Kingdom quarterback, p.39
Some Like It Fox, page 39
Some Like It Fox
MARY FRAME
Copyright © 2023 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/
Content edits by Catherine Felnagle
Copy edits by Elizabeth Nover at Razor Sharp Editing
www.razorsharpediting.com
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
Epilogue
Also by Mary Frame
About the Author
Ridorkulous Excerpt
For my grandparents, Don and Pauline Humphrey, who were the embodiment of genuine love and two of the best humans to ever exist <3
Preface
Dear reader,
This book contains references to past deaths of parents and young sibling by illness or accident. There is also a character struggling with past 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 or not 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
Taylor
I turn the key in the ignition for the seventh time, as if by some miracle this time will be different than the past six.
The engine sputters, giving me a half-hearted cough before wheezing into dead silence.
“Please work,” I mutter into my steering wheel. “Please, please, please, don’t do this to me.” The mantra of anyone who’s ever had their vehicle crap out in the middle of a freaking blizzard at night.
I’m less than ten miles from my family home. The road in front of me is blanketed in white, the flakes winging through the night air like I’ve been plunked down in the center of a snow globe and shaken up.
Ten miles. So close, and yet way too far to try and trek the rest of the way on foot.
I should have stopped for gas an hour ago, but I thought I could make it.
Killing the headlights, I slip from the driver’s seat into the back of the VW bus, grabbing my bag from the sink and pawing through it for my cell. The screen is black. Dead.
It’s an old phone, the charge never lasts long, and I am eternally forgetting to plug it in. I like to use my old iPod to listen to music when I’m on the road because I don’t have to worry about music cutting out when I’m driving through the backwoods, or if a call comes in. Plus, without music playing, I lose my ever-loving mind.
Of course, now, I may be losing my ever-loving life.
Staring blankly out the darkened window, I consider my options.
There are houses spread out along this route. Ranch-style homes with lots of surrounding property. Bonus, I grew up in this town, so I know most of the residents.
It’s the night before Christmas Eve. Someone has to be home. I just don’t know how far away the nearest house is since the windows reveal nothing more than squares of black flashing with snow.
I could hunker down, sleep here, possibly die of hypothermia.
Or venture out in the storm, possibly die sooner.
At least my family won’t be worried. They also won’t be coming to the rescue.
Last week I told Finley I couldn’t make it until tomorrow, and I meant it at the time. I didn’t want to spend more hours than absolutely necessary with Mindy.
The thought of spending even a minute in the same room makes me want to jump out of my own skin.
At the moment, I have more pressing things than my sister feud to concern myself with, like dehydration. I have maybe half a liter of water, no heat, and a box of expired Froot Loops in the cupboard.
Think, Taylor, think.
I stare blankly out the window. A light glints, flickering through the driving snow.
There.
Is that a porch light?
It disappears a second later as the snow increases in intensity, blocking it from view.
I blink. Am I imagining things?
I’ve been stranded for five minutes, and I’m already hallucinating.
I sit up, moving closer to the window, eyes straining through the thick flakes dumping outside.
There is it again.
My heart lifts. That is definitely a light. There is no question about it. It has to be a porch light. It might be the Petersons’ place. Paul worked with Dad sometimes around our family property. He’s a brawny guy, well over six feet tall, and barely speaks. His wife, Moira, was the school nurse when I was in elementary school. She was tiny, half his size, and a ball of fire. They also had two girls, both almost ten years younger than me.
Or maybe it’s Delilah Gardner’s place. She retired from city hall years ago. It could be the Minellis’. Their son was a couple of years ahead of me at Whitby High.
Whoever it is, someone must be home. I have to try it.
If no one’s home, I’ll come straight back to the bus and bunker down.
Please, someone be home.
I pull on thermal pants and a long-sleeve shirt, covering them with thick sweats, a sweater, and my coat. Wind blasts, shaking the van and nearly knocking me on my ass.
Okay then.
I remove the outerwear and sweats, add another layer of clothes over my thermals, then cover it all up again. I step into my best waterproof boots, grab my overnight bag, and head into the storm.
The icy wind sucks the breath from my lungs. Pinpricks of freezing snowflakes pelt me in the face, stinging my skin. I duck my head under the hood of my coat and trudge in the direction of the light, glancing up periodically to make sure I don’t go off course.
Halfway there, my eyes locked on the glowing bulb ahead, it winks out, as if smothered by the surrounding blackness.
A gasp flies out of my throat, creating a misty cloud of air in front of my face. I halt in my tracks.
I glance behind me, the bus obscured by the flying snow.
Keep going. I push ahead, forging through snowdrifts. This is taking forever. I must be off course.
Out of nowhere, the porch appears in front of me, as if it just erupted from the earth.
I stomp up the wooden steps and bang on the bright blue door with a gloved fist. This must be the Petersons’ place. I remember the colorful door. I came here with Dad once when he needed to borrow some kind of tool or something. I must have been a freshman in high school.
The covered porch blocks out some of the wind. I shove the hood off my head and glance around.
Only the sound of my breathing breaks the stillness. The windows are dark and silent.
Maybe no one is home. Maybe they went somewhere for the holidays. But I swear that light was on.
I glance behind me, into the night beyond. It’s only around seven, but the sky is as oppressive as the dark side of midnight.
Making my way over to the window by the front door, I peer inside. My heart leaps at the flickering light behind the curtain. What is that? A fireplace?
My stomach rumbles, an audible reminder that I haven’t eaten since breakfast.
The door swings open and I spin toward the sound.
I look up. And up. Every cell in my body stands to full attention.
A hulking man looms in the doorway, holding a pillar candle in one hand. The gentle light glances over his glossy dark hair and highlights his prominent, high-bridged nose and a square jaw lined with stubble. The shape of his mouth is full with pouty lips, a contrast to the sharp angles of his jaw.
A gust of wind blows past us, into the house, knocking out the flickering candle in his hand.
“Come on in.” He steps back, motioning for me to enter.
I follow him inside.
He shuts the door and I tense.
What am I doing? I walked right into some strange man’s home without a second thought.
“The power went out.” His voice is a deep rumble that vibrates down to my toes.
“I can see that.”
We stare at each other, him still holding the unlit candle, me clutching my bag strap like it’s a weapon.
Who
What if he’s a serial killer? What if he broke in and the Petersons are tied up in the basement? My fingers are gripping my bag so hard my fingers ache. I have pepper spray. Is it in the main pouch or the side pocket?
I swallow and shift on my feet, my gaze darting to the door behind him. “Um. Are you related to the Petersons? This is their house, right? Do they still live here? Are they around somewhere?” My heart pounds in my ears, my palms sweaty in my gloves. The fireplace illuminates the room, and I absorb the details in flashes, taking in a beige couch, a dark wood coffee table, and Tiffany lamps on the end tables.
“Moira is my aunt. This is their house. They still live here, but they’re out of town for the holidays.”
The words break through the looming panic, bringing with them a fuzzy piece of knowledge.
That’s right. They had a nephew who moved in with them during high school.
Wow. The recovered memory bursts over the surface of my mind, sending chills up my spine. How had I forgotten? I reach for his name in my mind, but it escapes me.
He moved to Whitby in the middle of our junior year. The same year everything changed. I went from honors student to barely managing to squeak through my senior year, aided by teachers with pitying eyes.
High school ceases to be important when your little sister dies.
The grip on my bag relaxes an inch. I know him. He’s not a murderer. Then it comes rushing back to me.
“Wait.” My mouth pops open. “Atticus?”
His eyes widen. “You remember?”
“Of course I remember.” Some, anyway. He was always quiet, always off to the side, like a shadow in the corners of my already dim memories.
The Atticus of my youth looks nothing like the rugged Adonis standing in front of me. He was tall when we were in high school, but he was so gangly then. His eyes are the same, warm brown with caramel highlights. His hair was longer and eternally draped over his face, like he was trying to hide himself from the world. It’s shorter now, but still long enough for the disheveled strands to tickle his neck.
“I’m Taylor Fox,” I say automatically, still weaving through forgotten recollections from high school. Something shimmers in the back of my mind, an image flashing to the forefront. Atticus’s hands on a steering wheel while afternoon sunshine pours through the windows, warming the cab of a truck. What is that?
“I know.” He sets the candle on a table by the door, then opens a drawer, fumbling inside. He pulls out a flashlight, clicks it on, and hands it to me. Then he uses a lighter to relight his candle, before putting it back in the drawer.
I unlatch my fingers from my bag strap, happy for the heavy weight of the flashlight in my hand.
“You can put your things down wherever you like.” He motions to the chair on my left.
After a second’s hesitation, I put my bag down and then shrug out of my coat.
He takes it from me, draping it over the back of the chair.
My stomach growls, loud enough to fill the quiet space and cover the crackle of the fireplace.
He frowns.
I wince, my face heating. “Sorry.”
Without a word, he stalks past me, a whiff of fresh soap mixed with a trace of cedar cologne breezing by. He smells good. Clean. I probably smell like stomped ass since I’ve been driving stressed for hours. At least I showered this morning.
I lift the flashlight and follow, the beam tracing over his gray Henley. The shirt is just tight enough to highlight the broadness of his back. The light trails down to his tapered waist, illuminating the jeans hugging his ass.
Wowza.
Awareness rushes through me, and I force the flashlight up.
Do not ogle Atticus.
I should be too exhausted to be turned on. I’ve barely slept over the past week of traveling, prior to which I was at the Beale Street Music Festival in Tennessee.
My gaze slips down again.
Don’t think about his ass.
An impossible feat when it’s just there, taunting me.
I clear my throat. “I’m so sorry to barge in on you like this, on the night before Christmas Eve and all.”
He passes through an open archway leading into a country-style kitchen. I shine the flashlight around, taking in the white cabinets, butcher block counters, and copper sink.
He sets his candle down on the island, casting a gentle glow on the surface, then opens a cupboard, pulling out a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. He lifts his brows at me. “Peanut butter and jelly okay?”
My stomach groans in anticipation. I would eat cat food right now. “That sounds perfect.”
“How many?”
I shrug. “A million.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“Two would be great.”
I set the flashlight on the counter, pointing it in his general direction to offer additional illumination without blinding him.
He opens the fridge, grabbing a jar of jelly.
I hop into one of the upholstered chairs next to the island. “My bus ran out of gas, and I saw the porch light and I didn’t know what else to do because my phone is dead. Do you have a phone I could borrow? I should call my family.”
He stops midspread with the butter knife, setting it to the side before retrieving a sleek black phone out of his back pocket, unlocking it, and sliding it over to me.
“Thanks.” I stare down at the screen. I’ll call them after I eat. I nibble my bottom lip. Or maybe I won’t. I don’t want them to worry.
I push the phone to the side. “Where are Paul and Moira? And your cousins?”
“They’re out of town.”
I frown. “Without you?”
The knife stills over the open jar of peanut butter. “I had work through yesterday. They don’t know I’m here. I didn’t know I would be able to make it home in time for the holidays until the last minute.” He shrugs, giant shoulders shifting up and down. “I’m only here for a few days anyway. They went to Bermuda.”
“Where do you work?”
“I’m a field botanist. I sort of work everywhere. Anywhere they need me.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure exactly what that means, but before I can ask, he turns around, handing me a plate with the double stack of sandwiches.
All thoughts go flying out the window, my attention turning to filling the gaping hole in my stomach.
I take a giant bite and suppress the urge to groan. It’s probably because I’m starving, but this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
Once I’ve wolfed down the first sandwich, I come up for air. “I didn’t think I would make it home today either. My family doesn’t even know I’m here. Not because I was working or anything, but because—I travel a lot,” I finish lamely. Because I only work on a needs-must basis, and usually at some random dive bar or restaurant to make quick cash for gas, necessities, and to cover the cost of traveling to various music festivals around the country. Last year, I also put some extra funds into hiring a private investigator, which meant I had to work a little more than usual, but it will be worth it.
I hope.
I stuff sandwich number two into my mouth while he puts away the foodstuffs.
“Water?”
I nod, mouth full, and he grabs a bottle from the fridge and sets it in front of me.
When he leans back, the glow from the candle glints on a silver chain around his neck, disappearing under the neckline of his shirt.
I stop chewing, a memory rushing over me.
That necklace. I know what’s at the end of that chain, concealed by fabric.
I stared at it, one sunny afternoon while Atticus drove me home from school, shortly after Aria died.
My entire world had been shattered into smithereens. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. Every waking moment was like breathing in wet concrete.
