Chapter One
~HENDRIX ~
The elevator jolts to a stop.
Not the gentle kind of stop. The kind that makes me pause and grip the box tighter. I carefully jostle the box around in one hand, while steadying myself with my other hand. I steal a glance at the ceiling to see if I can actually see the cables fraying through the panels.
“Seriously?” I mutter.
Beside me, August shifts the box he’s carrying in his arms, hitting the button again. Nothing. Just the soft whir of machinery dying.
“Don’t panic,” August replies, grinning at me.
“I’m not panicking,” I snap at him. “I’m trapped in a metal box with my ex. That’s not panic, that’s karma.”
He turns towards me, his brown eyes shining. “Technically, I’m your boss now.”
“Technically, I can still punch you.”
Dex was finally moving into this place on the first floor of August’s building. The reason we are here. The reason I agreed to help Dex move out of August’s penthouse—because I knew it meant a lot to Amelia, Dex’s girlfriend and one of my very best friends.
I should have known better, I think to myself. I let out an irritated sigh as I place the box labeled “bedroom” down the on the elevator floor. I stretch my arms overhead, arching my back until the tightness in my shoulders rolls loose. Muscles honed from years on the pitch protest slightly, but I breathe through it. I’m 5'5", athletic and curvy, built to dive, sprint, and hold my ground. My very long, dark brown hair is twisted into a braid that’s already starting to fray. And my eyes—wide, chocolate-colored—catch everything, even when I pretend they don’t.
August Cromwell, my boss and the owner of the National Women’s Soccer League (NWSL) team that I play for, the Tampa Bay Blaze, sets the kitchen box down carefully, then leans against the wall, arms crossed. I don’t miss the way his strong broad shoulders flex. His body always reminded me of chiseled stone. All those hours he spent weight training and putting his body through the paces of football workouts has really paid off. And he’s maintained it. He pushes a bit of his brown hair from his eyes. Those dark brown eyes, that I always said were full of shit, find mine. “You always get mean when you’re nervous.”
“And you’re always smug when you’re cornered,” I snap back.
Silence stretches between us, thick with old memories and the hum of broken machinery.
I stare at the floor numbers. “You had to live on the top floor.” I shake my head, exasperated with him.
“It’s the best,” he replies with a simple shrug.
We’re frozen between fourteen and fifteen. “How long do these things usually take?”
He shrugs, “Depends. Could be ten minutes. Could be an hour.”
I exhale slowly.Sixty seconds in and I want to claw my way out.
He watches me, his eyes softening. “You look good, Hen.”
He used the nickname that only my friends call me. My parents named me Hendrix, which I always thought was because my dad had albums of Jimi Hendrix. Turns out he didn’t. That’s what his second son would have been named. My older brother by ten years got the name Ash. But me being a girl didn’t change my name. I was still named Hendrix Monroe.
I refuse to answer. Another lie. I’m literally wearing a black athletic top with grey shorts. Nothing special or good about that.
“You still wear the necklace,” he adds.
My hand flies up to my throat instinctively. The sliver chain. The one that he gave me the night my college soccer team, the University of North Carolina, clinched a spot in the NCAA Tournament, the College Cup. I hadn’t even realized I put it on. Sometimes it’s a routine that I fall into. He never seemed to noticed it until now.
“Habit,” I reply.
“Right,” he says, smirking at me.
The elevator creaks again but doesn’t move.
I look at him then—really look at his plain white T-shirt, grey sweat shorts, that same stupid dimple that used to make me forgive everything.
“I’m not here for this,” I tell him.
