The door to the conference room pops open, and Aunt Emma leads in her giant boxer, Watford. Apparently, everyone dresses casually and can bring their pets on Fridays—one of the perks of working for Velocity and a cool idea unless you’re allergic to dander. The dog drops on the floor at my feet, belly up, expecting me to scratch him. I do because even though he’s slobbery, he’s sort of irresistible.
“How’s it coming in here?” Emma adjusts the big bag over her shoulder. Her dark hair is twisted into a fancy knot at the back of her neck. “Anything unexpected?”
I pass her the magazine I’d just marked, and she frowns.
“Has he been accused of using steroids before?” I ask, clicking the highlighter over and over until I realize how nervous it makes me seem. I know there’s no grade on how well I’ve marked a tabloid passage, but delivering coffee and reading garbage magazines isn’t going to give me a chance to shine.
“All of the successful baseball players have been, but we definitely don’t need the speculation.” She sticks the tabloid in her purse instead of the file. “In addition to this snafu, I have some bad news.”
I exchange a quick look with Katie, who somehow managed to get her feet off the table and folded under her chair without me even noticing.
“I have to fly to London for an emergency meeting. I hate to leave you alone your first weekend in the city.” Emma makes this teeth-gritting expression that’s funnier than it is apologetic. “But I also really need you to watch Watford. There’s no room in the dog resort, and even if there was, I don’t have time to take him.”
Watford rolls his body onto my feet with a huff. He’s enormous, way bigger than any boxer I’ve ever seen, and scary looking. Between the giant dog and her fancy apartment building, I’ll be perfectly safe. And honestly, it’s kind of exciting. I’ve never been left alone anywhere.
“We’ll be fine.” I wave off her worries.
“Is your mom going to be mad?”
Yes. Absolutely. But I don’t say that. “Nah. She leaves me in charge of Cube all the time.” Which is true, but she’d never let me babysit my little brother overnight. What my mom doesn’t know isn’t going to freak her out. Like that I’m getting paid to read tabloids and that I’m wearing a dress that shows more leg than she’d ever be okay with.
“Plus, it’s not like she’s going to be completely alone,” Katie volunteers, shooting me a look out of the corner of her eye. “I can be her point of contact if she needs anything.”
Friend status confirmed.
“Great.” Emma pulls a bank envelope out of her bag, along with Watford’s leash and her bike seat.
“Oh.” I take the metal tube out of her hand. “You rode your bike today?”
“Of course. Watty needs his exercise.” She throws her arm around my neck for an awkward sit-stand hug. “You can eat at the restaurants in the building. And there’s plenty of cash to cover anything else you might need. Consider it payment for taking care of my baby.”
She squats down and kisses him square on the mouth, which is disgusting, considering he just finished licking his balls. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you? Be so sweet for my Maddie. None of this naughty business.”
Watford is the chillest dog. It’s going to be the easiest weekend ever. I’ve got money to spend. No supervision and no responsibilities.
How could anything go wrong?
CHAPTER
TWO
CHICAGO IN JUNE IS A GIFT TO ANYONE WILLING TO BRAVE THE frigid winters. The sun doesn’t shine on the narrow road on the north side of the building, but it’s the perfect temperature in the shade as I unlock Aunt Em’s bike. The humidity is low. My hair is frizz-free for once, lying smooth down my back.
People are whizzing along in the bike lane, socks tucked into pants, moving like they know exactly what they’re doing. Small problem: I know next to nothing about bikes. I grew out of mine when I was twelve and my legs got too long to ride without bumping into the handlebars, and I haven’t been on one since. I’m a little shaky as I walk down the ramp to the bike path that traces Lake Michigan. I have to stop at the bottom of the slope to wipe my sweaty palms on my borrowed dress.
Pausing for a moment to breathe, I send Katie a quick text to thank her for backing me up with Emma. I am going to be fine. My family crashes at Emma’s apartment for a few weeks every summer. Chicago is practically my second home.
Music blares from the beachfront. There’s some sort of event happening with little soccer fields sectioned off in yellow tape. There’s even a temporary grandstand with sponsorship posters hung along its supports. Groups of people clump together on the wide concrete stairs that lead down to the beach, enjoying the games and the weather.
On another day, I’d sit on the steps and let the sun shine on me, but I should probably get Watty home.
“You never forget how to ride a bike, right?” I say to the dog.
He tilts his big square head, one ear cocked, like he knows I’m talking to him, but isn’t positive what I’m saying. He’s adorable despite the underbite and occasional strings of drool.
My dress is flowy enough to fall between my legs, so at least that won’t be a problem. My wedges won’t be either. I used to ride in flip-flops as a kid. And yet, my lungs are tight as I slide Watford’s leash up to my elbow. He knows how to do this, even if I don’t.
I swing my leg over the bike and wobble a little before I get both feet on the pedals. I’ve got this. So what if I haven’t ridden a bike in years?
As I pedal along slowly, Watford picks up his pace, trotting beside me with his mouth open. For a dog with floppy jowls, he looks like he’s smiling. It’s a beautiful day. I’m in one of the most amazing cities in the world. Things are good. I inhale a breath of beachy air—sunblock, sunshine, and sand—and exhale the last of my negative feelings. Perfect.
I’ve totally got this.
As we move past the grandstand, the soccer fields come into view. Two teams of guys pass a bright orange ball back and forth, and then it bounces a handful of yards from us.
Watford’s head whips toward the ball, and then he’s off, yanking the bike to the right, and I know I’m in trouble.
“No, Watford! No!” I pull my elbow back, but it’s too late. The ledge of the cement steps appear before me. I try to brake, but the bike skids over the first stair. My feet drop off the pedals, flailing for the ground. One pedal catches me in the shin; the front tire hits the next stair. My stomach lurches under my ribs.
And then I’m airborne.
A BRIGHT LIGHT HANGS ABOVE ME, BLOTTED OUT BY FOUR SHADOWS. Glorious shadows. The kind of arms and shoulders and abs that you only see in magazines or dream about. So, I’m pretty sure I’m dead and this is heaven.
Huh. The Greeks were right. Yay for the pantheon.
“Are you okay?” One of the gods drops down into the sand beside me.
Weird that they have sand in heaven. I hate sand.
“Did you hit your head?”
Did I hit my head? I’m not sure.
Wait. I’m in pain. My knee hurts. My back hurts. It all comes rushing back to me. Watford. The bike. The stairs.