Jocelyn

“This looks...great!” I try to give a cheery smile, even though nothing could be further from the truth.

He’s taken me to a complete and utter dump. I have to step over a pile of melted green goo on the sidewalk.

Boxer gives an enthusiastic nod, and I try not to wonder whether this place has ever received an A-rating from the FDA. The ice cream shop is hardly more than a hut built into a truck and parked along the road near my office in Century City. I thought it was a mistake when Boxer stopped his car in front of it. We could’ve walked, but thanks to my high heels, he offered to drive.

I keep that smile on my face, following Boxer to the window, watching as he gives a complicated handshake to the man behind the window.

“Gabe, you know what I’ll have,” he says. “The lady will have...”

I give a stupefied shake of my head as he looks to me. “Boy,” I say, scanning a peeling menu that looks thoroughly unappetizing. “Where do I even start?”

“Dip cone, extra crunch on the outside,” Boxer says smoothly, half to me, half to Gabe. “Yeah?”

“Crunch is the best,” Gabe agrees. “Sweet treat for the sweet lady.”

I laugh at this; the thought of anyone calling me sweet is a little bit funny. My cheeks turn red and I look away, however, when Boxer nods in agreement.

I reach for my wallet, but Boxer rests a hand on my arm, halting me in the process.

“Let me pay,” I say. “It’s business. I can expense it.”

“No, this is personal.” With an amused shake of his head, he moves my hand away. “We left business back at the office.”

“Well, then, thank you.”

Boxer hands over a twenty, waving away the change. On the ice, this man looks intimidating. He’s big—his sheer size a presence in itself. The features on his face are a little too dramatic, the chip in his tooth a testament to his many battles on skates.

However, when he smiles, his eyes brighten into pools of crystal blue under a slightly-too-long mane of dirty blond hair. My eyes wander toward the bulge of arm muscles as he tucks his wallet back into his pocket.

“Here you are,” he says, handing one cone to me and holding onto the other. “I guarantee you’ve never had anything better.”

I take the dessert, calculating just how long it’s been since I’ve had any of it: the waffle cone, the crunch, the full fat ice cream. I don’t diet, but I do stick to a regimented meal plan of coffee for breakfast, salad for lunch, and a Lean Cuisine for dinner. I just don’t have the time to really enjoy food. For me, it’s a tool to keep energized and nothing more.

Boxer watches me carefully. “What do you think?”

I make a show of my first lick from the top of the cone, raising my eyebrows in pleasant surprise. I’m shocked that I don’t have to fake my amazement. The ice cream is delicious.

“It’s wonderful,” I tell both men as they watch me like hawks. “Best I’ve ever had.”

Both break into smiles at my words.

“Great,” Gabe says. “I love to hear it. Any friend of Boxer’s is a friend of mine. Come back soon and bring Charli.”

“Charli?” I look to Boxer.

“Let’s walk,” he says.

It’s a surprisingly warm January day in Los Angeles, and the burst of cool treat sends tingles across my flesh. The sweet crunch of sprinkles against a backdrop of vanilla and chocolate twist brings back the sensations of summer that I haven’t felt since childhood.

When Boxer rests his hand on my elbow and turns me down a side street, it’s comfortable, as if we’ve been here before, danced to this tune. We stay quiet for some time, and the peaceful hum of midday sounds is a nice change of pace.

We walk until Boxer finds what he’s looking for—a bench tucked into the high-rise buildings of Century City. Despite the corporate feel, he’s managed to find a small section that feels like a park. I’d never noticed it existed.

Only once he’s gotten me seated does he remove his hand from my arm and sit next to me, perching lazily across the space. He owns the air around him with quiet confidence, how a cat might lounge in a windowsill.

“Tell me about yourself, Miss Jones.”

I run a hand over my pencil skirt. “I thought we left business at the office. Call me Jocelyn.”

“Jocelyn,” he tries the name out. “Okay, then. Where’d you get that name? It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you. It was my grandmother’s.”

“Were you close?”

“Oh, I never... never met her.”

He glances toward me, swift and curious. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure she would’ve loved you.”

His choice of sympathy surprises me. He doesn’t even know me, yet he sounds sincere. It’s odd. Because I don’t have a good answer for him, I take another lick of my cone. I don’t talk about my family much because there’s no point. They’re not here anymore, so there’s no sense bringing up an age-old ache in my gut.

“Tell me something else about yourself,” he says. “Something happy.”

“Something happy?”

Another lick of my ice cream cone. Boxer is an anomaly, all right. I showed him the money already—most clients would’ve signed on the line and popped the bubbly. Not him.

Lost in my thoughts, I don’t realize that Boxer’s staring at me. I’ve completely forgotten the question.

“Miss Jones...” Boxer gives me a thoughtful expression over his own ice cream. “It shouldn’t be so hard to come up with something that makes you happy.”

“Oh, of course not...” I smile at him, but he doesn’t return it. Instead, I find a sense of contentment there, a quiet calmness. “At the moment, I’m happy you’re excited to meet with me. I really believe that together, we can do great things, and—”

Boxer gives a low laugh, and I stop talking.

“I didn’t ask for a sales pitch,” he says in his deep voice. “Work doesn’t count. What else makes you happy?”

I narrow my eyes at him, thinking on it. It’s harder than I’d like to admit.

“I enjoy my spin classes in the morning,” I begin. “The endorphins make me happy.”

“Fair enough.”

“Tell me something about you,” I say before he can pester me for more. “What’s something I should know about you?”

“Oh, Miss Jones—”

“Jocelyn.”

“Anyone ever call you Joss?” Boxer asks. You seem more like a Joss.”

I blink in surprise. “Only my dad.”

“Well, your dad has good taste.”

“Yes,” I agree, not bothering to correct Boxer with the correct tense. My dad had good taste. “I haven’t been called that since I graduated high school. It just didn’t seem as... professional.”

“I get it. My name is Landon, but my brother called me Danny growing up. I prefer Boxer.”

I size him up, pretending to study his physique. “You look like a Landon to me.”

He gives a quiet laugh. “Only my mom calls me that.”

I catch a drip of ice cream on my tongue before it falls to the ground, surprising myself with how long I’ve gone without looking at the clock. Even more surprising, I’m in no rush to leave. “What else should I know about you?”

“I have a daughter,” Boxer says, his face lighting at the word. “Her name is Charli. Well, it’s Charlotte, but she’ll poke your eyes out if you call her that.”

“A daughter.” Another drop of ice cream snakes down the side of my cone, but I’m not quick enough to stop it from skidding toward the ground. “Are you married?”

“No. Never was, actually.” He stands and reaches a hand out to pull me to my feet as I finish the last of my cone. His has long since vanished. “Are you ready?”

“How old is Charli?” I accept his proffered hand, allowing his giant one to engulf mine. His fingers are warm, gentle even, as he guides me onto the sidewalk.

“She’s five, almost six. Hard to believe how fast the time goes.”

“That it does. Do you have other children?”

“It’s just the two of us at home.”

“You’ve been raising her alone?”

“For almost five years, yeah.”

I shouldn’t pry, but I’m genuinely curious. “You can tell me to bug off if I’m being inappropriate, but I’m just curious how she came to be yours.”

He laughs, and I realize the awkwardness of my question a beat too late. I don’t deal with kids often, and I’ve rarely considered having any of my own. Talking about children feels alien, so I cringe and apologize.

“No, it makes sense, but that’s a funny way to ask it.” We walk side by side, Boxer’s face beaming at the mention of his daughter. “I don’t suppose Charli came to be mine—she’s always been mine.”

“Of course.”

“You’re not prying. This is what friends do,” Boxer explains. “As for Chali’s mom? We fell in love about seven years ago. I proposed, but she told me no.”

“Why?” The word comes out a gasp, and immediately I’m awkward multiplied by ten. “Er... she wasn’t ready to get married?”

“I suppose she was young and hopeful, among other things.” The blue of Boxer’s eyes darkens, masking a flash of hurt. “She liked the idea of dating a hockey player more than the reality of it. I tried to keep up with her—the parties, the events, the premiers, but that’s not me. Eventually, it wore us down.”

“Oh.”

“Then, Charli happened,” he says. “Nearly six years ago now. We tried to make it work for another year after she was born, but it only lasted a few months. Lauren—that’s her mother’s name—took off for greener pastures. Last I heard, she’s dating a football player in Miami.”

“Oh, Boxer.”

My hand reaches for his of its own accord, and I give a concise squeeze. I’ve never been much good at offering sympathy, but this feels right. And when the touch happens, a rush slides through me, a zing of excitement and sympathy and compassion.

“I’m sorry that happened to you.” I pull my hand away before I lose my train of thought. “I really am.”

“Why?” He looks at me in surprise. “I’m not sorry at all.”

“But Lauren—”

“It wasn’t the life for her,” he says. “But that’s okay—this is my life. I can’t imagine a day without Charli. If anything, I’m a very lucky man.”

It’s a good thing I let go of his hand when I did. Otherwise, I might’ve slipped my fingers between his and left them there. I’m not known for my emotional intelligence or my ability to comfort my friends—I don’t expect sympathy from others, so I’ve never learned how to gift it in return.

However, Boxer’s not looking for sympathy, and this throws me for a loop. I can’t think of the right words, so I settle for a smile and a nod.

“Do you have kids?”

“No,” I tell him. “None.”

“Any desire?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” I shrug. It’s the truth; I haven’t thought about it much. “I haven’t figured out how to balance a career and a family yet, I suppose.”

We approach his car, and he stops walking. “It’s not that hard.”

“Of course it is! There are blogs and books and advice on the subject everywhere,” I say. “I’ve read half of them, and none of them make it sound easy.”

“Well, I’ll tell you my theory.” Boxer opens the passenger door to his SUV, and I note a doll upside down on the backseat. “Hop in.”

I slide in, brushing against his arm as I do so. A jolt shoots through me, just like the last time we touched. It jumbles my thoughts.

“There you are,” he says, tucking the strap of my purse into the car. “You liked the ice cream?”

“Loved it.”

Boxer shuts the door, then makes his way to the driver’s seat. Once he’s settled, he looks across the center console, studying my face for a long minute. Eventually, I’m forced to look away—I pride myself on my ability to maintain eye contact in tricky situations, but this one is different. He’s not looking to intimidate, but to understand. In a world of business, this is unusual.

“There are only a few things you need to know about me,” he begins, finally dropping his gaze from my eyes to my lips—for one moment only—before he looks through the window. “I’m a pretty simple guy.”

“I’d beg to differ.”

He grins. “Then you’re making this too difficult.”

“Humor me,” I say, unable to hide my own smile. “What am I missing?”

“I love my daughter more than anything,” he says. “And I love hockey a close second. That’s all there is to it.”

“That’s...” I struggle to comprehend, stumbling for a response. “That doesn’t sound so simple at all.”

“Well, there’s one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Ice cream,” he says. “It’s a close third.”