Chapter One

The doctor’s office—Felicity Shaw could think of a million and one places she’d rather be, and 99 percent of them contained fewer germs. She held the door open at Quail Hollow Pediatrics for her sluggish six-year-old and guided him inside with a hand on his back. Tyler’s headaches seemed to be getting worse, and she needed to find out why. Hopefully, her boss wouldn’t give her too much grief for taking time off again this morning.

The money at Stinson Automotive was better than she’d expected, the occasional overtime allowing her to finally put a deposit down on one of the cute little rental houses by her cousin Lauren’s place this past weekend. No, it wouldn’t be her own, but it’d still be a million times better than the rundown duplex they were living in now. And maybe, just maybe, it’d finally start to feel like she was putting her life back together.

Life hadn’t been easy since John’s accident, and it became infinitely harder after he passed. But she’d refused to buckle, refused to let Tyler see how much she struggled day in and out to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. He deserved to grow up happy, to not spend his youth worrying about money or security. Her job at Stinson had been a godsend and was helping her ensure exactly that.

The cacophony that greeted them in the lobby had her struggling not to run the other way. To their left, multiple infants were crying, held in the arms of sleep-deprived mothers. To their right was a group of slightly older patients, though they weren’t much quieter—one toddler was on the floor, kicking and screaming, while another was standing on the waiting room chairs jumping up and down yelling, “Wheee!” Felicity dug deep for patience and urged Tyler on toward the reception desk.

Which, she now realized, stood empty.

“Maybe they’re closed.”

Felicity glanced to her son, shaking her head at the hopeful tone in his voice. “Honey, I promise—you’re not here for shots. They’re just gonna try and help us figure out where all these headaches are coming from, okay? And I’m sure the receptionist is floating around here somewhere.”

Tyler looked up to scan the ceiling, and Felicity grinned. Silly boy often took her a bit too literally. Even so, he was a great distraction from the crying, screaming, “whee”-ing…and now the reception desk’s ringing phone, which sounded like some ’90s B-list video game gone wrong.

Beedall-de-boop. Beedall-de-boop.

Felicity shifted from one foot to the other, pulled her purse strap higher on her shoulder, and finally leaned forward to peer around the desk. No one. A second line chimed in, the rings overlapping one another. Her right eye began to twitch.

Work. She really needed to get to work.

Beedall-de-boop. Beedall-de-boop…

To her left, bouncy toddler’s mother told him to get down, and a shrill scream of displeasure rang out, followed by crying. Loud crying. A fourth infant chimed in with the other three wailers.

Serenity now.

Counting—maybe counting to ten would help her keep her cool. She made it to ten. Then twenty. And thirty.

Beedall-de-beedall-de-beedall-de—

“Oh, for the love of Pete.”

Felicity grabbed her son’s hand and marched around the desk’s far end. With still no receptionist in sight, she sat Tyler in the desk chair and reached for the phone. She’d worked multi-line phones before, how difficult could it be? Ten buttons later, she found caller number two.

“Quail Hollow Pedes, can you hold, please?” A tap of a button and that caller’s objection was quickly silenced. Felicity pressed the one flashing to its right. “Quail Hollow Pedes.”

Without hesitation, a young mother launched into a frantic tale of how her daughter had eaten an entire tube of lipstick and would assuredly die if the pediatrician’s office didn’t come and pump her stomach immediately.

“Okay, first, I need your name. Sally? Okay, Sally, I need to you take a breath. Nope, a deeper one than that. First child? Lesson one: next time you believe you have a life-threatening situation, you need to call 9-1-1, not the pediatrician’s office. That said, one tube of lipstick isn’t life-threatening. My son managed to get his grubby little mitts on at least three of mine before he was two, one of them a twenty-dollar Lancôme.”

“Mom,” Tyler whispered at her side.

She placed a hand on his shoulder, attention still fixed on the caller. “Heck yeah, I was mad about that one. Anyway, trust me when I say she’ll be fine. Next diaper isn’t gonna be pretty, but she’ll be fine. Put your makeup where she can’t get into it and let her go back to watching Sesame Street.”

“Mom.” Tyler tugged her shirtsleeve. “Look!”

She glanced up to spy two men stepping through the front door, one middle aged and a bit thick in the waist, his slate-gray suit a nice complement to his salt-and-pepper hair. He was holding the door for a second guy who was fighting to angle a set of crutches through the entryway. Gimpy wasn’t nearly as nicely dressed, his attire composed of workout shorts, a fitted tee, and a worn Ohio State ball cap pulled low over his eyes. Two men and no kids. Clearly, they were at the wrong medical office—something they’d figure out on their own soon enough. She covered the phone’s mouthpiece with one hand while lowering Tyler’s extended arm with the other.

“It’s not polite to point, sweetheart.”

“But, Mom, don’t you know who that is? It’s Columbus’s right wing!”

She nodded to placate him and leaned back, glancing down a side hall. Where was the darned receptionist? “Can we talk about hockey later, sweetheart? Mommy’s trying not to lose her cool.”

“It’s soccer, Mom. Geez.”

Hockey, soccer—did it really matter? She’d just started trying to deescalate the ringworm hysteria on line two when a shadow fell across the desk. Tyler’s hand worried the sleeve of her shirt in double time now. Felicity tugged free of his grasp and shot him a warning look.

“Excuse me.”

At the sound of a voice far deeper than her son’s, she glanced up…and promptly forgot how to breathe. Mr. Right Wing was standing just across the counter, a warm smile on his face and green eyes fixed on her. Sandy blond hair peeked out from under his ball cap, while his chin was dusted with stubble of a matching shade.

Perfect stubble.

Not too long, not too short, but just right.

The woman in her ear asked a question, breaking the trance.

“Uh, can you hold, please?” Felicity fumbled with the keypad until Muzak replaced the caller’s objections and prayed she didn’t have anything from breakfast stuck between her teeth. “Yes?”

Mr. Wing’s smile widened. “Good morning. I’m Scott Gillie, here to see Dr. Bedi.”

“Aren’t we all?”

Scott’s brows furrowed. “Sorry?”

“I mean, that is why we bring our children here. To see the doctor.” She peered over the counter, figuring she must have missed seeing theirs arrive. “And yours is…?”

“No kids, just me. Here to see Dr. Bedi.”

“Are you sure?”

One corner of his mouth quirked. “Positive.”

Felicity wanted to kick herself. First handsome guy she’d crossed paths with in months, and she sounded like a bumbling idiot. Hard not to with him looking the way he did, that fitted tee stretched tight across his lean torso from the crutches wedged under his arms. Not that she was complaining, not one little bit.

“Right. Well, then, I’ll make a note that you’ve arrived and—”

“Can I…help you?”

Felicity spun to find a woman in kitten-patterned scrubs approaching, confusion on her face and a steaming coffee mug in her hands. The girl was young, maybe early twenties, and seemed far less bothered by the chaos surrounding them than Felicity would have thought humanly possible.

“Um, yes.” Felicity gave her son a gentle tug from the chair and guided him to the front of the reception desk beside Mr. Hottie. Or rather, Mr. Wing. Oh heck, she might as well call it like she saw it: Mr. I’ll Be Starring in Your Dreams Tonight. “Tyler Shaw is here for his eight-thirty appointment. And Mr. Gillie is apparently here to see Dr. Bedi, as well.”

The receptionist encouraged the two gentlemen to take a seat in the waiting area, but asked Felicity to remain so they could verify her insurance information. Why, she couldn’t understand. They’d just been here a few weeks ago—how often could that kind of stuff change?

Then again, if she didn’t get out of here and back to work in a reasonable amount of time, hers might very well change before their next visit, and not voluntarily. Her boss was a generally patient man, but she hated to push it. Though, if she had to miss work, she might as well enjoy the view. She cast a subtle glance back at Scott and caught him looking their way. But rather than appear apologetic, he winked.

Felicity looked away, heat rising in her cheeks. Okay, so the guy was probably used to getting stared at, as good-looking as he was. Which was exactly why she wasn’t going to peek again. She’d fallen for one bad boy, and how’d that turn out?

With her a widowed, single mother, struggling to make ends meet.

The receptionist handed her a printout and asked Felicity to verify that everything was correct. She was nearly done skimming it over when Tyler piped up beside her. “Hey, Mom?”

“Hang on a second, sweetheart.”

“But you’re going to miss it.”

“Honey, miss what?”

Her gaze shifted from the paper to find he was pointing again, this time to the other corner of the room.

“Sweetheart, how many times do I have to tell you? Pointing isn’t—”

The words died in her throat at the unexpected scene on a nearby television screen. It was her factory, the place she should be now, surrounded by a mob of people with raised fists and angry faces. Police were trying to contain the crowd as a reporter stood off to the side, giving their take on the situation. From where she stood, Felicity couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the banner across the bottom of the screen spoke volumes.

Stinson automotive shuts down, town in shock.

…

Scott scrolled through his Twitter feed, trying to focus on highlights from this weekend’s MLS games instead of sneaking another glance at the cute mom and her kid. He should have been on the field this past weekend, helping Columbus stick it to Toronto. Instead, he’d spent the past two days sitting in an old farmhouse on the outskirts of Quail Hollow, listening to his beloved grandmother give every reason under the sun as to why he should pack up and move “home.” Lucky for him, his agent wasn’t going to let that happen any time soon. Not when there were still contracts to negotiate and money to make.

Now all he needed was to have his old friend, Evan Bedi—Doctor Evan Bedi, as everyone here apparently knew him—clear Scott to play.

He checked the time on his phone. Nine-fifteen. The team would be finishing their first run right about now, then heading to the field for passing warm-ups. His uninjured knee bounced, itching to get back out there with his team. Come on, Evan. Don’t fail me now.

“Your grandmother hates me,” said J.B. from beside him, not bothering to look up from the newspaper he’d swiped from a nearby end table.

Scott grinned at the thought of his bulldozer of a dealmaker agent having his feelings hurt. Then again, the greeting J.B. received an hour ago when he’d arrived to pick Scott up for this checkup had been anything but welcoming. Had he chosen a different profession, maybe it would have been.

“Hey, now, hate’s a pretty strong word.”

“Okay, then your grandmother really dislikes me.”

Scott chuckled. “That’s more accurate and not entirely uncommon. Edna dislikes a lot of people, especially ones who insist her grandson’s place is on the soccer field, not playing the role of bingo chauffer.”

“She must hate your entire team.”

“Probably would, if she ever made it out to a game and met them.”

J.B. arched a brow his way. “Not a fan?”

“Nope.”

His fault, not hers. Scott had traded family functions for practices and games long, long ago. It’d gotten him to where he was today and laid the groundwork for the goals he still worked to achieve. Though, it’d be a whole lot easier to climb the Major League Soccer ladder if he could get back on the turf. It would also help him keep his starting position, which was why they were there.

“I still think you’re putting too much hope into this plot of yours,” J.B. said. “We need a plan in case Evan’s opinion doesn’t vary from your team trainer’s.”

“You’re not really bringing up this personal assistant idea of yours again, are you?”

“As much as I love driving you all over God’s green earth, I simply don’t have that kind of time. You’re going to need help.”

“Funny, I’ve done just fine the past three weeks. On my own, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Columbus was a progressive city with virtually unlimited resources at the ready. Need a ride? Call an Uber. Need food? Have it delivered. Need help around his apartment? Definitely no need there.

“Besides, Evan and I have been friends since high school travel ball,” said Scott. “If anyone knows how fast I recover from dings and bruises, it’s him.”

“Too bad this injury is neither of those things.” J.B. glanced toward a cluster of chairs set before a large television mounted high on the wall. “If he doesn’t clear you, we’re going to need to find you a personal assistant.”

“What could I possibly need one of those for?”

When J.B. didn’t answer, Scott followed his gaze…and found it fixed on the cute mom and her shaggy-haired son. Of course, leave it to his agent to be wowed by the woman who’d taken it upon herself to start answering phones at the pediatrician’s office; J.B. always had been a fan of assertive females. Lucky for Scott, he was perfectly capable of answering his cell all by himself.

Even luckier, she likely lived around here, three hours from Columbus. Threat averted, he allowed himself to enjoy the view a moment longer. She was rocking a pair of worn skinny jeans and a long, fitted tee that failed to hide a single curve. Her light brown hair was pulled into a messy bun, mirroring her son’s unkempt look. The boy was in shorts and a Manchester United practice jersey that appeared to be a few sizes too big. While her attention was riveted to the screen, the boy’s kept alternating between it and Scott.

When he realized Scott was looking, he offered a tiny wave. Scott tipped his chin as a hello. The boy’s eyes went wide, then he ducked his head with a giggle. Cute kid. And way quieter than the others in here. Man, how did Evan survive this day in and out? Scott couldn’t imagine doing anything besides soccer. Heck, he didn’t know if he could. College degree or not, soccer was his life, his love. Without it, he’d be lost. Being sidelined these past few weeks had only reinforced that.

His attention shifted back to the cute mom, whose gaze remained locked on the television screen, and felt the tiniest bit of envy. Sure, soccer was his everything, and he had yet to reach his lifelong goal of making the U.S. Men’s National Team. But some nights when he sat before his own TV, alone, he longed to have someone there beside him. Someone like she probably had, to curl up with and share stories from their day. To raise a family with.

Eventually, he told himself, but not now. Now when he was at the top of his game with no time for distractions. Because that’s what women had been to his career in his past: a distraction. If anyone knew that, it was J.B.

“Look, Evan’s going to clear me, so you can stop with this PA nonsense. We’re not gonna need it.”

“Scott Gillie?”

He waved to the nurse who’d called for him and reached for his crutches, hoping and praying this would work. “Come on, let’s go get that ‘all clear.’”

“You go ahead.” J.B. handed him a folder containing the team trainer’s notes and Scott’s X-rays. “I have some work to do.”

There was something in his voice that made Scott pause. He started to ask what J.B. was up to, but then a toddler nearby sneezed, and that got him moving once more. The last thing he needed was to get cleared to play, only to come down with pneumonia.

“Fine, but we’re tabling this discussion. Hopefully, indefinitely.”

After explaining to the nurse that there was no Scottie Jr. joining them, he followed as she led him back to an examination room. Once inside, she motioned for him to take a seat in one of the grown-up size chairs rather than try to climb onto the elevated, cushioned patient table. Fine by him. He’d had enough climbing this weekend trying to navigate the stairs in his grandmother’s two-story. Two trips up and down those creaking old steps, and he’d taken to scooting up backward on his butt and dragging the damned crutches along.

Stupid injury. He should have known better than going head-to-head with Philly’s aggressive sweeper on that last shot. Should have backed off, taken the safer bet with one less step, and tried curving the ball off his right foot instead of his left. But the playoffs were coming, and he’d gotten greedy. So instead of taking the smart shot, he let his desire to make the highlight reel steer his decision. Now here he sat, sidelined.

“I’ve seen children do unusual things to get a lollipop,” Evan said, walking in as the nurse was stepping out, “but this might take the cake.”

Scott grinned at the appearance of his old friend. It was still strange to see Evan’s dark skin set against a white lab coat instead of their college team’s crimson and cream uniform. A touch of gray had sprouted in the hair at his temples since last he’d seen him, but the warm smile hadn’t changed.

“Ha, I wish it was an act.” Scott rose on his good leg and pulled his old friend into a brief hug. “Good to see you, man.”

“Likewise. So, what happened? A defender finally take you out?”

Scott nodded. “Philly’s got a beast in the backfield. He’s faster than he looks.”

“Meaner, too, apparently. How long have you been down?”

“Three weeks. Original diagnosis was an MCL sprain. Team trainer said to stay off of it for three to four weeks then ease back into my routine. When I went in Thursday for my re-check, he told me to hold off two more.”

“Something tells me you weren’t happy with his decision.” Evan nodded toward the oversize folder on the desk beside him. “Mind if I have a look?”

“Please. I’m in need of a professional second opinion.”

His friend chuckled. “You know the median age of my patients is eight, don’t you?”

“Eight or eighty, does it really matter?”

“Actually, it does.” Evan took the X-rays from the folder and clipped them to a light board on the far wall. “Tell me about your pain.”

“Not much there anymore,” he lied. “Bothers me a little in the mornings. I’m sure it’d go away if I could start conditioning again.”

Evan moved closer to the light board, then stepped away to review the folder’s other contents. After a moment, he returned to the board.

“How long did the trainer have you on restrictions?”

“Three weeks, four tops. Now, all of a sudden, he wants me to hold off another two. Crazy, right?”

“More like covering his posterior.” Evan tapped a pen to the backlit X-ray. “You’ve got a healing hairline fracture at the top of your tibia.”

“What?” Scott bolted from his seat and hopped his way to the board. “No, it’s just a scratch in the film. Or a piece of hair. My agent’s going bald, he sheds on everything.”

Scott swiped a hand across the film. Swiped again. Licked his thumb and scrubbed at the mark. It didn’t move.

“As much as I’d like that to be the case, old friend, it’s not. My guess is your trainer missed it the first time around and caught it on the follow-up films.”

Icy cold dread wove down Scott’s spine. A fracture sounded like more time off the field, which he couldn’t afford. He was so close now to making the national team selection that he could taste it. Plus, him spending more time on the bench would allow the fresher, younger guy filling in for him even more playing time. If that kid proved his worth on the field, it might not be just the national team Scott lost out on, but a starting spot of his own.

“So…what does that mean?”

Evan leaned back against the countertop with arms folded across his chest. “It means you need to stay away from the field for another three to four weeks.”

“Three to four weeks? Hell, Matt only recommended two!”

“Ah, but the team’s paying him to get you back on the field. I don’t have the same board members to answer to.”

“Board members?” Scott palmed his cap just above the brim. “You think they don’t care about my health? If anything, they’d want me in mint condition so I can last that much longer.”

Evan shrugged. “Sure, if you were twenty-one or twenty-two. But you’re twenty-eight, Scott. They are trying to get the best of you now because they’re not counting on you to stick around another ten years. Quite possibly not another five.”

Scott frowned. Aging out in professional sports, like paying taxes, was inevitable. Which was why he had to get back on the field and reach the national team before his time was up. He’d made his mother a promise long ago and refused to let one bad tackle stand in his way.

“I plan on playing for at least five more years,” he grumbled. “Play until I can’t.”

“Then you need to take it easy for another three to four weeks minimum.” Evan raised a hand to block Scott’s brewing rebuttal. “Rest now so you can play later, or play now and risk cutting your career short. You wanted my professional opinion, and now you have it.”

“But the playoffs—”

“Are still several weeks away. The team’s front line is deep; they’ll be fine without you.”

Precisely what he was afraid of. “Thanks,” Scott muttered.

“If I were you, I’d get out and enjoy the time off. Reconnect with friends and family, then come back each of the next three weeks for rechecks. If your knee is healing faster than expected, I’ll give you the green light and send you packing. Otherwise, stay off the field.”

Like hell he would. Maybe it was a good thing J.B. hadn’t come back here. “Sure. Though, it’ll be tough to make those follow-ups after I head back east.”

“Do you really think Edna will let you leave, knowing you have all this free time on your hands? Not that I would tell her, of course. But you know how word does get around.” Evan winked.

Scott stared at his friend in disbelief. There were laws against sharing information like this, weren’t there? Then again, this was Quail Hollow—you couldn’t sneeze without half the town knowing it. “You wouldn’t.”

“See you in a week for fresh X-rays.” Evan pushed off the counter and gave him a pat on the back as he angled for the door. “Oh, and Scottie? Be sure to get your lollipop at checkout.”

With a scowl, Scott headed back into the lobby to pay for whatever this waste of time had cost him. Talk about a plan backfiring. What he’d hoped would get him back on the field sooner had just gotten him stuck in town for another three to four weeks.

That thought alone made him cringe. While he loved his grandmother to pieces, between her badgering and that annoying Pomeranian of hers using Scott’s feet as chew toys, he was already running low on patience. Even so, him leaving without any real reason to rush back would break her heart. He couldn’t do that to her.

And what was he supposed to tell J.B. that wouldn’t instantly launch him right back into this idea of finding Scott a personal assistant? He didn’t need help and definitely didn’t want it. He wasn’t five years old. Then again, Quail Hollow was a far cry from Columbus, and Edna didn’t drive. Crap, did they even have Uber here?

He made it to the front desk just as the receptionist was answering yet another phone call. Stellar. With a sigh, he turned toward where he’d left J.B. and found the seat empty.

Scott spun to scan the waiting area for his agent, praying he’d stepped outside. But no, of course he hadn’t. He’d stepped across the room instead and taken a seat beside cute mom and her kid. Surely, he wasn’t moving ahead with this personal assistant idea of his, not before he’d even heard the outcome of today’s appointment.

As Scott watched, a business card exchanged hands.

Oh no you don’t.

He started for the trio but was interrupted by the receptionist’s voice.

“Ready to check out, Mr. Gillie?”

Scott turned back and forced a smile, hoping the woman would make it quick. He needed to get across the room and break up whatever deal his meddling agent was making. There would be no personal assistant. The sooner J.B. understood that, the better off they’d both be.

…

Felicity stared at the business card in her hand, trying to wrap her head around what was happening. In the course of twenty minutes, she’d discovered her current place of employment had unexpectedly closed, her health insurance would likely be ending, and now this yahoo from out east somewhere wanted her to play nanny to his injured—and extremely good-looking—soccer star client. It was almost too much to handle.

“Look, Mr. Bradley, I appreciate your offer, but I don’t know the first thing about being a personal assistant.”

He raised a brow, looking to Tyler. Okay, so yes, she was personal assistant to her son 24/7, but that was different. He was six and could still be sent to his room for misbehaving. What punishment could she possibly offer to an uncooperative soccer player?

She mentally retracted that question as her mind instantly headed down the “my libido has been in a coma for far too long” path. There would be no lip service, no sending anyone to bed, and definitely no spankings where Scott Gillie was involved. In fact, there wouldn’t be anything in her future involving Scott, because his future and hers were not meant to intersect. She needed to focus on finding work—long-term, permanent work, not some short-term babysitting deal.

“Seriously, Mr. Bradley, you don’t know a thing about me.”

“Please, call me J.B. And what I saw at the reception desk when I came in was evidence enough. I need someone like you, someone who can take charge and keep her cool under pressure.”

“Is your client that difficult to work with?”

He smirked. “Let’s just say he and I don’t always see eye to eye on everything. Like him needing a personal assistant, for example. Scott’s always been very independent; he likes to handle things on his own. But I worry he’s doing too much and it’s delaying his recovery time.”

Felicity glanced toward the reception desk to find Scott standing there, balancing on those crutches while fumbling to retrieve something from his pocket. She had to give him credit—crutches were a bear. She’d had a pair herself back in middle school. “Is he in a lot of pain?”

“He says he isn’t, but I’m not so sure. I’ve seen him wince a few times just this morning. Though, if he’d fill his pain medication prescription, he’d probably feel a lot better than he does.”

She bit back a response, knowing full well prescriptions like that could often do more harm than good. “Well, hopefully he isn’t. And I do hope you find him a great personal assistant, J.B., but I’m afraid I’m not it.”

“But, Mom,” Tyler whispered at her side.

She slid a warning look to her son, who’d been practically humming with excitement since the moment J.B. had approached them. He loved all things sports, though his exposure had been limited to backyard play and watching events on television. Oh, and the computer—if there was a stat to be had, Tyler probably knew it. He just didn’t yet have the coordination, or she the finances, to play in organized sports.

Scott had clearly racked up some major stats of his own, because Tyler had been gushing about the man since the moment they’d sat down. At first she’d only listened with half an ear, her attention on the news and heart in her stomach. But now that Scott’s agent was sitting here offering her a job, Tyler’s excitement was sending warning signals.

If Scott was as big a deal as her son made him out to be, working alongside him could be a gamble. With celebrities often came drama, and that was not an environment she wished for her son. Felicity shook her head.

“The answer is no. Besides, Scott doesn’t even live around here. There’s no way I’m pulling you out of school so we can play servant to him for a few weeks.”

“But—”

“Actually,” said J.B., wincing as her dark gaze slid back to him. “I’m advising Scott to remain with his grandmother here in Quail Hollow for the remainder of his recovery time. My hope is that disconnecting him from all that’s happening in Columbus will allow him to better focus on his recovery.”

“So kind of you, J.B., but my focus is perfectly fine right where it is.”

Felicity jumped at Scott’s voice behind them. While his words were polite, the undercurrent of anger in his tone was undeniable. If there had been any doubt lingering in her mind about turning down Mr. Bradley’s offer, Scott’s statement had just snuffed it out.

J.B. seemed far less bothered. “Did he clear you?”

Scott frowned. “Not exactly.”

Yep, definitely the difficult and stubborn type. Thanks, but no thanks.

“Tyler Shaw?”

Felicity bit back a sigh of relief and waved to the nurse who’d called his name. “That’s us. Best wishes with your recovery, Scott. And J.B., I hope you find the right person for the job.”

“Double.”

She froze, halfway out of her seat. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t you think we ought to talk about this first?” Scott said from between clenched teeth.

J.B. ignored him. “Whatever you’re making now, I’ll double it.”

“Oh, Mom’s not making anything,” Tyler said. “They closed her factory this morning.”

He pointed toward the television screen, its tickertape message still reading Stinson automotive shuts down, town in shock, and Felicity wanted to find a giant rock to hide under. “Tyler.”

“Then I won’t just double it, I’ll triple it.”

She stared at J.B., unable to breathe, unable to think. Triple her salary for a whole month? That wouldn’t just help pad her savings account to cover their expenses while she searched for a permanent new job, it would allow her to move forward with the rental house she’d just put a deposit on.

Felicity looked from J.B. to a fuming Scott and then to her son. The hope in his eyes nearly brought her to tears. She hated where they lived now, the duplex’s walls paper-thin and the backyard no more than a swatch of grass beyond a six-by-six–foot concrete patio. Sure, they made the best of it, but he deserved more. So much more. A better home, better life, was one “yes” from being theirs. Could she stand working with a handsome grump for a month to make her son’s dream a reality?

Maybe a better question was, could she live with herself if she didn’t?

It’s just temporary, she reminded herself. Practically free money. She’d be jeopardizing her and Tyler’s future if she walked away now. Felicity summoned what courage she could find.

“Okay,” she said, avoiding Scott’s fiery gaze. “I’ll do it.”