Jocelyn

I don’t think I’ve been this giddy since I turned six years old.

We’d had horses and cakes and decorate-your-own-cookies, and even a magician at my party. I’d worn a pretty pink dress and invited friends from school. I still have a photo of me wearing a crown, holding the hand of my mother, who’d worn a matching pink dress at my insistence.

Now, the memories are bittersweet at best. I haven’t thought about that time in so long, despite a picture I keep in my wallet of my special day. Though the event itself was bursting with excitement, the years thereafter were not. That was one of the last parties my parents had been alive to see.

I blink, exiting the freeway a little quicker than needed, turning into the parking lot minutes later. It’s already mid-afternoon, and I haven’t been back to the office since lunch. It’s been years since I’ve felt so irresponsible. Maybe I’ll call in sick for the rest of the day and head home right after this. I don’t think I’ve ever played hooky from the office—my job is my life. I would have nowhere else to go.

I especially hadn’t thought I’d spend my one day free from work at Target. I hadn’t thought I’d be back to this monstrosity again this year, let alone in the same week. Getting to Target from my condo is like trying to swim through shark infested waters with little more than a wetsuit for protection—it’s just not worth it. Especially not when Amazon delivers the very same things directly to my door.

But if that’s what it takes to befriend Landon Boxer, I’ll swim through those waters any damn day of the week.

“Hey, Duke,” I say into my Bluetooth speaker. I waited to call until I’d parked the car first, so I could give him my full attention. “It’s me.”

“Jocelyn, what can I do for you?”

“I have an offer,” I say. “Listen first, ask questions later.”

Quickly, I explain everything to him—the finances, the travel, the endorsement deal. I throw in the rest of the information I’ve already covered with Boxer.

“I want you to have the deal,” I say. “Boxer’s the best man for the job. Give Matthew Lucas a call today to set things up.”

“Boxer’s not going to say yes.”

“I think you might be surprised.”

“Miss Jones—”

“Do me a favor and ask.” I’m in a hurry to get out of the car, mostly because I have ice cream melting in a container next to me. “I think it’s up to Boxer to say no, don’t you? You get the money if he signs on the dotted line. If he says no, it’s five minutes out of your day. Two if you skip the small talk.”

“I’ll do it because you bought me lunch, Miss Jones, but don’t hold your breath.”

“Thanks, Duke. I have a feeling we’ll be chatting soon.”

I get out of the car, but not before I grab the small container of now-melting ice cream I picked up from Gabe’s on the way over. It had been directly on my route between the cemetery and Target, and I hadn’t even made the decision to stop. My body did it on its own—paying, ordering, and returning to the car—before I’d realized what had happened.

I march through the front doors, purse on one shoulder, ice cream in hand. It doesn’t take long to find the distressed single dad perched on the bench in front of Taco Bell with a crumpled bag on the seat next to him.

In front of him is a cart, and by God he must have a degree in architectural design in order to fill the thing that high. It’s like a Lego project on steroids. Paper plates, crowns, and streamers are popping out of every line on the cart, rolls of wrapping paper poking out like tent poles in every direction. On top of it all is a piñata that looks like a cross between a monkey and a giraffe. I don’t understand it either.

“There you are.” He raises to his feet, blue eyes awash with relief at the first sighting of me. “Thank you so much for coming. I dropped Charli off at her friend’s house for the afternoon, thinking I’d get all of this done while she was occupied. No such luck.”

A wrinkle of worry eases across his forehead as I smile and extend Gabe’s as an offering.

“Sit down,” I instruct. “Eat this, and take a deep breath. Then, we’ll get started.”

“You brought...” He cracks open the lid of the container. “Crunch cone?”

“I figured you might need to stress eat.”

He reaches into the Taco Bell bag and removes two spoons. “Don’t ask why I grabbed two,” he mutters, offering one to me. “I’m not thinking straight.”

I don’t complain, instead sinking onto the bench next to him. He offers me the first bite and, even though I’m still full from our French Dip sandwiches earlier, I accept. The moment is too sweet to say no.

It’s still the best ice cream I’ve ever had, and Boxer seems to agree. He takes a bite, his eyes closing in a peaceful sort of rest, the worry sliding from his face like sand through an hourglass.

He’s fascinating to watch, the change in expression almost lyrical as he opens his eyes a new man. Where pale-blue worry had hovered before, a glimmer of excitement has taken over, and it has my heart skipping a beat to think I might’ve helped put it there.

“You’re something else,” Boxer says with a shake of his head. “I wish I could repay you somehow.”

Almost like magic, Boxer’s phone rings. He blinks, glances down, and shakes his head again.

“Go ahead,” I tell him. “I can wait.”

“Hello, Duke,” he says, shooting me a skeptical glance as he answers. “How’s it going?”

Silence descends on us as the low murmur of Duke’s voice rasps in the background. I wish I could hear what he’s saying, but it’s probably not necessary. I know the gist of it.

“Actually, I might be interested.” Boxer finally speaks, giving me a wry grin. “If it’s really just one night away, I’ll sign it.”

Internally, champagne bottles are popping. I’m not even sure why. I’m just happy to help, and I think this is a great move for Boxer. I might not get a cut of the money, but in a way I have a reward. Seeing him happy.

Money will come, or it won’t. But I have a feeling that Boxer’s friendship isn’t something that can be bought, and the fact that he thought to call me to rescue him from Target imprisonment means something.

“Get the papers, Duke,” Boxer says. He waits a second longer, then laughs at Duke’s next question. He glances at me, and responds. “Why don’t you just ask her?”

I’m startled as Boxer hands the phone to me, but I try to play it cool.

“Hello?” I clear my throat. “This is Jocelyn.”

“Oh, Miss Jones...” Duke tsks in the background, and I can’t tell if he’s chiding me or if he’s amused. “Well played, my friend. Well played.”

“Why don’t you give Matthew a call? I’ll text you his number.”

“I shouldn’t have underestimated you,” Duke says. “Well done, Miss Jones. I’m impressed.”