Chapter 7
Jax glared daggers at me for the rest of the day, which Cameron found hilarious. And by the time I finished the legs of the chairs I was working on, they’d wrapped up at the worksite, and we had a brief meeting with Ivy and Cameron about the website. Greer was patched in on speakerphone since she lived a couple of hours away with her husband and stepdaughter.
Ivy talked about booking a photographer to take some shots of the shop and stuff I was working on. My mind wandered easily to Harlow walking into the shop, the unrelenting way she called me out on my distance. I fought a smile because I should’ve known it would only be a matter of time before she realized that me working fourteen-hour days every day was a little suspect. We weren’t that busy.
Cameron cleared his throat. Loudly. Ivy stared at me with her eyebrows raised.
“Is that okay, Ian?” Ivy asked.
I blinked. What the fuck had she been talking about? “Yeah. Great. The photographer.”
Cameron smothered a grin, and Ivy looked surprised.
“What?” I asked.
Ivy crossed her arms. “Just surprised you agreed so easily, but I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so let’s move on.”
Through the phone, Greer snickered.
“Wait, what did I agree to?” I glanced back and forth between them. “You said he’s taking pictures of the shop, right?”
“She sure did,” Greer piped up. “Excellent meeting, everyone. Ivy, you are a force, and I’m glad you’re here to keep us straight.”
Cameron wouldn’t make eye contact with me, which was suspicious enough. Ivy’s grin held the terrifying edge of a self-satisfied smirk, and I opened my mouth to question her again, but her phone rang, and she picked it up immediately.
“Ivy Lynch,” she said, pausing to listen to what the other person was saying. Her brows bent down. “No, that’s not what we agreed to. You said you’d come down three percent on your commission because you’re the buying and selling agent, and I’m not budging on that.”
With a huff, she marched out to the office, and my brother watched with a gooey look in his eyes.
“Sap,” I told him.
“She’s amazing,” he said. “I love watching her scare the shit out of people.”
“Let me guess, she likes to tie you up in bed and walk on your back with stilettos.”
He smacked me on the shoulder. “Brother, if I wouldn’t make you feel woefully inadequate, I’d tell you just how wrong you are. But I’ll take pity on you since you probably haven’t gotten laid in a decade because you’re such a troll.”
I snorted.
“So,” he drawled. “Harlow grew up. She was cute in high school, but she’s … she’s beautiful now.”
I grunted and kept my eyes down, packing up my shit to go home.
“That must’ve been a shock,” he said.
“That she aged?” I asked dryly. “Not really.”
“Dick. You know what I mean.”
“I don’t, actually. Change tends to happen when you haven’t seen someone in seventeen years.”
His eyes were heavy on the side of my face, and I ignored the absolute hell out of it.
“So you’re done hiding from your own house now?”
“Guess so.” I hitched my bag over my shoulder. “Anything else you need or do I have permission to leave?”
“Like you have ever asked my permission for a single thing in your life.”
I tilted my head. “Good point. I haven’t.” As I passed, I shoved him in the chest. “Good luck with your scary girlfriend.”
He laughed the kind of laugh that only a man completely secure in his relationship could manage. “Good luck with your best friend who had to come yell at you today because you’ve been a chickenshit all week.”
In response, I conjured a withering glare because I was not comfortable enough in my relationship with Harlow yet to laugh the way he had. My drive home was about two and a half minutes, so there wasn’t enough time to feel nervous about the slight whiplash I’d given all of us.
But it wasn’t until I pulled my truck up to the house and saw Sage next to the dilapidated fence that looked over the field by the barn that I felt the first real stirrings of guilt.
She was just a kid. Not that young age had anything to do with it. It didn’t insulate you from shitty things happening in your life. When I was ten, I’d already watched my mom get sick with cancer and die, held Parker’s hands while we buried her, and soon after started a new phase of life with my dad marrying Sheila.
Maybe Sage hadn’t experienced that sort of trauma, but hers was significant all the same. Not having a father in the picture couldn’t be easy, especially not when she’d had to see her mom struggle in her job, or when they moved across the country to a new school.
Sage’s arm rested on the fence as she stared out at the tall grasses, and her chin rested on her arm. I took a deep breath, only briefly glancing at the house before I got out of the truck and walked in her direction.
“Looks like you’re having a serious think out here,” I said.
She nodded, then turned, producing a beat-up foam football from the hand that I hadn’t been able to see. “Can you catch?”
I slid my bag off my shoulder and let it fall in the grass. “Guess we’re about to find out.”
Her eyebrows rose in challenge. “You can back up farther than that. I have a pretty good arm.”
With my hands raised, I walked back about ten yards. Sage laid her fingers over the laces on the top of the football, danced back a step, then pointed at a spot to my right. I jogged to the spot just as she released the ball, a perfect spiral that I easily snagged out of the air.
I whistled. “Nice ball. Who taught you to throw?”
“One of my friends back in New York. I played on a flag team with my school.”
I pulled my arm back and released the ball back in her direction. My spiral wasn’t as tight, but she adjusted and caught it with a grin.
“Do they have one of those teams at your school here?”
She nodded. “No girls, though. Besides, we transferred here after the fall season started.”
“Think they’ll let you join next season?”
“I don’t know,” she said glumly. “I checked the rules before asking my mom to sign me up. It doesn’t say no girls, but you know how it goes.”
She tossed the ball again, and I grabbed it easily. From the side window, I caught movement. Harlow watched us with a tiny smile, arms crossed over her middle.
“You haven’t been around much,” Sage said as she caught the ball over her head because my throw was a bit too high. Her eyes didn’t meet mine as she threw again, but the toss had more oomph to it, and I grunted when I caught it against my stomach. That made her smile, and I caught a glimpse of the same dimple as her mother’s.
“Working a lot,” I told her. It was partially true, at least. “My dad passed away about six weeks ago, and my mom wanted some shelves built. She’s been changing up some rooms at the house. I think it helps her feel better about being there without him.”
I wasn’t sure why I was telling her that, other than some driving need to make sure she knew that my absence at the house truly had nothing to do with her.
She nodded. “Mom told me about your dad, that he was really nice to her.” Her eyes met mine, big and earnest, and I felt them like a bat to my chest. “I wish I could’ve met him. It sucks that he’s gone.”
I stopped, the football wedged against my hip while I studied her serious face.
During the memorial service, and even in the couple of weeks after, people rushed to say the right thing, the perfect thing, and the unfortunate truth was that it was rarely the right or perfect thing. Half the time, Sheila felt the need to comfort them or rehash things that were hard for her.
And this girl, a quarter of the age of most of those mourners, managed to say the perfect thing.
Because, man, it sucked that he was gone. Every time someone wanted to talk to me about him, the words stuck like sand in my throat, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t wash it away. Couldn’t really get the words out either. Or never the right ones, at least.
But I did manage this. “He would’ve loved you, Sage.”
Even though my voice was rough and uneven, and the words came out like someone dragged them through spikes, she gave me a shy smile that broke my fucking heart. Oh God, how I wished he could meet her.
I stared down at the grass and focused on my breathing, pulling in a sharp inhale through my nose until I felt steady enough to look back up again.
“He’s the one who taught me and my brothers to throw a football,” I told her.
Based on the dubious expression, she wasn’t all that impressed, and a low chuckle escaped my mouth.
“My brother is a little bit better at it than I am,” I said smoothly.
“The one who lives here?” she asked, notching her fingers on the laces again after catching the ball easily.
She was just about to release the ball when I answered. “The one who plays for the Portland Voyagers.”
The ball wobbled wildly in the air. She didn’t even notice, and I was still able to catch it by shifting forward a few steps. “What?” she yelled.
I tossed it back and shrugged. “He’s not the quarterback, but he can still throw a good ball.”
Her cheeks were flushed pink, her eyes bright with interest. “Wh-who is it?”
“Parker Wilder.”
“Shut up,” she said on a shocked exhale. “He’s the second-highest producing tight end in the league right now.”
I tilted my head. “Is he? Nice.”
She looked absolutely horrified. “You didn’t know?”
I shrugged. “I know he plays well. I watch his games when I can, which is more now that I’m back from London.”
Slowly, the shocking pink of her cheeks ebbed to something a bit more normal. “Holy shit,” she said. Her eyes snapped up to mine. “Please don’t tell my mom I said that.”
Thankfully, I kept my laugh locked down. “I won’t.”
“Parker Wilder is your brother,” she said again.
“With how much you watch SportsCenter, I figured you would have pieced that together by now.”
“I don’t know every player’s backstory,” she sputtered. “That’s impossible.” Sage caught the ball again, clutching it to her chest. “He’s really your brother? And he like, comes here?”
“On occasion.” I spun the ball in my palm.
She held up her hands. “Wait.”
The ball stopped spinning. “Okay?”
Her eyes never left my face. “That means Erik Wilder is your older brother. From the Washington Wolves.”
“Oh yeah. Him too.” I shrugged. “Figured you wouldn’t know him because he retired when you were little. I never brag about him because we didn’t get along growing up, and it’ll go to his head if I do.”
The look she gave me was pure incredulity.
“And my sister Greer is married to Beckett Coleman.”
Her mouth hung open. “I … no, she’s not. The other tight end for Portland?” Then she rubbed at her chest. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”
“I doubt that.” I jerked my chin up. “Come on, snap out of it. Maybe if you’re nice to me, I’ll introduce you the next time they’re home.”
“That’s emotional manipulation.”
“Sure is.”
Sage rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling.
We threw the ball a few more times, and she laughed when I fell to the ground trying to catch a pass that got away from her. “Sorry,” she said on a breathless giggle. “Don’t break a hip.”
I stood with a grunt. “I’m not that old,” I mumbled.
“I know. My mom says I’m a bit too fluent in sarcasm, but…” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “I think we know who to blame for that.”
I smiled. “Yeah, that sounds about right. Your mom always had a sharp tongue.”
“That’s why she’s such a good writer,” Sage stated.
“You ever read her books?”
Sage gave me a look like I’d sprouted a second head. “I’m ten. She writes about serial killers. What kind of mom do you think she is?”
“A really good one,” I said gravely. “I’d like to read one of her books, but she won’t tell me her pen name.”
The leading statement was not lost on the very smart little girl watching me with the football in her hands. “If I tell you and get in trouble, you better make it worth my while.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Like what?”
Sage shrugged. “I was gonna ask for pizza, but if you’ve got two brothers who played pro ball and a brother-in-law, I think I can hold out for a bigger prize.”
My eyes narrowed. “They’re the ones who play, not me. I’m not making millions, kid.”
“Fine. Two weekends of pizza, and you go to bat for me if I get grounded.”
“Deal.”
She smiled, and the quick fierceness of that smile had my chest tight with memories because she reminded me so much of her mom when she was that age. Sage glanced at the window and waved at Harlow.
I chuckled, shaking my head at the innocence in her face. “You’re good, kid.”
Under her breath, she whispered, “Hollis King.”
“Hollis King,” I repeated slowly. The matching initials had me smiling. “Clever.”
“You never heard it from me,” she said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The front door opened, and we grinned at each other. Harlow leaned her hands on the porch railing. “You two going to come in for dinner or stand out here and throw the football all night?”
I glanced at Sage, then at Harlow. “Depends on what’s for dinner.”
Sage laughed.
Harlow held my gaze, challenge sparking bright in her eyes. “Something you didn’t have to make,” she said slowly.
“That sounds absolutely delicious, doesn’t it, Sage?” I asked.
She gave me an unconvinced look. “I guess.”
I held my hands out, and she tossed the ball again. When I took off running toward the house with it, she yelled out, chasing me easily. Harlow’s eyes were happy when we ascended the porch.
“Nice to see you show up at your own house.”
“Is it?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
Still holding her gaze, I tossed the football at her, and she caught it with an oomph. She kicked at my feet as I walked inside the house, and I shouldered her gently. Behind us, Sage laughed. “You may change your mind about that, Keaton. Give it time.”