ZOE

I spend the rest of my day half fearful that Andre Beaumont will track me down and throw me into Boston’s Charles River. It’s March, and still frighteningly cold outside, and the black, murky depths of the city’s popular strip of waterfront does not look enticing, thank you very much.

But the look Andre gave me just before I left Walter Collins’s office this afternoon? Oh yeah. He’s planning something. The what, however, has eluded me thus far.

In fact, I’m so wound up after the entire experience that even my dad, who is perhaps the most unaware person I’ve ever met, notices that something is up during dinner.

“Zoe?” he says, as he dumps a lump of mashed potatoes onto his plate. “You okay today?”

Fred Mackenzie isn’t the sort to talk about those pesky things called feelings, and so I spare a quick glance at Shelby, my stepmother, who only shrugs and mouths, humor him. Right. My dad and Shelby married when I was in my teens, but since I’ve always lived with my mom . . . Well, time spent with my dad has always been on the fly. Random weekend trips here. A full week’s school vacation there. The last six months in Boston have proven to be an eye-opening experience, that’s for sure.

I’m already planning my escape the moment my first paycheck lands in my bank account.

I gird myself for his interrogation by shoving another slice of meat into my mouth, and use the time spent chewing (Shelby overcooked the pork chops) to prepare what I’m going to say. Finally, after I’ve managed to swallow the pork and not choke to death, I announce, “Well, I got the job.”

My half-sister, Tia, squeals and fist pumps the air. “Ohmigod, I knew you would!”’I love Tia. With her brown hair and dark eyes, she’s the spitting image of me. Just a younger me—with heaps more enthusiasm and a zest for life that adulthood hasn’t yet kicked to the curb.

“Thanks for letting me practice my interview on you, T,” I murmur, and a wide smile pulls at her mouth.

“What’s the catch?” Dad says, pointing his fork at me. “You look like someone ran over your dog, then did it again.”

“Fred!” Shelby shoots a pointed glance at their twelve-year-old daughter. “Let’s lay off the graphic images. Please.”

Dad’s gray brows pull down, like he can’t quite grasp the concept that maybe his youngest child shouldn’t be thinking about dying dogs—hell, I don’t want to think about dying dogs.

“Well, she does look like it,” is all he grumbles. I assume he’s referring to the dog comparison, which, you know, isn’t the worst non-compliment I’ve ever received from Fred Mackenzie.

There was that time he “accidentally” said I looked pregnant during one of my visits. I was fourteen, and he followed up that comment with bringing me to the drugstore and handing me a pregnancy test. Mind you, I was still a virgin.

There was also that time that he (drunkenly) told me that he wasn’t sure that I was his kid when I was sixteen.

I’ve since learned to take what my father says with a grain of salt.

Something that Shelby clearly hasn’t learned to do, despite the fact that she’s been married to him for over a decade.

“How about sad?” she prompts, her blue eyes locked on Tia in worry. “Zoe looks sad.”

“She doesn’t look sad,” my dad counters, color infusing his cheeks.

Oh, crap. Here we go again.

I try to catch Tia’s eye, but she’s too busy pushing the food around on her plate. Wanting to put a smile on her face, I kick her foot under the table with just enough force that she knows it wasn’t accidental.

Her dark eyes flick over to me, and she makes a “whaddaya gonna do” face, complete with a slack mouth and half-closed eyes, like she’s five seconds away from falling asleep at the table. I return the look, not caring how silly I appear, in sisterly camaraderie.

“She looks pissed,” Dad finishes, thrusting his fork in the air.

Now Shelby looks pissed. “Language, Fred.”

“Shelby, it’s my house. If I want to say ‘pissed,’ I can say it however many times that I want.”

Eyes narrowing, Shelby seethes, “Don’t you dare, Fred Elliott Mackenzie. Don’t . . . you . . . dare.”

Well, I think this is our cue. I nudge Tia again with my foot, jerking my head toward the doorway that leads to the living room. She nods curtly in silent agreement. We grab our plates, utensils, and glasses of water, and stealthily escape the fray.

Not that there’s need for any stealth, because Dad and Shelby have erupted into a fight that borders on the nonsensical. I enter the living room just as my dad breaks out into a song that consists only of the word, “pissed.” He hits the high notes like a champ, then drops his voice down to an Elvis-Presley-worthy croon.

Back in the day, before he opened an Italian restaurant and lost his soul to meatballs, fettuccini, and marinara sauce, I recall my dad having dreams of becoming a professional singer.

Apparently, this is as close as he gets nowadays.

I follow Tia up the flight of stairs to the second level of the house. Second door on the right is hers, and we quickly settle in on the carpeted floor, picnic-style, with the door half-cracked.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters, sounding so morose that my gaze immediately jumps to her face.

“For what?”

She points to the floor in indication of the adults who aren’t acting like adults. “You know—about Dad and Mom.”

I hide my wince. Growing up, it had only ever been my mom and I. Two women against the world. Marsha Mackenzie (she never reverted back to her maiden name) has never been inclined to date, perhaps because her relationship with Dad was so toxic. Even now, she prefers to go out with her girlfriends for cocktails over spending time with a man.

Sure, I never had the ideal family unit, but I would take my childhood over Tia’s any day. In the six months since I’ve moved in, there hasn’t been a day where Dad and Shelby haven’t broken out the figurative knives and sharpened them on each other’s flesh.

“It’s okay,” I tell my sister, as I kick off my shoes and tuck my legs under me. I still haven’t changed out of my interview outfit, so the slim-fitting dress inches up my thighs. Since it’s only Tia, I don’t bother to shield her from my black Spanx. “Don’t worry about it, T.”

Her thin shoulders lift with a shuddery breath. “But you got the job, and I know you’re going to leave soon.”

As much as I want to get out of this house on a permanent basis, the thought of hurting Tia breaks my heart. So, I go for the slip-around-the-issue option. “What? Where am I going to live if I do that? In the Boston Commons?”

She giggles, just as I intended her to. “Are you going to put up a tent?”

I fake-glare at my half-finished plate of food. “I don’t have a tent.”

The idea of me being tent-less sparks more laughter from my sister, evil creature that she is. “What if it rains?” she prompts.

“Guess I’m going to be soaked.”

“What if it snows?”

I pin her with an expression of pure horror and she howls with laughter. “Are you trying to make sure that I never want to leave this house?” I demand.

“What if there’s a tornado and it whips through the park, and you get taken with it?”

“Boston doesn’t have tornadoes,” I gripe with a half-grin, “and you’re evil, you know that?”

“So, you’re going to stay?” She swipes a thumb under her eye to catch a tear (she laughed too hard at my expense), and proceeds to shovel the rest of her food into her mouth at top-speed. I both admire and envy her youthful metabolism. Around a forkful of corn, she asks, “Please?”

“Yeah, I’ll stay.”

For now.

At twenty-seven, I miss my freedoms of being completely independent. Walking around in my underwear and a T-shirt are at the top of the list, as is enjoying the company of men. But, since men haven’t really been on my radar for quite some time now, I guess I just miss the underwear/T-shirt bit the most.

The thought of men, however, makes me think of Andre. We’re due to have our first meeting tomorrow, and I’m both dreading it, and, strangely, also anticipating the thrill of being in his company.

The thrill of drawing his blood, I mean.

The thirty-day trial at Golden Lights Media looms large like a dark, gray cloud over my head. Whether Andre wants to or not, he’s about to become the most clean-cut hockey player the NHL has ever seen.

Game on.