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“What the fuck, Derrick? No.”
At least, I don’t think so. Besides, Derrick’s so-called accountant is two seconds from sucking him off at the bar, so why am I the one on trial?
Derrick crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah? Prove it.”
He casts an arrogant glance at the pocket of my cardigan because, unlike him, I didn’t have time to shower and change clothes before going out. I was actually working.
“I have nothing to prove.” Which now looks like I have everything to prove.Dammit.
When I feel a tug at the envelope, I whirl around.
Brooke waves Exhibit A suggestively in the air. “And what if she hasn’t been cheating on your sorry ass, Dare-dick? What are you willing to wager?”
At least my ride-or-die has my back, though I feel a bead of perspiration trail down the nape of my neck at her suggestion. And since there’s no backing down now, I square my shoulders and pray to God that Derrick is wrong.
Derrick waves her off. “It’s not like you didn’t already destroy the evidence.”
“It’s still sealed,” I say, not certain if I’m making the situation better or worse but not willing to let my friend hang in the wind.
His expression sours. “Fine. What do you want if I’m wrong?”
“Your fucking car, jackass,” Brooke says.
Wow. Her balls get all kinds of big after that much tequila. And when my bestie dives in headfirst, demanding his shiny new Mercedes convertible, there’s only one thing to say.
“Yeah, Dare-dick,” I say, repeating her insult because it’s kind of catchy and totally spot-on as he plays fast and loose with Sluts-R-Us over here.
That’s not jealousy talking. That’s his accountant’s cherry red lips now printing a path up another guy’s neck before her tongue lands in his ear. It sickens me to remember that you’ve had sex with everyone your partner’s had sex with. Perhaps a few weeks of no action with Derrick is just enough time to avoid a collision course with a round of STDs.
“Fine,” he says, bellying up and stepping into my space. I anchor myself in place, ready for whatever he’s got. Until he says, “Then if I win, you quit.”
“Quit?” I squeak out.
I can’t quit. What I do isn’t just a job. It’s my life. For years, I’ve cared for every single person in the center. Working evenings. Weekends. Christmas fucking morning. And now he wants me to quit?
Derrick is going too far. I’m not quitting my job over a stupid bet or even a breakup. No way. Not a chance.
I’m about to tell him so when Brooke cracks open the seal of the envelope and pulls out an old-looking photograph. Who in the world has photos anymore?
She flips it around and trombones the square to and from her face in the booze-filled hope of reading it. “Who’s Olivia?”
“What?” Carefully, I take the delicate photo from her hand, staring at it hard, as hard as I can. My heart pounds wildly against my ribs, and I stand there, stunned. I blink before I regain my senses and can move.
Brooke slaps the empty envelope on Derrick’s chest. “Ivy doesn’t need your job. She’s an overqualified badass who’s tired of taking your shit.”
Oh. My. God.Brooke really needs to stop talking now.
“Fuck both of you,” Derrick spits out. “I’m not giving you my car.”
As Derrick storms off, Brooke shouts after him, “Way to be a bad loser, Dare-dick.”
It isn’t until she wipes my cheek that I realize I’m crying.
“Hey, don’t cry. He doesn’t deserve you,” she says, stroking my hair.
“It’s not that,” I say, staring at the image of my mother. At least, I think it’s my mother. It’s as if Angie’s magic wand has brushed alchemist strokes across her image. Her dark curls are thick and full, framing round cherub cheeks and a big, beautiful smile I’ve never seen her wear. I almost didn’t recognize her.
Next to her stands a man I don’t know. His dark wavy hair is the perfect crown to his tall stature and confident stance. His lips are a line that barely tips up, and his dimpled chin could have been molded to form mine. But it’s his eyes that draw me in. Instantly I want to know him, and it bothers me that I don’t.
On the back is a riddle, one I reread again and again ... and again.
For
Olivia Ann Palmer.
“What is it?” Brooke asks with a side hug that wraps me tight and squeezes out my reply.
“It’s me. I’m Olivia Ann Palmer.”
* * *
