Chapter 19
Ingrid
Three days later, it still feels like a fever dream, like maybe I made him up–this six-foot-five hockey player with abs made of steel, with the uncanny ability to give me many, many, amazing orgasms. We barely slept that night, caught between getting to know each other and getting one another off–like we wanted to memorize every part of one another before having to part.
I should be sad and missing him. And I do miss him, but I’m also caught up in the energy of it all. It’s no secret that I fall hard, but also, the world doesn’t stop spinning just because I’ve fallen into Jefferson Parks.
I took the plane from Atlanta to Miami, the bus loads of equipment arriving a day later.
I needed a full day to recharge and get a night without Jefferson distracting me from sleep.
What makes it even better is that Miami has become home base for me, with my parents living there most of the year.
My mother loves the water. My father is devoted to golf.
After a good sleep in my own bed, I feel a million times more rested the day of the first concert.
I’ve had my morning smoothie and am stretching on a yoga mat on the back patio.
Madison is in a similar position across from me, but is glued to her phone.
I recognize the look, the pursed lips and furrowed brow. That look never means anything good.
“What is it?” I ask, bracing myself.
She turns the screen around. A headline glares back at me:
“Love Triangle? Ingrid Flockton’s Ex Jake Seen Backstage–But What About the Hockey Hunk?”
The article is full of candid photos, including one of Jake exiting through the back door. There’s another of Jefferson in the wings during my encore, a wide grin on his adorable, sexy face.
Heat crawls up my neck. “Another one? Don’t they have something better to talk about?”
“Of course not. You’re the story, Ing. Always have been.” Madison places the phone on the floor in front of her, eyes still skimming the article, and pretends to stretch. “The question is–who leaked it in the first place?”
“A fan probably. They miss nothing.”
“I don’t know.” She thumbs down the screen and reads, “Backstage Power Play: Ingrid’s Ex Jake Merchant and New Flame Jefferson Parks Face Off.”
I shake my head. “A hockey pun?”
“Do you think it was Jake?” she asks, turning her phone over and actually focusing on what we’re doing.
“Are you crazy?” I snort. “Jake hates press more than I do, and getting caught coming in and out of my dressing room isn’t his style.”
Even worse, being caught at one of my shows.
Her gaze flicks to me, sharp. “Then maybe it was Jefferson.”
The suggestion makes my stomach drop, but almost immediately, I shake it off. “No. He’d never.”
“You’ve known him, what, a few weeks? You don’t know what a guy like him is capable of.”
I bite back my retort, because fighting with Madison the morning before a show is the last thing I need. She’s been my right hand for years, my anchor. I trust her. I do. But something in her tone makes me uneasy, like she wants me to doubt him.
And the thing is–she’s not wrong. I haven’t known Jefferson for long. Not really. A handful of weeks. A blur of late-night calls, stolen hours, one perfect weekend tangled up in his arms. That’s not much to build a foundation on. She’s right about that.
But what I do know feels solid. He’s not angling for camera time. He’s not dropping my name in interviews or trying to squeeze himself into a spotlight he doesn’t need. Hockey already gave him more attention than most people could handle. If Jefferson wanted fame, he could’ve had it years ago.
When I think about him–the quiet way he waits for me after shows, the way he listens when I unravel the chaos of my day, the way he looked at me when he thought I might’ve been in danger–I know he’s not here for the publicity. He’s here for me.
That thought is both scary and comforting all at once.
“Jake knew the risk of this going public when he showed up at the concert. It’s not my problem.” I lean to the side, feeling my quads stretch. “We both know there’s nothing we can do to stop gossip, and if it’s not hurting anyone, then it doesn’t matter.”
I straighten, meeting Madison’s gaze, my voice steady. “For once, I'm focusing on my own happiness–and I’m not letting anyone make me second-guess that.”
A breeze blows off the water, lifting strands of hair from my face as I press deeper into a stretch on the yoga mat. My muscles burn in that good way, the kind that makes me feel present instead of scattered.
Madison’s phone buzzes. She glances at the screen, mouth tightening. “I need to take this.”
I finish the sequence on my own, trying not to watch her retreat inside. When my lungs are steady again, I roll up my mat and pad across the stone toward the French doors.
Just before I step in, voices stop me.
“I heard from the police. Their tech team got more details on the box found backstage,” Marv says, voice low and measured. “Turns out it was the sister of the delivery person. She convinced him to bring it in with the rest of the catering.”
“So, just a crazy fan,” Madison replies, clipped, like she’s already put the whole thing behind her.
“We’re still working on the online threats, but it seems like it was a coincidence.”
The wind shifts, carrying salt air and the distant hum of a boat engine. My shoulders stay tight, the relief never coming. All of this is part of the job, a part I hate, but one that comes with the territory.
Then Marv says something that makes me freeze. “The background check came through.”
Her tone sharpens with curiosity. “Oh, anything worth noting?”
“Overall the group is pretty clean. A skirmish at a frat house a few years ago, and a drunken disorderly on Rakestraw that was dropped. The girl, Nadia, is involved in a case with the police, but she’s the victim in that.”
“And Jefferson?”
What the heck?
“An underage drinking charge three years ago. Nothing big.”
“The media won’t see it that way. They’ll have a field day.”
My heart pounds, confusion twisting in my chest along with something dirtier–betrayal.
“He seems like a good kid,” Marv says. “And he makes her happy.”
“Well, it’s our job to keep her safe,” Madison answers, defensive. “And I had to check.”
Like hell, I want to shout, but don’t, because there’s instant conflict.
In one way, she’s right. Someone did need to follow up.
I was just too in my head to realize it.
My usual circles are people who wear their sins in headlines and gossip columns, every misstep immortalized in print.
Jefferson and his friends don’t live in that kind of spotlight, at least not yet.
Still, I think, waiting for the sound of their retreating footsteps, someone should have told me.
The next morning, the sunlight hits the patio just right, glinting off the pool behind the house. I step out, stretching, and find Mom already in her favorite wicker chair–the one that overlooks the garden–coffee cup in hand, with her legs crossed. A faint breeze ruffling her chestnut hair.
“Mornin’, sweetheart.” Her southern lilt has never completely faded, even after decades of living in other parts of the country, and it always makes me think of home; safe, steady, grounded.
“Good morning.” I circle the table. “Where’s Dad?”
“Already at the office.”
‘The office’ is code for golf.
“Ah, of course.” Neither of us mind. My father loves fresh air and exercise.
I pull out a chair and sit across from her.
My mother, Ruth Flockton, is tall, lean, elegant without trying, and there’s a sharp intelligence in the set of her jaw and the tilt of her eyes.
That look had come in handy when she’d been a real estate agent when I was growing up, and later over the negotiating tables with record labels.
She’s the central reason why many of my investments are in property ownership, and why I have complete ownership over my masters.
She never wanted to be a mom-ager, but she managed every detail of my life anyway: my business, my money, my estate–always a few steps ahead to keep me safe.
Now that I’m old enough to make decisions for myself, she’s pulled back a little and mostly handles my charitable works. Primarily the Flockton Foundation.
“The show looked great last night,” she says, tilting her head as she sips her coffee. “You’ve got a lot of energy for someone on the final leg of a world tour.”
“I’m glad it looks that way, because I’m beat.”
“Maybe it has something to do with the new young man you’ve been seen with?”
“Have you been reading the tabloids?” I arch an eyebrow. I lift the carafe and pour myself a hot cup of coffee. “If you want to know about my love life, Mom, just ask.”
Her lips quirk up. “I’m asking.”
I laugh softly and give her a measured version of the story, careful where I stop and start.
“His name is Jefferson Parks. He’s a college student and hockey player although he’s graduating in a few weeks and has already signed with a team for next season.
He’s… interesting. Funny, smart, steady in a way that’s surprising.
Not flashy for no reason, not chasing attention.
Makes me feel…” I search for the words and come up with, “...normal. Grounded.”
She studies me closely, sipping her coffee. “You’re not usually into jocks.”
“I’m not, but I figure my track record with musicians and actors hasn’t been so great.”
“You’re too hard on yourself.”
I let the words hang in the air, then admit, “Old habits are hard to break.”
Mom leans back, eyes narrowing just a little. “How does Madison feel about him?”
It irks me that there’s an implication that my best friend should get a voice in this, but I get it. I shrug, leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees. “She likes him, I think, but she’s always worried when I start dating someone new.”