“You’re brilliant!”

Instantly following this declaration, I’m practically suffocated by my foster sister when she tugs me in for a tight embrace without any warning. My face is pressed against her shoulder, and I’m certain I have numerous strands of her long blond hair embedded in my cheek.

Patting her on the back awkwardly—I don’t exactly do well with physical displays of affection—I carefully ease away and draw in a deep breath of welcomed oxygen. Phew. That was a close one.

“For real, Ivy.”

I shrug it off. Compliments make me queasy. “No biggie.”

Darcy stares at me with her eyes wide in disbelief. “You have no idea how much you helped.”

She links her arm with mine and leads me down the hall of our high school. “You’ve just rescued me from being the talk of the school—in a bad way.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Now I don’t have to switch classes like Angie did or have my name added to the varsity Wall of Shame like Emma or Michelle. You know what a death sentence that is.”

She does her semi-subdued squeal of joy with a little side-to-side bounce, jiggling me in the process, and I nearly lose my grip on my books.

“I’ve been thinking about this…”

Those five words cause me to tense with apprehension. Because when they slip out of Darcy’s mouth, there’s a ninety-nine percent chance I’m not going to be on board with whatever she’s thinking.

We stop at her locker to gather her things before we head home. As she dials the combination on the lock, she leaves me waiting, rocking on the heels of my Chucks and antsy as heck. When Darcy hesitates and doesn’t immediately spill whatever’s on her mind, it does not bode well.

At all.

“Darce.” I drag out the syllable impatiently.

She pops the lock open and glances over at me with a gleam in her blue eyes. Grabbing what she needs, she slams the metal door closed on the locker and spins the combination on the lock for good measure. After glancing at the sparse number of students hanging around after school, most of them here for club meetings or athletes heading to practice, she focuses on me and leans in.

“I think you should put yourself up for hire.”

I rear back, scrunching my face in disgust. “Ew! Are you nuts? I’m not a hooker!”

With a heavy roll of her eyes, she shakes her head. “Not like that, Ivy. I’m saying”—she leans in and whispers—“you should charge people for how you helped me.”

“What do you mean?” My words are slow, the wheels already turning in my head. Because money is safety. Security.

That’s the life of a foster kid. Or rather, of this foster kid.

“I mean,” she begins as we start walking toward the front of the school to exit the building, “this could be something. Something big.”

“Like a business?” I frown in thought.

“Exactly.”

We push through the doors of our high school and are instantly faced with the beautiful backdrop of Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. The breathtaking view of the Great Smoky Mountains causes me to always take a moment to appreciate the scenery.

She matches my stride as we head toward the car we share. It’s nothing to be jealous of, but it runs, and it isn’t totally obscene looking. Our ’88 Honda Civic might have four hundred thousand miles on it, but it’s still going strong. The paint job leaves much to be desired, but for two high schoolers, it’s the best thing in the world and probably the greatest gift either of us have ever received from foster parents.

Darcy and I met two years ago after we were thrust together at the Nadalsen’s. She’d been kicked out of her last foster family’s home because their son had accused her of trying to coerce him into taking a trip to “third base.” She’d been adamant that the accusations were untrue, and I believed her. Darcy Cole was the last person who needed to beg someone to get handsy with her.

Guys are always flocking to her. She’s the Merriam-Webster definition of gorgeous with long blond hair and blue eyes. Though she’s tall and statuesque, she has all the right curves in all the right places. She’s also toned and fit, thanks to good genetics—one of the only good things her birth parents gave her. I know this only because we share a room and she hoards Doritos and those little disgusting chocolate snack cake rolls with the fake white crème in the middle. I swear those things have a shelf life of about a million years.

Basically, she’s perfect. And me? Well, I’m definitely not. My dark-brown hair is just blah, and as far as curves go, I’m pretty sure it’s safe to say my butt is only slightly larger than my chest. I’ve been waiting for my boobs to finally wake up and get with the program, but I’m seventeen years old and too smart to continue with the delusions of grandeur. Sadly, I’ve considered implants—in my dreams, of course, because there’s no way I’d waste good money on boobs instead of a house or reliable vehicle.

The worst part is my height. Where Darcy is barely an inch shorter than me, with her beauty, her height sets her on the spectrum of a runway model. Me? I look like a dude.

A dude with tiny pectorals.

But, hey. It’s fine because I have brains and big plans for my life. My guidance counselor saw how much I loved my Intro to Psychology class and suggested I apply to one of the programs offered to select high school students. Now, I’ve already acquired more than a year’s worth of credits toward my psychology degree at the famed Louisiana State University in Shreveport, Louisiana. LSU is my ticket out of Pigeon Forge and the gossip that followed me here from my hometown of Huntsville, Alabama.

To me, LSU gleams and glistens like the pearly gates of Heaven do to those dying to get in.

Darcy slides into the driver’s seat and presses the automatic locks to let me in. Once I’m seated and buckled in, she pulls out of the school parking lot to head home since neither of us has a shift at the local video game rental store tonight.

As she navigates the streets nearing our neighborhood, I release a long sigh. “I can’t wait till we start college in August.”

She tosses me a quick glance before returning her attention to the road. “Look, I’m serious about what I said. We can work together and help people. Using what we’re good at.”

I let out a derisive snort. “I’m good at helping people break up.” I hold up an index finger and circle it in the air. “Woo. Hoo.”

“You’re good at helping people part ways on friendly terms. Without drama or absolutely crushing their feelings.” She pulls into our driveway and off to the side, in our designated spot. Turning off the engine, she looks at me. “That’s a gift.”

“And you’re just good with people in general.” I wave my hand in emphasis. “You can talk to pretty much anyone. That’s more of a gift than… What? Why are you staring at me like that?” I eye her warily because, in truth, she’s creeping me out right now.

Her smile is slow to form. “You can do this.”

“Do what?” I draw out my question slowly, cautiously.

“A business.” She beams at me. “You and I can work together to help people.”

“Oh, boy.”

“I can see it now.” She slides out of the car with her backpack and slings it over her shoulder. She strides around the front of the vehicle, waiting for me to grab my things and close the door. Darcy radiates excitement, rocking back and forth on her heels. “I can help from the social aspect of things, and you’ll be able to analyze things to help them get ditched.”

“Ditched.” I let the word roll around in my brain, pondering the idea. A business where I’d help people break up...

“Ditched,” Darcy repeats, and I must admit, it has a certain ring to it.

We could have never predicted what the future had in store for us.