The fox and the rebound, p.1
The Fox and the Rebound, page 1
The Fox and the Rebound
Mary Frame
Copyright © 2022 by Mary Frame
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact Mary Frame maryframeauthor@gmail.com
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Book Cover by Qamber Designs
https://www.qamberdesignsmedia.com/
Editing by Catherine Felnagle and Red Adept Editing
Contents
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Mary Frame
Between a Fox and a Hard Place
To my grandma Sally (Riddell). For all the summers filled with swimming, the jelly shoes, the new glasses, the macaroni and peas, and even the moth balls that (allegedly) kept the spiders at bay.
Most especially for the bookshelves stuffed with Danielle Steel and Jackie Collins that I totally did not sneak-read as a child, and for always taking me to the library <3
Preface
Dear Reader,
* * *
This book contains references to the deaths of a parent and a young sibling as the result illness or accident. There are also references to past toxic and abusive relationships for both main characters and a side character who struggles with former alcohol abuse and addiction.
Thematically, this entire series is a little more heart-wrenching than my other books, but there still is humor—because life is messy, but it’s also funny.
I provide this warning so you can make an informed decision about whether to proceed. If you would rather read something more lighthearted, please check out the Imperfect Series or The Dorky Series if you haven’t already!
* * *
Take care of yourself,
<3
Mary
Chapter One
Oliver
* * *
The intercom on the corner of the desk beeps. “Mr. Nichols, Miss Fox wishes to speak with you.”
I lift my bored gaze from the steady stream of numbers flowing across the screen and frown. “I already spoke with Finley this morning. What does she want now?”
The last conversation we had was pointless. Finley updated me on how the cabins for the camp instructors were nearly complete, contracts for the rest of the renovations confirmed, interviews in progress, and the student quarters were on track to be finished by the end of summer—all of which I knew and I didn’t care about anyway. The worst part of the interaction was when Archer, my childhood acquaintance and business associate who now lives with Finley, thrust his way into the conversation between me and Finley to “see how things are going.” Things being code for my emotional well-being.
“Fine,” I said, the best answer I could muster.
He then proceeded to update me ad nauseam on the status of all his personal and professional accomplishments of late. By all appearances, and by his own declarations, Archer is happy living in a run-down house in the middle of nowhere with Finley Fox and her chaotic family. A fact I find both annoying and mystifying.
“It’s not Finley,” Carson says. “It’s Piper. Can I send her in?”
My surroundings brighten subtly, the world coming into sharp focus.
This morning started like every other Tuesday. I got out of bed at five. Drank a high-protein smoothie before running on the treadmill for an hour. Showered. Went down to the third floor to work by precisely seven a.m. Ate avocado toast and egg whites prepared by my chef at nine a.m. It was all typical. Normal. Expected. Ordinary. Gray. Boring.
My whole life has become a series of incremental steps and chores that don’t have any meaning and do nothing to hold my attention, yet at just the mention of Piper Fox’s name, suddenly I’m off the hamster wheel, where I’ve been running in a dark room, going nowhere, and am thrust out into the sunshine with the breeze and the trees and limitless possibilities.
Foolish. Ridiculous. Irrational.
Why is she here? We had a tacit understanding to avoid each other after the last time.
I shove the thought away. I can’t think of that now, not when I’m about to be confronted with her presence for the first time in three months and eleven days.
“Should I tell her you’re busy?” Carson asks.
Piper is out there, listening to the entire conversation, so I resist the urge to snap at Carson. To anyone else, he would sound professional and uninterested, but he’s teasing me. I appreciate that he doesn’t grovel or behave obsequiously, and I enjoy his brash honesty, annoying as it may be. It’s one of the reasons I stole him from his last employer and paid him extensively for the defection.
“Send her in.” I glance around my office.
This won’t do at all. The room is cold, sparse. No personal photos, all business. The desk is devoid of paperwork and has only a laptop. The whole setup—the stark colors, the size, the raised podium where my desk is, the way my chair is slightly elevated—is arranged to put me in a position of power, not in an obvious way but just enough that the guest subconsciously knows I’m the one in charge.
But using these kinds of nonverbal cues on Piper rubs me the wrong way. It doesn’t give me the pleasure it would with anyone else. Quickly, I move out from behind the massive black desk to the sitting area closer to the door. I reposition a file from the table to the chair, and just in time, I sit on the couch, leaving the spot next to me as the only reasonable seat left.
Piper enters, the door shutting behind her. I take a moment to drink her in, keeping my face impassive. I’ve been a fan of her artwork for many years, and my admiration has leaked into our acquaintanceship. She is petite with delicate sprite-like features. Dark hair frames her oval face, and her eyes are large and expressive. On the surface, she isn’t out of the ordinary, but her work has absorbed my interest since the very beginning. She sees things in a way that that tugs at all the emotions I’ve managed to eliminate to get to where I am today.
I want her in a way that I can’t define. It’s a pointless, impractical, annoying desire. I built her up in my mind before we even met, when I had seen her art. That must be the reason for these feelings: artistic respect, nothing more.
“Mr. Nichols. Thank you for seeing me. I’m sorry to drop in unexpectedly like this.”
Mr. Nichols? She spent almost an entire night wrapped in my arms, and she calls me Mr. Nichols?
“You cut your hair,” I say.
She fingers the dark strands, which now fall slightly below her shoulders. “I’ve wanted to for a while, but I couldn’t before because…” She falters, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well, I just couldn’t.” She glances away.
My mind takes her words and body language apart and turns them over, examining their deeper meaning. Ben, her controlling ex-boyfriend, likely has something to do with her new hair preference and why she didn’t change it when she wanted to.
“Please. Have a seat.” I gesture to the couch next to me.
She walks over and perches on the edge of the seat, a white-knuckled grip on the strap of her purse.
My gaze sharpens on the delicate shadows under her eyes. “You haven’t been sleeping well.”
The corner of her mouth twitches. “Have you?”
I’ve never slept well, a fact I inexplicably shared with Piper Fox three months and eleven days ago, in the dark of night, under the watchful glow of an ancient lamp in the Fox living room. I have been trying to erase that night from my mind, mostly by avoiding the woman sitting next to me.
I incline my head. “Touché.”
She shifts on the seat. “Have you heard anything from—” She clears her throat. “Have they shipped any of my pieces yet?”
“I received confirmation that the scheduled pickup is Monday. They should arrive at the gallery by next week—Thursday, most likely.”
Her shoulders relax a notch. “You don’t think he’ll try anything else—delay further?”
“He can try all he likes. No one breaks a contract with me without severe consequences.” The words emerge like the slice of a knife, fast and clipped.
She blinks, flinching.
For the best, I tell myself even as an uncomfortable thorn twists in my stomach.
She doesn’t need to say his name for me to
“Has he been bothering you?”
“No.” She opens her mouth, pauses for a second, then shuts it.
“But?”
One slim shoulder lifts. “At first, he called me every day, multiple times a day. I blocked him. Then he would use random phones. I changed my number, and he spammed all my social media and emails. Then it stopped all of a sudden. Until last week.”
My jaw tightens. “What happened last week?”
“He sent a package.”
“To Mindy’s?” Last I knew, Piper intended to stay with her sister in the city.
She nods. “The texts have started again, from a number I don’t recognize. They’re generic—just hi, how are you kind of things—but I know it’s him.” Her shoulders droop. “I don’t know how he found me or my number. I changed it.”
A whisper of unease slithers through me. “What did he send you?”
Pink tints her cheeks. “Jewelry and clothing, a note about how he still loves me and he’s changed and wants to make it up to me. I sent it back. He’ll give up eventually if I keep ignoring him. It’s probably nothing to worry about. I tend to overreact lately, and Ben knows how to get under my skin.”
The more she speaks, the more my spine stiffens. “You are not overreacting. You should always listen to your instincts.” Concern loosens my tongue. “Mindy’s apartment—is there a doorman? Some kind of security?”
“No.”
I frown. “You could stay here.”
“No.” The refusal is immediate. “I can’t do that.”
I switch tactics. “I can hire a bodyguard. Someone could be with you at all times.”
She grimaces. “Oh, no. That’s not necessary. It’s fine. Ben’s all the way across the country. Besides, I rarely leave the apartment without Mindy. Please don’t worry about it. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
The urge to press the issue shoves at me, but I swallow my arguments and counterpoints. “Is that why you came here?”
Her visit doesn’t quite track. She could have called or gotten this information from Carson. Why stop by unexpectedly only for this after months of silence?
She bites her lip, and I home in on her mouth. Her lips are perfect, pink, and heart shaped.
“Um. Well, partly. There is one other thing I needed to… ask.” She swallows.
I track the motion, noting the fluttering pulse in her neck, the hitch in her breath.
She inhales and then meets my gaze, her spine straightening, her chin lifting. “I want you.”
My heart, the fractured organ long silent, thumps in my chest.
Chapter Two
Oliver
* * *
Three Months and Eleven Days Earlier
* * *
I can’t sleep. Slumber is an eternally elusive state even when I’m at home, resting on a custom-designed mattress and two-thousand-dollar D. Porthault sheets. But trying to sleep on a cramped, lumpy, ancient child-sized couch with the scent of ten thousand family dinners oozing like invisible fog from its depths? Impossible.
What could have compelled me to agree when Finley offered me this pitiable excuse for a resting place? Mindy Fox left for the city earlier in the day. I should have followed her lead and returned to my building posthaste.
This five-bedroom house should have been big enough for all of last night’s guests, but two of the rooms are never used, left as shrines to their former occupants. That leaves three bedrooms, one for Archer and Finley, one for Piper, and the last for Mason, who was dragged here all the way from LA to celebrate Easter with the Fox tribe.
Taylor, yet another Fox sister, is sleeping in her van out front. It’s a full house. A full, chaotic, noisy house.
Yet… if I’m being honest with myself, I chose to stay the night here, forgoing all my usual comforts, because I didn’t want to leave. Watching all of them interact is like visiting a zoo full of exotic creatures, their behaviors bizarre, unfamiliar, and mysterious, and intriguing.
The floorboards groan, and I crack my eyes open a slice. A figure, ashy in the darkness, separates from the stairs. My ears strain for the soft tread of footsteps marking their way through the living room en route to the kitchen.
It’s obvious who my fellow insomniac is, based on the size of the frame and the way she moves through the space, dim as it is. Piper.
I should ignore her. Feign slumber. She’ll go back upstairs, and I’ll continue to lie here in the darkness, alone.
“Can’t sleep?” The words are propelled out of me without my conscious will.
She halts halfway between the stairs and the kitchen, only a handful of steps away from where I’m lying on the couch. One hand goes to her chest, and she releases a shaky chuckle. “No. Hardly ever. You?”
“Same.” I sit up, self-conscious in a plain white T-shirt, my sleep pants covered by an old ratty quilt. “Sorry to startle you.”
“It’s fine.” She pauses. “I was going to make some tea.” She stands there, staring at me, making no move to actually commit to the task.
“Okay,” I say since it seems she requires some sort of response.
“Did you want some?”
Say no. “Yes.”
She flicks on an old lamp near the wall between the living room and kitchen, and it casts a buttery glow over her wan face, illuminating the oversized gray sweater that hangs on her small frame and the soft pink leggings that cling to her form.
I shift to stand, but she stops me with a lifted palm. “Stay. It won’t take long for the kettle to heat. It’s more comfortable in here. Chamomile okay?”
I nod.
Comfortable isn’t the most appropriate adjective, but she’s not wrong. The kitchen has no seating, and the dining table on the other side of the living area is covered in detritus from egg coloring and dinner. The lumpy couch and faded recliner are, in fact, the best options.
Within minutes, she’s back with a mug in each hand, passing one to me. I expect her to sit in the recliner to the side of the sofa, but instead, she sinks into the couch next to me.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“You’re welcome.” She blows on her tea.
I hold my cup in both hands, making a valiant attempt to keep my eyes forward, nerves singing in my veins. I’m never nervous. Somehow, this fragile creature is responsible for crafting the most gut-wrenching sculptures I’ve ever seen. It boggles the mind. She’s like a puzzle I can’t quite solve. The pieces don’t match, yet I know they fit together.
“Do you have a hard time sleeping in strange places?” she asks.
“I have a hard time sleeping anywhere.”
She turns. “Why?” Her voice is low and intimate.
I concentrate on the warm cup cradled in my palms. She doesn’t press me to answer. Something about Piper hammers at my self-restraint. All the emotions I’ve kept under tight control transform into a beast that wants to come out of hiding and bask in her sunshine. I’m both captivated and alarmed. I have no room for feelings. They are decidedly bothersome.
“He used to wake me up randomly.”
Every cell in my body startles to awareness.
“Early on in our relationship, before we moved in together, he would call me in the middle of the night.” Her gaze moves to the wall where the blank TV hangs. “It was always under the guise of being thoughtful. He would say he wanted to talk because we were both so busy, and he wanted to spend time with me. He missed me.” One side of her mouth tips down. “I thought it was sweet.” She stops, considers. “No. He convinced me it was sweet and normal. But then if I put my phone on silent because I had an early meeting or plans the next day, he would accuse me of not making him a priority, of not caring, of cheating, even. My need for sleep—any excuse or obligation—didn’t matter because he made me believe I was the one being cruel to him.”
