Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  “No,” I whisper.

  “What’s that, honey?” Mom asks.

  Carter and Astor both look in the direction I’m gaping, and Carter gasps.

  “Well. Shit,” Astor says.

  Standing at the entrance, appearing both dark and luminous and all things forbidden, is Ash.

  26

  Ash

  I blame the whiskey.

  And Locke, Easton, and Ben.

  Maybe a little of it is on Lily, too.

  A trifecta of influencers, some cuter than others.

  After dropping the girls off at the airport, Locke texts me, saying they’re all meeting at my restaurant for lunch. Now that Locke and Ben’s women were gone, my guess is, they’re looking for solace in booze and friends.

  I drive there instead of home. Not for the guys, but because it’s a workday and I have shit to do. My game plan is to enter in the back and remain in my office, doing menial things, but enough to get my mind off Sophie and the baby shower and the … baby.

  Papaya.

  I won’t admit that I’ve followed every nickname from the moment Sophie bestowed Lime on the tiny thing. The baby’s growth, measured through produce, is too ironic to dismiss as a chef.

  As I enter, I’m sidelined by Pedro, holding a brown manila envelope.

  “This just came via messenger,” he says, breathless. “He said to deliver it to you right away.”

  Frowning, I take the envelope, wondering if Apron’s being served. Or worse, if it’s a health department inspection gone wrong.

  Not on my watch.

  “What did the guy say?” I ask Pedro.

  I must have said it more ominously than I thought, because Pedro pales. “Exactly what I told you, boss.”

  “He didn’t say anything else? Just that it get to me immediately?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Alright, then.” Without another word, I head up to my office, ripping open the envelope as I ascend the stairs.

  Son, the letter begins.

  Ah, shit-fuck.

  * * *

  We hoped we would’ve heard from you by now regarding Miss Addison’s, a.k.a Miss Royle’s, current state of health. It is with your future in mind that we’re inclined to force this. Your behavior has always been looked upon poorly, as your mother and I have always discouraged your philandering (although, if you were to do it more circumspect, we wouldn’t be in this position), due to the sole reason that the women you consort with do not deserve the Whittaker name. Enclosed is Miss Addison’s history, and I’m confident this will serve as proof that you must get her to sign away any rights she believes this child has to our fortune. For your own protection, son, do as I say. Rid this woman and her illegitimate spawn from your life.

  Do not make me take care of this myself.

  ~ Your Father.

  * * *

  My lips spasm with the disgust at the word father, and I let the cover letter fall to the floor. It’s more out of habit than curiosity to flip through the rest of the pages, skimming over the information on Sophie’s brother and what he did.

  Already know, Pops. Nice try.

  I let those papers fall to the floor, too.

  Except … there’s quite a lot more paper in my hands.

  The fuck, Dad? What else did he find on Soph?

  At first, I skim, just as I did his letter. Then … I slow down.

  What.

  “What?”

  My roar is exponential.

  So here I am. In Gainesville. In a beach restaurant that’s nowhere close to a fucking beach.

  But near as hell to Sophie.

  I don’t have to look for her to find her. I’m tethered to this girl, whether I’ve admitted it or not, and in less time than it takes me to step inside the restaurant, I see her.

  Her brown eyes lock with mine, and I can’t read from her expression whether she wants me to come closer or not.

  Astor and Carter turn at the same time, their expressions giving me more an indication of whether or not this is a complete fuck-up on my part. It is.

  Another, older woman, with her hand protectively on Sophie’s arm, also notices me, since everyone else at her table has stopped talking entirely and turned to the entrance, and I’m the only tall guy with a giant amount of tattoos that could possibly stand out from all the Hawaiian shirts and neon visors.

  I swallow. The papers are folded tightly in the inside of my jacket, and they’re stiff against my chest as I stride to the table.

  “Ash?” Astor asks as I approach. As in, Ash, what the fuck are you thinking?

  Carter’s gnawing on her lower lip, probably hoping this is all a hallucination.

  “Hey Soph,” I say, my attention solely on the person who matters in this moment.

  “Um,” Sophie looks from the older woman, to me. “What are you doing here?”

  “Can I talk to you?”

  I don’t mince words. There’s no point to small talk in a situation where I’ve crashed a baby shower for a baby that’s mine. That I’ve relinquished all claim to.

  The older woman speaks. “Is this the boy?”

  Boy. Immediately drawing a line in the sand on what she thinks of me. I don’t blame her.

  Sophie unclenches her jaw. “Yes. This is him. Ash, this is my mother. Luanne.”

  I nod respectfully. This is no occasion for nice to meet you. “Mrs. Addison.”

  A shark has a more benign stare than she does. She makes an mmhm sound in her throat.

  “I apologize for interrupting,” I say. “But, Sophie? Can we talk somewhere?”

  Her mother murmurs in her ear. “You don’t have to.”

  “We don’t have to go far,” I say. “We’ll stay in this restaurant. But … I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, so if you’d rather not…”

  Carter jumps in. “We haven’t opened presents yet. Ash, how about you come back in—”

  “Okay,” Sophie says.

  I lift my brows, kind of expecting to be kicked out of here a lot sooner. “Yeah?”

  Sophie nods, and as she rises, I suck in a breath.

  Her stomach had been hidden by the table, by my immediate need to meet her eyes. But when she stands and her belly is on fully display, I can’t tear my focus away. There’s a child in there. Mine.

  “We can go to the empty table right here,” she says, and I’m forced to glance where she’s pointing.

  It’s a four-seater table a few feet away from the one she’s at, but I don’t argue. If she wants her friends around her, safety in numbers, then she can have it. I’m the outsider, here.

  And after I finish what I need to say, she may need them.

  I pull out a chair for her, and she sits with a careful grunt. I know it’s lame to ask, but I feel the need to. “How are you feeling?”

  “Oh, you know.” She waves her hand. “Like a Mack truck over the weight limit for crossing bridges.”

  I slide into the seat across from her and rest my elbows on the table. “That bad, huh?”

  “Worse.” Sophie rubs her stomach, an absent maneuver I don’t think she knows she’s doing. “It’s time to serve the eviction notice.”

  “How much longer do you have?”

  “Anywhere from two to four weeks.”

  “And these last few weeks,” I say, “you’ve been good?”

  “Everything is measuring fine. The baby’s in the seventy-sixth percentile.”

  I nod as if I understand what she’s saying. Though, anything over fifty percent sounds like good news.

  “Ash, why did you come here?”

  I lean back, wishing for a beer, but the servers don’t seem to notice us. “I came here to be honest with you.”

  Her brows furrow.

  I’ve never been a man for filler conversation, so I reach into my inside breast pocket and pull out a folded stack of papers.

  When I flatten them on the table, Sophie asks, “What is this?”

  “These were sent by my father.
” I flip the pages so she can read them, but I summarize. “He’s given me an ultimatum.”

  Her eyes flit back and forth as she reads over the cover letter. “Considering the last time I met him, this isn’t anything surprising.”

  “No, but he had you investigated. Provided all the information he could on Michael’s crime and arrest.”

  Sophie doesn’t give any reaction as she flips through the first half of the stack. I wonder if her expression is practiced, and how many people in her life have found out her connection with the infamous Michael Royle.

  She says, with a clipped tone, “It’s all accurate,” then pushes the papers across the table, back to me.

  “You and I talked about it before he decided to blow his asshole whistle. I’m well aware of your brother, and how you’re nothing like him, so I wasn’t sure why my father felt the need to send this to me.” I scoff. “Like he truly believes all blood is the same.”

  “You do.”

  I glance up from the papers.

  “You do,” Sophie repeats. “You believe you’re just like your father.”

  I grind my teeth. “That’s different.”

  “Is it?”

  “Forgive my bluntness, but your brother decided to unload two AK-47s and shoot up his classmates. My father has belittled and abused me since I can remember, and I made a vow to myself, long ago, never to submit another child to this family.”

  Sophie’s fingers twitch as she circles her stomach. “We don’t need to go over this again. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  But I can tell I’ve hurt her. “Soph, I’m here to tell you something.”

  She glances at me, without wariness, with no suspicion. It’s a blank, emotionless stare that I can’t believe I’ve caused. “This is meant to be my shower, so why don’t you get to the point?”

  I nod. Clear my throat. And flick through pages until I find what I need. “Right here. You see this?”

  Unable to resist, Sophie leans over the table. “It’s … it’s the lease to your restaurant.”

  “Apron. Yes. And do you see who bought it?”

  As soon as her eyes land on the words, she sucks in a breath. “Whittaker Enterprises.”

  I flatten my palm on the page. “My father bought the building.”

  When Sophie falls back against her chair, her expression is full of sympathy. “Oh, Ash.”

  It grits against my throat. Sharpened knives against soft tissue, but I say, “He’s threatened to evict me if I don’t get you to sign a contract relinquishing all rights to the Whittaker fortune.”

  Sitting across from her, I have a front row seat to the leeching of color, the widened brown eyes, the sheer disbelief that I’m across from her, asking her to officially sever our ties.

  She parts her lips. Says carefully, “Ash, I’ve told you before. And I’ll say again, I don’t want anything from you. Certainly not from your father. I have all this.” Her gaze sweeps over the table nearby, including her mother, Carter, and Astor in her stare. “This baby and I will be just fine. So, if you need me to sign a fucking contract to prove it, so be it.” She throws her hand out. “Give me a goddamned pen.”

  She spits the words. Sophie maintains eye contact the whole way through. It shouldn’t surprise me how easy it is to have her sign the contract. How quickly she agrees to walking away from me.

  I’ve made it so tempting, after all.

  I open my mouth. “Soph—”

  “And then get the hell out of here.”

  Her raised voice has gotten caught the attention of Astor, Carter, and her mom. Their heads turn, and Astor stands. She comes over and puts a hand on Sophie’s shoulder and says calmly, “Ash, you can kindly fuck off now.”

  “Not until I finish.” I don’t look at Astor when I say this. Only Sophie.

  “You’ve said plenty,” Sophie’s mom says. She moves until she’s on the other side of Sophie, with her hand on her opposite shoulder. “And you’ve made your intentions clear. It takes a certain kind of man to do what you did, to come here and dig the knife in further. And that man doesn’t deserve an ounce of my daughter’s time.”

  Carter draws near and holds out her hand to Sophie. “Let’s go.”

  Sophie doesn’t move. Her lower lip quakes. It gets me—flashes right through my bones. She lifts her hand to Carter’s.

  I slide the papers to my chest. I don’t break eye contact with her when I say, “My dad can shove this up his ass.”

  Her hand falters in mid-air.

  I want to reach for her, but I restrain myself. “I didn’t come here to get you to sign this piss-poor attempt to disinherit what is likely the only living grandchild my parents will ever have. And they don’t even give a shit. This isn’t a grandchild to them, this is an inconvenience.”

  My tone has texture, the way I force out the words. When Sophie doesn’t cut in—when the group guarding her flank doesn’t cut in—I keep taking my chance.

  “It’s made me realize how I’ve come across,” I say. “The way I was brought up, the family that raised me, I thought I was doing the right thing, letting you go. I wanted to protect you from this coldness that’s seeped into my brain, despite doing everything I could to separate myself from the Whittaker legacy. I got tattoos. I went in a completely different direction in my career. But I didn’t once stop to think how it could make you feel like I see this child as nothing but a signature.”

  “This baby is the future, Ash,” Sophie says. “Not the past. I wish so badly you could see that.”

  I breathe in. “I’m here to tell you, I’m not my father. I am not that man. Sophie, I want this child.”

  Sophie’s mouth goes slack. She doesn’t blink. “Wh-what did you just say?”

  I’m surprised to feel heat behind my eyes. “I said I want this baby.”

  Shuffling and movement happen around her—Carter gasping, Astor’s mouth drawing into a thin line, Sophie’s mom squeezing Soph’s shoulder … but they’re my periphery. Sophie is my direction.

  “You…” Sophie shakes her head, but her stare remains on mine.

  “Dad thinks he’s won, by taking away the only thing that matters—my restaurant,” I continue. “He truly believes that by removing something I’ve worked years for, put sweat and blood into, I’ll come crawling back. I’ll kneel to his wishes. But he’s wrong. You matter. The baby inside you matters.”

  “I … I don’t understand,” Sophie says. Her colorless hue tells me she does, but she’s afraid as hell to ever hope I’d want to be by her side.

  I throw my elbows onto the table. I want to be as close to her as she’ll allow. “My career? I fought like hell to get it. And I’ll start from scratch to keep it. That’s what Dad doesn’t get—my skills aren’t gonna disappear just because he can buy property and evict me. I love what I do so much, I’ll start over. With more talent. With a better reputation. As long as I keep grinding, I can salvage what I’ve worked for.”

  Sophie nods, but her gaze slides away. I’m losing her. She thinks I’m saying this as a cocky chef, a privileged asshole, and not an impending father.

  “But you?” I wait for her to meet my eyes again. “The baby? That’s irreplaceable. If I somehow get you to sign these papers, that’s it. You and I are done. The kid will grow up without me. And, the more I thought about it, the more I dreamed of you and the baby—God, I’m the loser. I’ll never get back what I’ve lost. All because I’m too cowardly to think I could raise a kid with love.”

  Sophie grabs my hand across the table. Squeezes. “Ash, you’re capable of more than love. You have the ability to raise a son or daughter to be kind, and loyal, and determined. To have the skills to become independent, to pursue their dreams. To not let anyone get in their way. To lead.”

  My brows come down, pushing together so hard, they ache. Yet, I’m fascinated by our fingers intertwining. “I don’t deserve to hear any of that from you.”

  “I’m not finished yet,” she says. “I also want
to say, I wish I could believe you.”

  I raise my gaze from our hands.

  “Don’t get me wrong, it’s so good to hear this from you. So good. My heart feels whole because of it. But … it’s been almost nine months of listening to the opposite. Of learning how to do this on my own—how to raise this child to be kind and loyal and determined with my own skills. After months of preparing to have you out of my life, you can’t just come here and say you’re willing to throw your restaurant away for me. That’s not how this works.”

  Oh, God. Oh, fuck. “Sophie—”

  “We have a baby to think about,” she says, over any words I may have. “And that child needs stability. Ash, I’m sorry, but”—Sophie looks down—“I can’t trust this. I can’t trust you.”

  “Sophie, no.”

  But she stands. The hands of her friends steady her, yet none of them look upon me with disdain. Instead, I notice pity, sympathy.

  I don’t want any of it.

  “Please, Soph, if we could just talk. If I could prove to you I’m here to stay, I’m not going anywhere…” Even I am aware of how lame this sounds.

  “I’m sorry, Ash,” she says again. “I’m so sorry, but no.”

  I want to grab her arm. I’m desperate to spin her around as she’s walking away and pull her to my chest. To feel her roundness, to have the baby’s kick imprint on my body, too.

  My hand falls to my side. Sophie and her group navigate through the wooden beams, the dangling fish, the neon flags. The brightness of the environment manages to highlight her form before she disappears, a multicolored vision fading to gray as I run my fingers through my hair, standing alone amidst crowds of families and laughter.

  I’ve lost her.

  I’ve lost my only chance at true happiness.

  Maybe, I really am my father.

  27

  Sophie

  Nobody says anything on the way home. We’re sharing an Uber, and despite the palm trees swaying in the wind, the bright blue of the sky beaming down on us, and the air conditioning offering sweet solace from Florida’s autumn heat, we’re all feeling the winter.