by Lily Kate
Duke shrugs as the server arrives to top off our water glasses. “For starters, you don’t even know the man.”
“No, but I am willing to learn.” I fold my hands across my lap and lean back. “That’s why I asked you here. To learn how I can become his friend.”
“I don’t know how I can help. I’ve been friends with the guy for years.”
“Exactly.”
“How do you know my shirt is red?”
I look at his shirt which, as he’s stated, is a vibrant shade of cherry. “It just is.”
“Exactly,” he echoes. “I’m friends with Boxer because we get along. I didn’t have to fake anything; we just clicked.”
“Where’d you meet?”
“Gabe’s.”
“The ice cream place?” I try not to let my jaw fall open. “You’re kidding me.”
“We have the same interests.”
“What other interests does he have?”
“Give it up, Miss Jones. He’s not your type.”
“That’s not your decision to make,” I fire back, no longer trying for polite. “Why are you so intent on keeping me away from him? I can help him. I want to help him. If he signs with me, we’ll have Charli’s college fund set up in three damn months. You know it, too. I’m good at what I do, Duke, and you’re retiring. He has to go somewhere.”
“Listen to me.” Duke’s voice is calm, softer, and he leans forward, eyes landing on mine. “Boxer’s different than most of the players, and I’m not going to let him sign with an agent who doesn’t respect that. He’s not out to earn the most money. He doesn’t want to be famous, or earn millions from endorsements—sure, he wants success and to earn a living, but that’s all.”
“But—”
“Don’t tell me what he wants,” Duke says. “Boxer’s a simple guy. He loves his daughter, hockey, and Gabe’s ice cream, and I’m pretty sure that’s the right order.”
“But—”
“He’s not looking for a boss, he’s looking for a friend. A partner. With a guy like Boxer, he’s not making every decision with his head.”
“What else is he making it with?”
“If there’s an endorsement deal across the world, and it promises to take him away from his daughter for longer than a few nights, he’s going to turn it down. If you aren’t okay with that decision, then let him go.”
I swallow, feeling like Duke’s walked me into a corner.
He knocks back the last of his water as if it’s whiskey. “This is why I took this meeting instead of sitting at home in my undies.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“I respect you, Miss Jones, and if it were any other client, I’d happily sign them over to you. But this one... he’s different.”
“He took me to Gabe’s.”
Duke’s silent as he raises an eyebrow. “Is that right?”
“I’m trying to get to know him.” I lean forward, steepling my hands over the table. “Andy Rumpert is in the game, too. If I give up now, Andy’s going to get Boxer. At least you know I won’t lie.”
“You’re honest, I’ll give you that.”
The host-turned-server-turned-chef walks across the floor, balancing trays of food. My time to beg Duke for help is running low.
“Give me a shot,” I plead, both hands pressing against the table as I lean in. “A little help. If I fail, I promise to lose gracefully.”
“I’m not playing games here,” Duke says, so serious he ignores the plates of steaming meat being placed on the table before us. “There is no secret sauce to making a friend, Miss Jones, but I’ll give you one piece of advice.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“The man loves his daughter, hockey, and Gabe’s.”
“What?” I blink in disbelief. “You already told me that!”
“Well, think about it some more.”
Plates clank on the table, the smell of barbecued meat heavy in the air. It’s thick enough to taste on a breath, and I can feel Duke’s fingers antsy to dig in. Even my stomach is throwing a welcome parade at the sight of the meat.
“Let down your guard, Miss Jones,” Duke says. “Spend some time with him, and the rest will fall into place. Now, let’s eat.”
Chapter 12
Jocelyn
“Little girls like Barbies, don’t they?”
“What is this about?” Lindsay asks over the phone. “Miss Jones, do you want me to buy a present for someone? I didn’t see anyone’s birthday on the calendar, and I sent your client’s wife—what’s her name, Dana?—birthday flowers last month.”
“I can handle this,” I say, eyeing the aisle at Target. “You didn’t miss anything. This is a spur of the moment, no-reason gift. Five-year-old girl.”
“I think Barbies are pretty safe,” Lindsay says. “But you’re going to want to get some fun extension packs—clothes, or a car or whatever. What’s she into?”
I stare at a wall of Barbies. I’ve never been more lost, more terrified, more unsure of myself. “Um, I don’t know?”
“Car. Go with the car.” Lindsay’s voice is soothing, as if she can sense I’m on the verge of panic. “Grab the gifts, bring them back to the office. I’ll wrap it and take care of the rest.”
“Have I told you I love you?”
“Next time, don’t wander into the Barbie aisle alone. Let me be your moral support.”
“Noted.”
Once I’ve paid and escaped the dangerous maze of Target, I load my finds into the car and direct me and the Barbie toward the office. I’m not cut out for these things—sentimental, fun gifts for children. I’m in the business of negotiating contracts, representing clients, babysitting athletes or celebrities. I haven’t stepped foot in a Barbie aisle in... years? Maybe in my lifetime.
While I’m driving, I hit dial on Boxer’s number, returning the long overdue message. He picks up on the third ring, just when I’m about to have heart palpitations that we’ll spend the rest of our lives playing phone tag.
“How are you, Miss Jones?”
“Jocelyn,” I say. “I’m great, how are you?”
“Just dropped Charli off with Marie—the nanny. I’m headed to practice.”
“Sorry I missed your call earlier, I was... out,” I say, not quite ready to explain my meeting with Duke. “Anyway, I wanted to invite you and Charli to lunch tomorrow.”
“Lunch?”
“Yes, just a low key, get to know you deal. I figure if Charli’s a part of your life, and if we might be working together—you and I—it’s best if we all meet. Informal, of course.”
“Well, okay, but... I don’t think tomorrow will work.”
“Oh, right. Too soon. Sorry.” I cringe. “Any day will work.”
“It’s not too soon, we just have other commitments. Let’s say Monday at noon. There’s a nice little diner near your office. I’ll pick you up at noon?”
I’m still wondering how this has turned from me buying him lunch into him collecting me from my office as if this is a date. “Sure,” I agree. “That sounds lovely.”
I can sense him preparing to hang up. But at the last second, he pauses. “Jocelyn?”
“Yep?”
“Thank you, that’s thoughtful of you. Charli will be excited. She’s been talking about you ever since you called last night. She’ll love to meet you.”
I laugh, surprised. “Well, I can’t wait.”
When we hang up, I’m smiling. Next Monday at noon, I have a date. Sort of.
I guess technically I am the third wheel of a father-daughter date, but I’ll take what I can get.
Chapter 13
Jocelyn
“One date per month,” Lindsay tells me. “Come on, we made a deal. I found a nice guy for you, Miss Jones.”
“I have a date. I’m headed there right now.” I sit on the edge of Lindsay’s desk, reapplying my lipstick in a hand mirror. “So, I don’t need to meet anyone else this month.”
“But you cancelled the one on F
riday. For no reason. I know you sat at home on your butt.”
“I had plans.”
“Your microwave doesn’t count as plans. Plus, you’ll get another free dinner!”
“You have to understand something, Lindsay.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’ve worked for all these years—really freaking hard—so I can afford to buy my own dinners. If I want to spend my evenings eating chocolate cake in a pair of men’s boxers on my own damn couch, I’m going to do that.”
“You don’t buy yourself quality food; that’s the problem.”
“Lean Cuisine is good for the soul.” I hop to my feet, wondering why on earth I’ve spent extra time applying makeup before heading to meet a five-year-old and her father. “I’ve agreed to one date per month, and I have a date today.”
“Hold on.” Lindsay peers at me through critical eyes. “You have business lunches all the time, and yet you’ve never called one a date before. What gives?”
“It’s a double date—sort of, since Charli is coming. Boxer’s daughter. Hence the Barbie.”
“Well, I hope you have fun today.”
“Me too,” I say. “If I’m not back in an hour, cancel my two p.m.”
“You got it,” she says. “But I am not letting you off the hook for blowing off my friend last Friday.”
“We’ll reschedule next month,” I say. “When my quota is up.”
“You’re getting old,” she calls as I leave the office. “Shall I order you a cat?”
“Goodbye, Lindsay.”
As I pad down the staircase, even the thought of becoming a cat woman doesn’t dampen my excitement. Today’s Monday, and I have the chance to woo Boxer. I am going to woo if it kills me.
I have my Barbie in hand, my makeup on point, and my most casual business dress—which, of course, is still black and knee length and looks exactly like every other dress I own. As I’ve mentioned, uniforms are just easier.
Now, to impress a five-year-old. Surely it can’t be that hard, right?
Chapter 14
Boxer
“Is that her?”
My head jerks up to look out the window of our car. We pulled up outside Jocelyn’s building not two seconds ago; I haven’t even finished the message that says: We’re here.
“That’s her,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “Remember what we talked about?”
I zone out as Charli ticks off the list of things we’d discussed on the car ride over. Being polite, steering away from too-private questions, and anything I could think of that might make Jocelyn uncomfortable.
I only hear two of the items on the list because I’m too busy watching the blonde-haired beauty striding toward me. She’s a picture of fair skin, fair hair, and fair blue eyes, outlined by a backdrop of sleek onyx buildings. Her legs, long and slender, carry her gracefully over the sidewalk in a pair of heels that boost her height.
Even though she’s taller than average for a woman, when I step out of the car, I dwarf her with my size. She’s slight in figure, but not fragile, and I can see the fire burning behind her eyes as she looks up, sees me standing there, and smiles. With her smile, the fire turns to liquid, simmering blue gems twinkling as she reaches the vehicle.
“You look great,” I say, feeling as awkward as the words sound. “I like your dress.”
I’ve only ever dealt with Duke when it came to business, and if I ever complimented the man’s looks he would’ve dumped my sorry ass on the spot. This whole ‘opposite-sex’ thing is throwing a kink in my normal M.O. I’m trying to be polite, but I sound like a nutcase. Somewhere in between flirting and infatuation and loser-ness.
She blinks in surprise, glancing down at the black, knee-length thing. Her fingers fly over the buttons as she brushes a hand down her front, and I bite my lip in response, unable to stop the rush of images as I picture what it’d be like to snap those buttons right off.
“Hi,” she says, glancing shyly behind me. “Would this be Charli?”
“Charli.” I turn halfway, startled to find a shining face next to my elbow. “Jesus, Charli, you scared me.”
Charli giggles. “Hi.”
Jocelyn extends a hand to Charli with a grin. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“We got a half day at school today,” Charli explains, extending her chubby fingers to meet Jocelyn’s daintier ones.
“A half day, that’s lucky,” Jocelyn says as the two share a long handshake. So long that it’s not until twenty seconds in that I realize Charli’s squeezing too tight and not letting Jocelyn go.
“It’s not lucky,” Charli argues. “It’s conferences.”
“That’s enough, Charli.” I wind her fingers back and apologize to Jocelyn. “Hungry?”
“Absolutely.”
I open the passenger side door for her and, in a sudden lapse of judgement, rest a hand on her back as she steps into the car. I feel her body tense, freeze for a moment, until I pull my hand away.
She settles in, her face a bit red, and I’m on the verge of strangling myself. Except that outcome would be inconvenient and unproductive for both of us, so instead I keep myself alive and climb into the driver’s seat, silent.
“I brought you something,” Jocelyn says, spinning her head to face Charli as we begin to drive. “It’s not much, but I hope you’ll like it.”
She hands a box into the back seat to Charli’s gleefully clapping hands. I raise my eyes in the rearview mirror and stare down my daughter until she remembers her manners and says thank you.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I mumble, flicking my eyes across the seat to where Jocelyn’s staring forward, a lingering smile on her face. “It’s sweet of you, but not necessary. She’s spoiled enough, aren’t you, Charli?”
“Nope,” Charli squeals joyfully.
Jocelyn laughs. “It’s really nothing. I’m not very good at choosing gifts though, so I hope it’s okay. Otherwise, I can return it, or—”
“Don’t be silly,” I tell her. “You’re going to love it, aren’t you, Charli? Miss Jones didn’t have to bring you anything.”
“Maybe I’ll love it,” Charli hedges. “We’ll see.”
I sigh, but Jocelyn winks in my direction. “At least she’s honest. I can respect that in a woman.”
“Watch what you wish for,” I say. “That girl can be so honest it hurts.”
“Have you had au jus?” Charli calls from the backseat. “We’re going to the deli where Monica makes it.”
“I haven’t,” Jocelyn says. “At least, not in a long time.”
“You’ll like it. It’s my favorite,” Charli says. “Monica is the best. She taught me how to say au jus.”
“Monica runs the deli,” Boxer says.
“You guys must visit this place a lot.”
“Oh yeah,” Charli agrees. “Once a week. We like Monica.”
“We like the deli,” I say. “It’s quick and easy.”
“And what should I order?” Jocelyn asks. “Charli, you’re going to have to help me out.”
Ten minutes and a million Charli-words later, we’ve parked and made our way into Lucker’s deli. Monica’s there, behind the counter as usual, her dark hair piled high on her head.
“Well, hello, Boxers,” she calls. Then stops herself at the sight of Jocelyn. “Boxer family plus one! I’ll get you a new table today.”
“But I like our old table,” Charli whines. Then she points it out to Jocelyn. “We always sit here.”
“There’s only two seats,” I tell her. “We are lucky enough to need one with three today.”
Charli gives a grumpy fold of her arms, but when Monica points out a bigger, cooler table, her frown fades. Charli climbs up, patting the chair next to her and glancing toward me.
“Can I get your order put in right away? Will it be crème soda and au jus all around?” Monica asks after we’ve settled into our seats.
“Yes,” Charli says, wiggling upright in her chair.
; “Hold on, Jocelyn can have whatever she wants.” I rest a hand on Charli’s and squeeze lightly. “Why don’t you ask her what she likes?”
Charli looks over to Jocelyn, her eyes wide. “You don’t want the crème soda and au jus?”
Jocelyn grins. “I’ll take whatever you recommend.”
“Jocelyn will have the same,” Charli says. Then she folds the menu and hands it back. “Thank you, Monica,” she adds at my prompting.
“Do you want to open your present now?” Jocelyn asks. “If it’s okay with your dad.”
Charli hasn’t let the beautifully wrapped box out of her sight, setting it down only to handle the menu. I give her the go ahead nod, and she begins tearing into the wrapping paper. The thing looks like it’s wrapped in pure gold, and I cringe at how much that tissue must’ve cost.
My attention, however, is soon distracted by the woman sitting at the table with us. For someone who has claimed to have no experience with kids, Jocelyn’s somewhat of a natural. Granted, Charli is pretty easy to get along with, and she likes most people. But Jocelyn doesn’t have to try so hard—it’s me she wants, not my daughter, and I appreciate the effort and her thoroughness in taking an interest in my life.
However, as the golden paper comes off, there’s a sinking sensation in my stomach. That looks like a Barbie box. I really, really hope, for everyone’s sake, that it’s not.
I really should’ve warned Jocelyn somehow—if only I’d known she was thinking of bringing a present. Charli’s never liked Barbies—thinks they’re too girly for her, which is something I’ve never understood. Her bedroom is yellow and pink. But who am I to argue if she’d rather toss a baseball with me than play with a few stick figures with big boobs?
The wrapping paper hits the floor as Charli unsheathes the goods inside.
Her face falls, a little frown creasing her forehead.
Shit.
Hello, Barbie.
“What do you say?” I jump in before she can react. “Can you tell Jocelyn thank you?”
“Oh,” Charli says, her voice a thin icicle. “Thank you, Jocelyn.”
Unfortunately, it’s not enough. Jocelyn’s fingers clasp together, and she shoots me an apologetic look across the table.