9. In Mint Condition
9
In Mint Condition
LEIGHTON
The Fam Damily:
Kaia
*Today’s the day gif*
Alice
Go Bombers!
Leighton
Go Pax! We’ll be cheering for you!
Maverick
So bummed I had to leave. Kick some ass, Pax Man.
Rhyett
Look who’s talking. Congrats on the win yesterday, Mav. Your final catch of the game was fucking phenomenal.
Brexley
Agreed. My friend Josie says you’ve got crazy potential.
Jameson
Talent scout?
Brexley
Literary agent.
Jameson
*thinking face emoji*
Brexley
Squint all you want, but she won a pretty penny betting Pax would be a first-round draft pick when he was a FRESHMAN. She’s got the eye.
Axel
All this excellence is making me nauseous.
Leighton
LMAO I love you, too, Axe.
Axel
Good. Somebody has to.
Kaia
Finally figure out there’s no long-term gratification in one-night stands, man-whore?
Maverick
Ohhhh! Shots fired.
Hadlee
*eyeball emojis*
Axel
Charge your batteries, Kai. Your sexual frustration is showing.
Jameson
Play nice, kids.
Noel
*Eating popcorn gif*
Kaia
My frustration is due to the need to wear a hazmat suit to your house.
Axel
You’re not even on the island anymore, wtf do you care?
Kaia
The knowledge of the bleach required to sanitize when I come back is plenty distressing. I’m worried I’ll get an STD by proxy.
Axel
Mama raised gentlemen. I wrap it up every single time.
Jameson
What is it with you people and using the family thread for this shit?
Axel
Not all of us go to therapy, Jameson.
Kaia
And it shows.
Jameson
Stop making your problems all of our problems.
Axel
Kaia started it.
Finn
I never know wtf I’m gonna open this thread to.
Snickering, I tucked my cell into my pocket and straightened to check my reflection in the mirror, tightening my half-ponytail before clipping in an Emerald Bay bow. In the week since Ollie and I officially signed on the dotted line, we’d broken the news to two—mercifully elated—kids, and I’d gotten the full rundown on the house, security protocols, the panic room, and a long-ass list of routines and classes.
And honestly? It was fucking awesome.
I’d been more than a little hesitant when Ollie pitched the idea at Thanksgiving—so much so, I’d called Mom to hash out the pros and cons. Maybe her advice would’ve differed if she’d known about Halloween, but the truth was, this job was a goddamn miracle. I loved Mattie and Beau to the depth of my soul, and Ollie wasn’t half bad either, when he wasn’t sticking his perfect nose into my fuckups. In the seven weeks since Chad—the human-shaped yeast infection—canned me, I’d depleted the last of my savings, maxed out a credit card, and found out I was medically disqualified from donating plasma for grocery money. As if being rejected from the few interviews I’d actually landed wasn’t humiliating enough, now not even my bodily fluids were deemed ‘qualified.’
‘Stressed’ didn’t even begin to cover it.
But Ollie handed me a check for my first month the moment I poured my coffee in his kitchen Monday morning.
Twenty minutes after I got home that evening, a knock at the door revealed a man with very little hair, many, many freckles, and the too-confident smile of someone in on a secret. He held out a sleek black box wrapped in a red satin ribbon, and a jaw-droppingly gorgeous bouquet of asters and morning glories.
Scowling, I asked, “What’s this?”
“Couldn’t tell ya,” he replied with a shrug that screamed bullshit. “Mr. Hart said to personally see that it was delivered.”
Nothing about him radiated innocence, but the glint in his eye had me glowering between the outstretched offering and his sparkly face. I arched a speculative brow.
“Can you hang onto those?” I asked, nodding to the flowers as I slid the box off his palm.
“You got it,” he said, craning his neck slightly as I peeled open the lid.
My mouth popped open.
“Holy shit.” It came out as a breath, a prayer, a reverent sigh of a decade-long obsession.
Hard plastic CGC slab. Legit Marvel logo.
“Holy shit.”
Nine-point-eight grade.
“ Oh my fuck .”
The delivery man might’ve chuckled, but I was too busy drooling over the contents. Winter Soldier #1 . Vivid colors. My man front and center, rifle in hand, that iconic silver arm gleaming.
Oh, fuck me sideways in a cast-iron skillet—that was a first edition.
Eyes wide as saucers, I whispered, “Holy shit, this is the Dell’Otto Variant.”
“Yeah, it is,” Freckles replied smugly. “Oliver had us all in a tizzy over the weekend.”
“That bastard.”
“There’s a note…”
But I was already grabbing the card tucked between the bright purple and blue bouquet.
To my favorite superhero,
Thank you for saving my skin.
Enjoy yourself.
OO
—Ollie
“Unless you’re pulling a Meg Ryan, it seems like you enjoyed yourself,” Ollie had muttered, that lazy, self-satisfied grin slung across his face like sin. Like some love-drunk idiot, I’d just thanked him when he expertly delivered my first-ever second orgasm—with his mouth. For the love of all things holy, I wasn’t sure what the hell I’d waited so long for, because sweet baby Jesus, I was in heaven. Skin buzzing, mind spinning, I felt high. Like ‘accidentally stumbled onto Alice’s special brownies’ high.
“You’re really fucking good at that,” I panted into the crook of my arm, still sprawled across the couch where he’d pinned me. Didn’t even care. That man was a goddamn gift to womankind.
“Oh, beautiful girl, you haven’t seen anything yet.”
“Madam?” The freckled tall guy was still standing there, watching me expectantly.
Blinking the memory away, I looked down at the card still in my hand. “I’m sorry?”
“Are you alright, ma’am?”
“Um,” I croaked, clearing my throat. “Yes. Fine. Thank you.”
But I wasn’t fine.
He’d sent me a bouquet of my birth flowers and a collector’s edition of my favorite comic book. All in the name of doting on his two amazing kids.
My “are you kidding me” text had gotten a saluting Captain America gif in return. No explanation.
How the hell was I supposed to look at him after that?
Luckily, I didn’t have to. Ollie barely had time for a hello and a wink Tuesday morning. Same on Wednesday. And Thursday.
By Friday, the kids and I had found a rhythm. Every morning started with giggles from Beau, and every afternoon ended with Tillie dishing tea fresh out of junior high like it was a sacred duty.
Saturday passed in a fatigued blur—I became one with my couch and read a full Madison Bellevue novel in a single sitting.
And today? Today was the big day. Game day. And—lucky bitch that I was—I would be sitting in the owner’s suite, beside a certain bloom-bestowing billionaire.
Naturally, I’d exfoliated, scrubbed, polished, and painted every square inch of applicable skin. My curls had been creamed, plopped, scrunched, and diffused until they poured over my shoulders like a lion’s mane. I felt… hot . Beautiful, even.
All for appearances , obviously. The Harts had a reputation to uphold.
I repeated that lie the entire drive to the stadium, through security, up the elevator, and down the hall to the Hart family suite.
I was still repeating it when I walked through the door—until I saw that smile.
It aimed right at me from across the room where Ollie was mid-conversation with some guy in a suit, and I swear to God, I forgot how to breathe.
He turned fully, said something to the man, then crossed the suite with that lazy, cocksure stride and those fucking hands buried in his pockets.
“Hey, Trouble. You look beautiful.”
I shrugged, like I hadn’t spent four hours getting ready to hear those three little words. “Thanks. Not so bad yourself.”
“How was your Saturday?”
“Mellow. Full hermit. You?”
“A hermit day sounds fucking perfect. I can’t wait to get through the holidays. The kids are good. We hit the tree lighting last night. Beau loved it.”
“But Tillie didn’t,” I deduced.
“She likes the lights, but the crowd is…”
“A lot,” we finished in unison.
He smiled wider. I didn’t stand a fucking chance.
“So. We need to talk.”
He deadpanned. “If you quit right now, I might fling myself off the balcony.”
“Jesus Christ,” I laughed. “About the comic book, Oliver.”
“Oh.” That grin of his tightened, smug and satisfied. “Pretty cool, right?”
“Are you kidding me? It’s a first printing, in mint condition. Do you have any idea how rare those are? How the hell did you even find it?”
His grin broadened. “So you liked it.”
“Liked it?” I scoffed. “It’s amazing. It’s also way too much.”
“My first pick was Tales of Suspense #52 .”
“Oliver!” I smacked his shoulder, eyes wide. Two servers actually startled. “That’s a 1964. You can buy a car for less!”
He laughed. “You can thank Alice for vetoing.”
I tongued a molar, trying to collect myself. “You’re insane.”
“Maybe,” he agreed, that slow, creeping smile returning—and taking my self-control with it. “You, uh… you look beautiful today.”
I rolled my lower lip between my teeth and replied, “You said that already.”
“Yeah, I did,” he agreed quickly, oozing that confidence every socialite knew him for. “But you look damn good in Bomber green.”
“How fortunate for me.”
“Fortunate for you ? Try for me. My eyes should pay you royalties.”
“Royalties? For what?” I laughed, brushing my hair back over my shoulder.
“For every time I’ll think of you when—” A thunderous clang sliced through whatever salacious declaration Ollie was in the middle of. My heart slammed against my ribs as glass shattered behind us.
I instinctively clutched his arm for balance as every head turned toward the source of the noise. A grimacing server stood frozen, a silver tray at her feet, drinks soaking into the plush carpet and shards of glass scattered like confetti.
Kaia and Alice were by her side in seconds, helping to mop up the spill and sweep away the debris with napkins and composure. Greyson arrived a breath later, tugging Alice gently away and waving in more staff to assist. I was fairly convinced the man would carry my sister everywhere if he had his way—her feet never permitted to touch the ground again.
But my pulse was a roar in my ears, the whoosh of blood sounding far too much like the lapping water from that night.
“You okay?” Ollie breathed, suddenly so close I could feel his words skate along my cheekbone.
Blinking, I nodded, trying to center myself as I scanned the room.
Then I saw her—Tillie. Statue-still. Wide-eyed. Staring at the floor like she was reliving something in real-time.
“Ollie,” I whispered, jerking my chin toward her.
Tillie didn’t talk about the car wreck. At least not with me. I knew Ollie had her in therapy once a week, but as we moved toward her, I wondered if it was enough.
“Hey, sweetie,” I murmured, placing myself between her and the room. “You okay?”
Those shrink-wrapped blue eyes—flecked with gold—lifted to mine. Her mouth parted, but no sound came. Then her little hand jerked out to grab mine, and I swore my heart cracked right down the middle.
“ Sweet baby ,” I whispered, lowering my head to kiss the top of hers. She melted into my chest, her little arms locking around my waist. I held onto her as she stiffly did the same, my gaze landing on Ollie, where his features were carved in concern.
Tillie’s little chest shifted at hummingbird speed, and I grimaced. Fuck, I knew that feeling.
“She’s okay,” I told him—told both of us—as I ran my hand over her back. Her tears soaked into my shirt, each drop a blade to the heart.
Ollie mouthed, Is she crying? When I nodded, he shifted to shield her from view, one steady hand rubbing slow circles down her spine. “Babygirl, you’re okay,” he murmured.
Tillie shook her head against me, her little fingers curling tighter in my sweater. “She’s okay,” I repeated, pressing my cheek to her curls. “I know it doesn’t always feel like it, but you are.”
“I… think I’m dying,” she squeaked.
“Look at me, punkin,” I said gently, but firmly. Her fists only gripped harder. “Tillie. Look at me.” When she finally lifted her gaze, tears streaming, I tugged my sleeve over my palm and used it to dab her cheeks. “Did the glass startle you?” A tiny nod. “Did it make you think about the accident?” Another nod. More tears.
Fuck. The stadium. The crowd. The sound. It was too much. Too soon. We’d been on our way home from one of Paxton’s games when it happened. The lapping of water, the crunch of glass…
“I’ve got you, okay? I’m right here. And your daddy’s right here, too. He’s not going anywhere, isn’t that right?”
“You got it, sweet pea,” Ollie added softly. “Anything you need.”
Another jerky nod.
“Okay,” I said. “Now let’s breathe together. Hand on my chest. Can you feel that?” She nodded again. “In for four, out for four, okay?” I waited until she gave the smallest dip of her chin.
But when I started the breath, her lip wobbled and she whimpered, “I can’t.”
“You can . Just focus on me. Just me. Ready?” She nodded. “In, two, three, four. Hold. Out, two, three, four.”
We did it together. Twice. Then again.
And by the fifth breath, something in her began to settle. The storm behind her eyes started to calm.
“You’re…” she sniffled, then blew out a breath like we’d practiced. “You’re really good at that.”
I chuckled, brushing a thumb under her eye. “Had some practice.” I met Ollie’s gaze. “Can your daddy hold you now, sweetie?”
“Don’t leave,” she blurted, eyes wide with panic.
I shook my head. “I’m like glitter, baby. You’re stuck with me. But he looks like he needs a hug, too.”
A tiny smile flickered across her mouth as she turned and let Ollie pull her against his chest. His eyes found mine again, raw and grateful. “Thank you,” he mouthed.
I nodded.
He looked down at his daughter—safe but shaken in his arms—and then back at me. Helpless. He couldn’t fix this. Couldn’t magic it away. And it was killing him.
“I want to go home,” Tillie whispered.
“Baby, kickoff is in a few minutes,” Ollie said gently, but his voice caught.
“I want to go home,” she repeated, her eyes lifting to mine this time.
“Okay,” I said immediately, nodding. Ollie’s gaze darted between me and the man he’d been talking to earlier. Panic, guilt, frustration—it was all there.
The media might glorify and romanticize the Hart name, but they never saw this. They never saw a father stuck between duty and the daughter who needed him more than anything.
“We’ll go,” I told him, watching Matilda press herself into my side. “I’ve got her.”
“Leigh…” His voice broke. “The game.”
“It’s just a game. I love my brother, but I’ve been watching him and his stinky socks play since I could walk.” I rocked Tillie gently. “We’ve got a blanket fort waiting for us at home.”
“Really?” she whispered, eyes shining.
“With twinkle lights,” I promised. “And Lord of the Rings . And chocolate ice cream.”
“You’re just appeasing me.”
I grinned. Sometimes she sounded like a seventy-five-year-old retiree who’d lived through five wars. “What if I told you this noise totally blows and I’d rather hang out with you anyway?”
She studied me for a long beat, then nodded. “Really?”
“Really, really. Want me to scoop up Beau?” I asked Ollie, who glanced toward where his son sat happily on Kaia’s shoulders.
“Nah, he looks content. Take Reynolds with you, and text me when you’re home.”
“Of course.”
“Can we…” Tillie’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Can we take the long way home?”
Translation: Don’t drive over that fucking bridge.
“You got it.”
Just as we turned to leave, Ollie’s hand closed around mine. That familiar zing raced up my arm. I turned back, and his eyes locked on mine—tortured, conflicted, soft.
“Thank you.”