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Booker stomped toward his phone, intent on calling his mother and giving her a piece of his mind, but a growl stopped him before he reached the counter. He looked over his shoulder. Abbie stood at attention, those sweet eyes now on high alert for danger in response to his forceful march. He called for her.
“Sorry, Abbie.” He stroked the sable coat softly. “I shouldn’t have let her get to me like that—” the phone dinged again and Booker barely held in a growl of his own. “You don’t think I’m selfish. Do you, girl?”
Abbie turned her face from him. Booker’s hand went still. “Abbie?”
The dog answered with a soft whine before she pranced away.
Booker stood and crossed his arms over his chest while his phone sounded several times in succession. He glared at the device but went to the counter and checked the messages despite the desire to leave the texts unread.
Instead of more of his mother’s rant, a second text from his assistant burst on the screen.
THE MEETING IS STILL A GO. I’VE ARRANGED A CONFERENCE CALL. AGAIN, I’M SO SORRY FOR CALLING IN.
He scratched his head as he stared at her apology. She’d worked for him over a year. In all that time, she’d never once called in or failed to deliver on any of his demands. Yet, Booker hadn’t even taken the time to save her in his contacts as an actual name rather than her employment title.
Pathetic.
Maybe his mother—and Abbie—was right. Maybe he was selfish. Or maybe…
No, he wasn’t going to entertain other options. The guilt that had begun earlier sunk deeper until Booker saw red, but he no longer directed his anger toward his mother or father or sister. Rather, the fury caved inward.
When had he become that guy? That selfish, inconsiderate, thoughtless guy who treated employees with less respect than he offered his pet. When?
He didn’t know and it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t stay that man. He’d change.
Without thinking his plan through, he changed the contact’s name from “Assistant” to “Dee” and typed out a reply. Just one sentence with no explanation.
I’M ON MY WAY.
Chapter Two
Dee
Dee read Booker Watson’s text half-a-dozen times until she’d finally convinced herself the message had been meant for someone else. She’d heard all about the brawl he’d been part of at practice on the late show, Sin in Sports City. A segment focusing on team trouble for the Miami Tritons had been the last thing she’d watched before falling asleep.
She’d hoped rest and elevation would be all she’d need to heal her angry ankle, but, alas, she’d had no such luck. On the contrary, the swelling had only worsened. What a way to usher in my thirties.
Sitting up slowly, she stacked all the pillows on her bed and fluffed them. While she lay her injured foot on the pile, sharp and hot pain shot through her. She pursed her lips and blew out a long stream of air until the sensation subsided.
Stupid sprained ankle! She’d foregone the emergency department afraid of what a trip like that would cost without insurance, but she had called her sister, Kat, for advice. Speaking as the registered nurse she was, Kat had instructed her to stay off it entirely for at least a day. Dee had cried herself to sleep.
The injury had ruined two events in one fell swoop: her birthday and the biggest game of her son’s high school football career. Usually colleges didn’t pursue kids until their junior year, but Elijah had turned heads as a sophomore.
As if her phone could read her mind, an alarm sounded. Dee glanced at the screen. “Elijah’s Game Day-SCOUT VISIT” scrawled across the device. With fresh tears welling in her eyes, she swiped away the notification. Thanks to Elijah’s quick thinking, he’d make the game. She, however, would not.
A small sigh escaped past her lips when she remembered how her teenage son had taken charge before leaving for school, texting each teammate until he had a plan in place. He’d seemed so grown up, and it bothered her. He’d sensed the aggravation, too, if his placating hug and promise to text every quarter was any indication.
When she’d suggested taking an Uber to the game, he’d shut her down, parroting Katrina’s instructions to her. He reminded her the game would be broadcast locally before making her promise to stay in bed all day. He’d ordered her to binge on the birthday cake he’d bought her and sappy television shows. She’d heeded his command so far, but, instead of turning on a “chick flick” like Elijah suggested, Dee had pulled up her favorite old video of her and her boy. She hit play. Watching her son rub his sweet little boy nose against her own much-too-big-for-her-face one, she turned up the volume to better hear the words she knew by heart.
“Nosey kisses always count,” Elijah squealed before wrapping her in a tight hug. The younger her in the video laughed. Katrina had managed to capture the bedtime routine one night when she was babysitting, and the video remained Dee’s most prized possession. She’d backed it up on every computer she had and downloaded it immediately when she purchased a new phone.
A decade, nearly to the day, had transpired since that night. She paused the video to consider the realization. Elijah had grown into a teenager. She had entered her thirties. Barely, but still. Thirty years old. What were thirty-year-olds supposed to feel like?
Damaged? Because with her ankle swollen double its size, she felt that way. Old? Yup, that, too, with the dull aches and catches she had in her back. Hungry? Her gaze fell to the clock beside her bed and the fast-approaching noon hour supported her sudden hunger.
Dee haphazardly glanced in the mirror hanging on her bedroom door. The oversized t-shirt and sweat pants fraying at the bottom caused her to add “frumpy” to the description list. At least she’d ran a brush through her waist-length hair.
The gift bag Elijah had given her glittered in the mirror. Dee opened it and pulled away the tissue for a second time since he wouldn’t leave without her opening the present. She picked up the high heels Elijah had gifted her. She turned the shoes toward the light and watched as the red sequins shimmered. Bright and brilliant, the reflection danced across the ceiling.
