attack. A cold sweat breaks out along my hairline and dampens my underarms. My legs barely hold me steady.
Here I am, attempting to pick up Fletch, and I'm falling apart.
I can't let him see me fall apart. I can't. I need him to see me as I've always been: pulled together and a rock.
He can never know how badly he's hurt me.
With the back of my hand, I wipe the sweat off my forehead before placing my hand over my racing heart.
Calm down, Ellie. It's just Fletch.
Except it's not. It's years of memories slammed into two years of fantasies – the kind where Fletch realizes he messed up and comes back to me.
How am I going to get through a weekend with him?
Ugh. I'm still standing outside the doors, terrified of what waits for me on the other side.
The tank top under my see-through blouse sticks to me and highlights my breasts. I yank at it, hoping to loosen it a bit so my C-cups aren't on full display. I don't want to send the wrong message to Fletch.
But maybe I should have dressed up more? Or maybe I should have run a brush through my humidity-plagued hair? Maybe I should have come dressed like I don't care?
I don't know.
What I do know is that my nerves are shot, and a slightly sick feeling keeps creeping up from my stomach into my throat.
I shouldn't feel like this. I'm over him. I have been for over a year now. But, well, it's just… Fletch. He's inside, and I haven't seen him in two years. Not since the lost days after his Dad's funeral when he walked out of my apartment and got swallowed up by the business world.
Sure he called from time-to-time, but eventually, it all stopped. He forgot about me, and I became part of his past, after being so much of his present.
With a deep breath, I push through the revolving doors, my suitcase pulling along behind me, and pause when I exit the other side.
The baggage claim is chocked full of people, and I can't press through the crowd. It's like every flight let out at
exactly the same time, and now everyone is standing around, waiting for the luggage to arrive.
I doubt Fletch has ever had to wait for luggage.
I doubt he's ever flown commercial. Well, except for that one time, on Spring Break when he was trying to be normal.
Much of Fletch’s life has been him trying to be normal. It’s never really worked.
Sigh. He could have made this easier if he'd flown on his private jet, but no. He had to fly into Logan and have his secretary beg Brady to beg me to give him a ride to the Cape.
He couldn't even call himself.
I scan the massive room before double-checking the overhead board to make sure I'm in the right spot.
When I lower my head, Fletch stands just a few feet away from me. He has his phone attached to his ear, and he looks older, more mature than when I saw him last. He looks like the guy who’s plastered all over the business and gossip magazines I pretend to ignore.
But escaping Fletch has been hard because apparently the world is fascinated with him. Hell, Barbara Walters even named William Fletcher Colson one of her “World's Most Fascinating People.”
And to think I used to date him.
Lucky me.
With my awesome Jell-o legs, I close the short distance between us. Fletch doesn't notice me until I'm nearly on top of him. Then he blinks, like he's seeing an apparition.
I let go of my bag's handle and hold out my arms for a hug – because that's what my friends and I have always done, but Fletch holds up a finger and continues to talk into the phone.
There's not going to be a hug, so I awkwardly drop my hands to my sides.
The luggage begins circulating, and Fletch is still talking on the phone seemingly oblivious to the fact that we're in an airport waiting for his stuff.
When I tap my foot impatiently, he finally looks at me. His eyes don’t leave mine, and I begin to wonder if there's something wrong with me. I flick a few stray hairs out of my eyes. I know I look like a hot mess with my humidity hair and damp tank top, but his staring is excessive.
Hitched Page 1