Matters of the Hart (The Hart Series Book 3) Read online

  A laugh bursts out of me. “I will. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to her. I know she’s your favorite.”

  “No, honey, you’re always my favorite.”

  I can’t help but feel warm by his words. My dad is the best, and I really miss him sometimes. “I know. Hey listen, since Lauren just got in, I’m going to talk to her for a while.”

  “Okay, baby. Love you.”

  “Love you too, Dad.” We hang up, and I toss my phone on the bed next to me. Lauren glares at me now that she finally has my attention.

  I pretend I have no idea what she’s up to, even though it’s basically the same song and dance every weekend. “What?” I finally ask.

  She throws her arms up in exasperation. “Come on, Annika! You can’t just sit there all night long!”

  My petite, blonde, gymnast of a roommate scowls at me. How she has this much energy, I’ll never understand. I’m always exhausted after a full day of class. She has school and at least a couple hours of practice, but she’s still raring to go. And she wants to dance.

  “It’ll be good for you to get off your butt and shake it around for a little bit.”

  I roll my eyes and lean back onto the headboard of my bed. “I don’t shake my butt,” I retort with a smirk. “That’s your thing Lauren, not mine.”

  “Yeah, but you can’t miss out with Kiersten being here.” She plumps out her bottom lip and bats her thick eyelashes at me. It’s a guilt tactic, but it always works.

  Actually, it’s not the guilt tactic that works. It’s that she’s going to hound me until I finally cave; really, there’s no point in fighting anyway. I could be stronger, I suppose. But I usually end up having fun when Lauren drags me out, and we both know it.

  Usually.

  Plus, I really do like Kiersten. The first time Lauren’s high school best friend came to visit, I assumed she’d be as crazy and bubbly as my roommate, but Kiersten surprised me. Yes, she’s a social butterfly, but on a much smaller scale. Plus, she’s really sweet and always has a kind word for everyone. At first glance, they seem like an unlikely pair.

  Lauren is a tiny bundle of energy, who trains in the gym for up to six hours a day. Kiersten, on the other hand, is tall and willowy and has maintained her high school dance figure even through those dreaded Freshman Fifteen months. From what they tell me, it was strictly chance that led to their friendship. Being that Kiersten was in the studio as much as Lauren was in the gym, their paths should have never crossed. But randomly, they ended up sitting next to each other at a high school football game one night, and they’ve been besties ever since. Probably after bonding over their love of hard work and clubbing. Now when Kiersten visits, I’m always guilted into going with them, rounding out the threesome as the awkward, lanky girl with no coordination.

  Come to think of it, I hope I’m not getting a pity invite. I’m sure being right next to me while we all dance makes them look good. Shrugging to myself, I push those thoughts aside. Lauren and I have fun all the time, whether we’re going out or staying in.

  Huffing, Lauren continues to glare at me, waiting for me to finally give in. She knows clubbing isn’t my thing. My thing is tailgating, football games, and beer—not at all your typical college girl. I’d rather be sitting in a parking lot at ten o’clock in the morning waiting for kick off, than rolling out of bed at that time because I was getting my groove on the night before.

  I finally breathe out a deep resolved sigh, and Lauren’s face immediately changes. She knows she’s won.

  “Fiiiiiiine,” I say, dragging the word out as long as possible. “I’ll go.”

  She immediately begins bouncing up and down, clapping her hands together with a big smile on her face. I narrow my eyes at the fact that coercion makes her happy.

  “But you have to do my hair and makeup,” I add, sitting straight up. “And you’re not allowed to make me look like a slut like last time!”

  She scoffs. “You did not look like a slut last time. You were totally glam.”

  I quirk an eyebrow at her lie. She rolls her eyes in response.

  “Someday, I’ll teach you how to have a sense of style. Tonight, you’ll just have to trust me to make you totally hot.” I throw myself on the bed and slap a pillow over my face, trying unsuccessfully to hide from the myriad of brushes and glosses and glittery shit that she’s going to use on me. “But first, let me go take a shower, because you know it’s going to take me way longer to get ready than you anyway.”

  Removing the pillow so I can breathe, I watch her walk away. She’s right. She goes all out when she gets dressed up.

  Me, I could just do some mascara and lip gloss and be done with the whole thing. I was raised by my dad and older brother when my mom died while giving birth to me, so I was never taught anything about makeup and hair. I learned different things, like how to shoot a gun, how to make brisket in the back of a truck, and how to break a man’s thumb if he gets too handsy—real-life skills.

  But tonight, I will allow Lauren to use me as her personal styling doll in hopes it keeps her off my back for at least another couple weeks. My best friend is, by far, the most tenacious person I know. I love her for it, even when it annoys me.

  As she grabs her shower supplies and trots down the hall to the communal bathroom, I stand inside our closet, staring at the clothes. We made a small portion of our room a giant walk-in closet when our third roommate ditched at the last minute for lack of funds after a public intoxication arrest or something. I never got the real story. All I know is it was too late for the housing office to assign another person to our room. Now our giant make-shift closet is the envy of every girl on this floor.

  I don’t appreciate fashion and even I can understand how cool it is.

  Rifling through all my clothes, I long to put on some jeans and a nice top, but there is only one outfit I own that Lauren will deem “club worthy.” A short black dress. It hits several inches above my knee but has a bit of flare to the skirt. It hugs me just enough that I don’t need to worry if a gust of wind will catch it and flash everyone around me, but is loose enough that it has a pocket for phone and credit card so I don’t have to keep track of a purse in the club. The plunging rounded neckline keeps me constantly checking to make sure it hasn’t dropped too low, exposing the girls. The back is scooped low, too, making it impossible to wear a bra. Fortunately, the long sleeves help me not feel as exposed, and the large cut outs down the tops of the arms give it a little more sex appeal than your ordinary little black dress.

  Lauren loves this outfit. I personally think it teeters the edge of being a little too slutty, but since she convinced me to drop a pretty-penny on it in a weak moment, I may as well use it. Besides, I’m not going out tonight to impress anyone. I’m just going to be with my friends. And with as much makeup and hair spray as I’m about to have on me, it’s not like I’ll be recognizable to anyone I care about.

  And because, I suppose, at nineteen years old, I should be enjoying the “college experience,” as Lauren calls it. According to her, going to college football games doesn’t count if that’s the only experience you have.

  “Ugh!” I finally say, giving up and yanking the offending dress off the hanger and over my head, staring at myself in the mirror.

  I guess it could be worse. I have the body for it, even if I don’t put any effort into my physique. And it’s not really as low cut as I think it is. I should probably make a habit of looking in the mirror instead of looking down to see if I’m flashing anyone. The angles are totally different.

  Kiersten comes walking in the room, a towel wrapped around her head and a pink bathrobe wrapped around her body.

  “Ooh! I like that outfit on you,” she says, turning me this way and that, getting the full effect. “It really makes your cleavage look nice.”

  Oh good. That’s what I was hoping. For my boobs to stick out tonight.

  Sensing my apprehension, she changes her phrasing. “No, not in a gratuitous, ‘Look here are
the girls’ kind of way. In a ‘You know there’s got to be a killer rack under there, but she’s too classy to flash it’ kind of way.”

  “Oh, well that makes me feel better,” I deadpan.

  She laughs, knowing it didn’t and bends over to rub her hair with the towel, beginning the tedious process of getting ready for the night.

  I’m still not thrilled about the prospect of clubbing, but I know I’ll end up having fun with these two, no matter what. And by the time Lauren gets me all gussied up, I won’t recognize myself anyway.

  Maybe I should use a fake name for the night.

  No. I’ll just go with Annika. No one ever believes it’s my real name. I’ve heard more times than I can count about how it’s such an exotic name for such a bland girl. Okay, no one ever calls me bland, but what else would the opposite of exotic be?

  That’s okay. I don’t mind not being the flashy one. That’s what Lauren is here for. She can have the spotlight all she wants. I’ll just cheer her on from the sidelines.

  Chapter Three

  Jaxon

  I tug on my tie as I wait for my dad at the restaurant. It’s really constricting; I feel like it’s strangling me, which is an interesting metaphor considering how constricting my life has been the last few years, but I try not to focus on that. I try to concentrate on the fact that my dad insists on having a fancy dinner with me whenever he’s in town, which is the reason why I haven’t completely given up on our relationship yet. Besides, who am I to argue when there is free food involved? So, I suffer through and wear the damn tie.

  I don’t know when our relationship changed. Somewhere around the time my little brother Matty became a superstar on the football field, I suppose. Up until that point, my dad was my hero. He was everything I always wanted to be—big, strong, kind, and funny. And he looked at me like I was his whole world.

  Then something shifted. It wasn’t a big moment that caused the tension in our relationship. It was gradual. Slowly but surely, my teammates were bigger and faster than I was. Slowly but surely, Matty was bigger and faster than everyone on his team. That’s when Dad stopped looking at me like I was his buddy and started looking at me like I was tagging along for the ride. It hurt. A lot. But I tried to make it right. Holy fuck, I tried.

  I made sure to walk-on the football team here at school, even though I knew it wasn’t going to lead to anything except lots of time and exercise. I signed up to major in business, with the idea that eventually I would manage a couple of athletes and work at the foundation my dad set up all those years ago. I did my part, and I still do, hoping something will change and I’ll stop feeling like his “extra” kid, and he’ll be proud of me again. But I also have to live for me.

  It’s a weird contradiction and one that makes my head spin sometimes—do what makes Dad proud or be myself. These days, it feels like those are two very different things.

  Staring at the lobsters in the lobby, I concentrate on memories of my childhood. When I was a kid, my dad used to set me free at fancy places like this, knowing I would never run away as long as there was a tankful of lobsters to mesmerize me.

  I would stand and look at the tank and wonder how the lobsters felt. Were they aware of their pending death? Were they oblivious to their fate? It seemed weird to me that people would watch them walk around, living their little lives, and then eat them. Until I had my first taste. Now, I’m the one observing them because I’m trying to decide which one I’m going to pick for my meal. The meal I’m having with my dad when I drop the bomb about choosing the major I want, not the one he wants me to have.

  I still think it’s morbid, picking out your dinner while it’s still alive, but I justify it by assuming that having a quick death in a pot of boiling water is better than spending your days running from your fellow lobster as he tries to snap your face off with his claw. Yes, these are the random thoughts I have the hungrier I get, which is a hell of a lot better than plummeting into my pity party while I wait.

  Suddenly the door opens and a massive figure walks in—my dad, larger than life. He smiles at the couple leaving and holds the door open for them to pass. They have to scoot around him because he’s so big, he takes up the entire doorway. Even in his forties, my dad still forgets he’s a giant compared to the majority of the rest of the world.

  Once they pass, he turns and catches my eye. If it’s possible, his smile gets even brighter. “There’s my boy!” Two steps later he’s got me wrapped in a huge bear hug.

  My dad has always been a hugger. I may be an adult now, but that doesn’t stop him from showing his affection, publicly or not. I humor him because it has been a couple months since we’ve seen each other, and as much as he can be overbearing to the point of annoyance at times, he’s still my dad.

  He finally pulls away to give me the once-over, and I find myself bracing for what’s next.

  “You’re looking tired. Are you feeling okay? Are you practicing too hard? Getting enough sleep?”

  “I’m fine, Dad,” I say with a roll of my eyes. “I just had a long practice today.”

  His eyebrows furrow with concern. “Are you pushing yourself too hard?” he continues to question. “Do you need to cut back? Maybe you shouldn’t be working at night—”

  “Dad,” I interrupt. “I’m fine. They drew my labs a couple months ago when I did my annual physical. Everything came back perfectly normal. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m just tired.”

  “Okay,” he says, but I know he’s not fully convinced. Not that he’ll ever be fully convinced. It doesn’t matter that I’ve got the highly coveted “cured” label that came after five years in remission. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been considered cured for more than ten years now. He doesn’t hesitate with the questions whenever we meet up. I’ve learned how to deflect.

  “Come on, Dad, don’t you have an eight o’clock reservation? I don’t want to be late.”

  He flashes me a knowing grin. “You’ve been eyeing those lobsters, I see.”

  “Damn straight. I’m a growing boy. You need to feed me.”

  We walk up to the hostess stand. “Name?” the very blonde, very buxom hostess asks in an equally very bitchy tone.

  “Hart,” I reply. “Again.” She cocks an eyebrow at me and scowls, still treating me like gum on her shoe, just like she did when I first got here, and she wouldn’t seat me because I was by myself.

  Of course, when she turns to my dad, she has a flirty smile. “I see your entire party has finally arrived, Mr. Hart. I’ll be happy to seat you now.”

  I roll my eyes and huff as she grabs two menus and leads us into the seating area.

  My dad leans into me as we walk. “What did you do to piss her off?” he asks quietly. It irritates me that he assumes I did something.

  “Oh, you know—I didn’t bring your wallet with me,” I snark.

  “What?”

  “A girl in my statistics class works here. She says they’re very good at pinpointing who the one with the money is. That’s the person they’re nice to because that’s the person who tips them. The rest of us are an inconvenience and are in the way.”

  Dad chuckles. “That doesn’t happen.”

  I shake my head. No matter how many times I try to explain that people treat him differently because of who he is, he never gets it. “Ask Mom about it again. She’ll tell you.”

  He just laughs as we sit down, probably still not believing me.

  As we settle in, the hostess leans closer to my dad, and puts a hand on his arm. “If you need anything, Mr. Hart, anything at all, just ask. My name is Mindy, and I’ll be right there at the front.”

  “Okay.” A strange look crosses his face as he finally realizes my assessment of her behavior was probably right. It still shocks him when people treat him special because of who he is, no matter how many times the rest of us complain about it. My dad has never met a stranger. Unfortunately, I’ve met many.

  As she walks away, a waiter takes her place. Thankfu
lly, he’s a guy. In my experience, they’re easier to deal with in situations like these.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” he begins, placing small white napkins on the table in front of us. “My name is Luke, and I’ll be your server this evening. May I start you with a beverage? Perhaps something from the bar?”

  “I’ll take two fingers of Johnny Walker Black,” my dad says, surprising me. “Jax, do you want something?”

  I shake my head. “No, I have to work tonight. I’m going to stick with water.”

  Dad flashes me that concerned look again, but he’s distracted quickly by Luke. “Very good, sirs. Feel free to browse the menu. I’ll be back with your drinks and to answer any questions you may have.”

  He walks off, and I look over at my dad. “Since when do you drink whiskey?”

  “Since Henry Davidson introduced me to it.”

  “Henry who?”

  He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Henry Davidson? Only the best tight end in the history of the NFL.”

  I stare at him blankly.

  “Seriously, Jaxon? With all of that football trivia in your brain, you don’t remember Henry Davidson?”

  I continue to stare at him before finally asking, “When did he play?”

  Dad peruses the menu absentmindedly as he answers me. “He played for the Browns all throughout the 80s.”

  A laugh bursts out of me. “He played for the worst team in the league like twenty years before I was born, and you think I’m going to remember him?”

  His jaw drops open and he looks like I kicked his puppy. I actually have to stifle a laugh because of how disappointed he looks. Only this time, I know it’s light-hearted, which gives me a boost.

  “What part of best tight end in the history of football are you not hearing, son?”

  “The part about his glory days being over before I was even born, Dad.”