Romance: SCREWED (An Arranged Marriage to the NFL Bad Boy) (A New Adult Contemporary Athlete Sports Football Romance) (12 page)

Chloe pressed her finger down on the ‘delete’ button, watching the letters disappear from the page. It was rubbish. Sighing deeply, she changed the font type, and then the font size. She started again.

It was hard trying to sound like a grown-up. She knew exactly what she wanted to say – it was a bit like writing thank you letters, making sure you came across as polite, kind and cheerful. But as a ten-year-old girl, it was difficult to write one while pretending to be a fully-grown man. 

She looked out of her window, being mindful to keep an eye on her father. He was standing in the paddock at the back of the ranch, walking one of the horses – a mare they’d recently bought who got spooked easily and was having trouble adjusting to her new stables.

Chloe’s father was so patient with animals, and they loved him for it. All the animals on the ranch flocked to him, from the chickens they kept to the bison in neighboring fields. There was even a ferocious-looking grizzly bear that wandered the outskirts of the ranch at night time, but her dad always told her she was imagining things whenever she bought it up.

He was a great dad, thought Chloe; he always seemed so strong and solid. Whenever she’d hurt her knee or arm, she knew that a few kind words from dad and his first aid kit – complete with Batman Band-Aids – would set her straight. She never needed to worry about anything when he was around.

But even Chloe knew that couldn’t last forever. Lucille, her very best friend at school, had started her period. She had told Chloe all about it in gory detail, and Chloe had almost passed out at the horror of it. Lucille had warned her that she’d be next. But her dad wouldn’t be able to help her with that – Chloe was absolutely positive that those types of emergencies weren’t going to be helped by a First Aid kit.

The only other company that they had on the ranch was Josiah and Wesley -the two ranch hands that made up their small family. Both men were loads of fun, Josiah was like a second dad and her resident sitter - always willing to play a game of Monopoly, and Wesley was a really handsome sixteen-year-old who taught her how to ride horses. But what would happen is she got her period in front of Wesley? She would want to
die
. 

It had started to become increasingly apparent to Chloe that what she needed was a mom. One that would braid her hair in the mornings, in the same complicated way that Lucille’s mom did – with French plaits and ballerina buns. She had tried to educate her dad on these things, but he was next to useless – though she never told him that. Every day he tried, and every morning after dropping her off at the school gates, Chloe would run behind the bike shed and untie the lopsided attempts, leaving her hair loose for the rest of the school day.

Chloe, with renewed determination, turned her attention back to the letter. She looked at the picture of the woman the agency had sent through. She looked perfect. She couldn’t have children, so there would never need to be anyone but Chloe, and she could cook. She also had really, really kind eyes, and long, shiny hair. Her name was Heather; it was a nice name, it sounded like a woman who was good at giving hugs, someone that was nice, and kind to animals.

Before re-starting the letter, Chloe checked her list of requirements – the same one she’d given to the agency last week. It was scribbled down on a scrap of paper, kept in her jean pocket at all times. Running through the list, Chloe confirmed that it was likely Heather would check every single one – for some, like being kind to her father, she would have to wait and see. 

Going back to the letter, Chloe wondered whether or not to include that fact that she thought her dad was sad without a wife. She was quite sure it was true. Sometimes, when he thought she wasn’t around, he would sit on the sofa in the evenings, staring out of the window and looked so sad – like Chloe would have looked if Lucille wasn’t around. But maybe saying her dad was sad was off putting? She decided it was.

It was an hour later when she finished. Finally, it was perfect. She retrieved her dad’s credit card from his desk drawer, and typed in his information carefully. She noticed it was
very
expensive, but if they were charging lots, Chloe reasoned, then it was more likely that Heather would be the absolute perfect mom. 

Chloe pressed ‘send’ on the website, and crossed her fingers tightly. This had to work.

“Chloe – dinner!” Her dad bellowed from downstairs. She hastily shoved the credit card back in the draw and shut down the computer.

“Coming!” She yelled back, giving the room one last glance over to ensure that she hadn’t left anything out. It all looked okay. She turned to leave, not noticing the list of ideal attributes lying just behind the computer screen, gently flapping in the breeze.

“What have you been doing all day, trouble? I haven’t seen or heard a peep from you.” Her dad questioned her from his position at the kitchen counter.

“I’ve been busy dad. I had things to do.” Chloe stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the kitchen activity. “Dad. Are we having pork chops,
again
?”

“Aw, come on Chloe – you know you love it” her dad turned to her with a wink.

“No dad. I do
not
love it. Plus, we had it last night, and I didn’t like it then. And I’m going to like it less today, because it’s
leftovers
.” Chloe pursed her lips. This really wouldn’t do at all. She knew for a fact that Lucille never had leftovers, except on Sundays, and that was okay.

“Well, well, well – I can hear a princess causin’ her old man trouble.” Josiah popped his head around the screen door, and shook his cap at Chloe. “That is no way for a young lady to behave!” He ran in and started chasing her around the table. Chloe squealed in delight and ran behind her father. He laughed and grabbed her, putting Chloe back in the firing line of Josiah, “Dad!” she yelled, “help!”

Just then Wesley walked in, and Chloe abruptly stopped hollering. He towered above her, brown as a nut and shooting Chloe a huge grin. “I heard a lot of yelling coming from in here,” he eyed Chloe, “you causing mischief, Miss Chloe Holt?”

“No. No, I wasn’t. I am annoyed that we’re having pork chops,
again
. This is the fourteenth million time, and I’m sick of it.” Chloe recalled her main gripe of the evening, and stood her ground. 

“Hmm” Wesley looked thoughtful. “Well, that’s a shame.” He turned back to Chloe’s father who’d started to plate out the offending chops.

Josiah looked at Wesley and agreed, “It is. It’s a shame.” The old man shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head. Chloe’s father just looked bemusedly at both men.

“What?” asked Chloe, “what’s a shame?” they all just shook their heads at her. Staying silent, Chloe folded her arms and jutted out her chin. “You have to tell me. What’s a shame?”

“Well. I don’t know if you know about Mrs. Maybelle’s fair winning cream pie…” Wesley trailed off, as Chloe gave a small yell and jumped in the air.

“Really? Wes, do you really have Maybelle pie?”

He grinned at her, “Yeah, really I do – because Josiah and I went down into town special for you, and bought it. But,” he paused, “I’m not sure you should have it, on account of you being mean about your dad’s food.”

“I’m sorry!” Chloe grabbed the proffered plate out of her father’s hands and carried it over to the kitchen table.

She ate happily, wolfing down the food. And, truth be told, it really wasn’t that bad. She wouldn’t have to put up with it for very long, she reminded herself. She could have a mom by next week, a mom who would spend all day in the kitchen creating special treats and wonderful dinners for Chloe and her dad.

Heather put the phone down. It had been the third call with her lawyer in the past week. She sat still; watching spring rains batter against the glass plane of the kitchenette window. She had things to do, laundry, lunch to make and receipts to go through, but she didn’t have the energy.

Heather’s lawyer had finally informed her what she’d already known to be true; she was completely broke.

In a week’s time her rental would run out on the apartment she was currently staying in, a gritty, run-down affair that you couldn’t swing a cat in.  She had no job prospects, and hardly any income. Since her break-up with Bertram she’d been living on a small amount of savings that she’d squirreled away over the years, and had sold a few handbags, watches and jewelry to make ends meet.

Ironically, from where she was sitting contemplating her life as a destitute, she could see in the distance the majestic high rise tower of AyerCooke, so tall it pierced the clouds above and gleamed, impenetrable and imposing over the grey New York day. It had been her father’s business – up until two months ago when he’d died suddenly of a heart attack. It now belonged to Bertram.

Her father had never been a particularly warm man, she reflected, but he’d always been good to her. When Bertram started dating Heather, already an associate at her father’s business, he had done everything he could to make their lives together easier – he’d bought them a beautiful apartment, made Bertram’s rise up the Manhattan social ladder easy, and eventually made him partner in the company. 

Neither of them could have guessed what a snake he’d turn out to be; dumping Heather within a month of her father’s death, and removing her from the house – which, of course, was all in his name.

Bertram had behaved criminally, which made the phone call she was now about to make all the harder to stomach. She dialed the number with a heavy heart, and half-prayed she’d get his voicemail.

“Bertram Cooke, speaking.” A familiar voice sounded at the end of the line.

She took a deep breath. “Hi Bert, it’s Heather.”

“Ah. Heather. Hi! How are you?” His voice was a perfectly bland form of joviality, as if she were a business acquaintance.

“Well, I’m not great Bertram – I need to speak to you -”

“I’m so sorry to hear that Heather, but I’m a bit tied up at the moment, any chance this could wait?” He interrupted her smoothly.

Heather shut her eyes tightly and gripped the table top, trying to control the fury she felt at his dismissive attitude. “Not really, Bertram. I’m broke. As in, I can’t live – I don’t have any option but to call you.”

Bertram gave a theatrical sigh. “It’s not really my problem Heather. Why don’t you get a job? I’m sure you have plenty of skills suited to the workplace.” His tone was much cooler now, but Heather could detect the mocking beneath.

“Bertram. Please, I’m going to be homeless in a week. I literally can’t live – I’m not exaggerating. I’m just asking you to release a few funds, help me with a few months’ rent till I get back on my feet. You owe me that much, surely?” Her voice had turned slightly wobbly, and Heather moved her mouth away from the phone so he couldn’t hear her shuddering breaths.

“Owe you? I don’t owe you a thing, Heather. I kept you in the lifestyle that you’d become accustomed to, and now we’re not together, I won’t.” The line went dead.

Heather’s fingers gripped the phone so tightly the tips turned white. It was such
lies
. When Heather had first met Bertram it had been at her father’s company event, a summer party to welcome the new-year recruits. Bertram was one of these; a very shy and bespectacled man who sat at the edge of the action, quietly observing all the other Harvard business school recruits dancing drunkenly to the live band.

Heather had felt sorry for him, and went up to introduce herself. They had a fairly pleasant conversation, nothing particularly scintillating, but nice enough. At the end of the evening Bertram had found her again, chatting to one of the current associates, a lovely man in his late-forties Heather knew well, and asked for her number. She had given it to him, but not sensing a spark between them, she’d not expected a call.

Two months later, when Heather had all but forgotten about the incident, Bertram had called her up. Awkwardly he’d asked her out on a date the following Friday, and Heather, charmed by his vulnerability and shyness, had agreed. When she turned up for the date, she’d hardly recognized Bertram. The glasses were gone; the cut of his suit had vastly improved, as had his confidence. He wined and dined her that evening, and the next day had sent a dozen bouquets of flowers to her apartment.

The spark had never materialized, but Bertram hadn’t given up on his efforts to woo Heather. He very swiftly told her that he loved her, and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Faced with such seemingly ardent devotion, she ignored her own doubts and threw herself into life with Bertram, making every effort to ensure she returned his attentions.

She didn’t know when, or how, the tables had turned, but they did. Soon it was Heather putting all the effort into the relationship, with Bertram controlling her every move: what she wore, who she saw, what she did in her limited free time, even what books she read. At the end of it, she was left humiliated and ashamed that she’d let herself be treated that way – as if she were a woman with no mind of her own. The final blow had come when she realized that Bertram would be leaving her with nothing – that everything they had owned was now in his name. She had left their home with two suitcases of clothes, all that belonged to her in the world.

Heather had taken a walk. Her trench was wrapped around her tightly, and she hadn’t bothered to bring an umbrella out. She knew she looked like a bedraggled mess walking the streets of New York, but she honestly couldn’t find it within herself to care. She kept her eyes glued to the pavements as she marched – not knowing where she was headed – just knowing that she needed to get moving, to try and think about a way out of her current situation.

There was one solution that she hadn’t tried yet. She had a sister in California. They hadn’t spoken in months – Bertram hadn’t really liked her. Lila was very free-spirited; though she and Heather had grown up together, going to the same elitist high school and Ivy League universities, Lila had broken away from their lives and set up a crystal healing shop in LA.  She always claimed that their upbringing was too oppressive for her, and had longed to leave the cutthroat atmosphere of the Upper East Side.

As Heather was contemplating what was now looking like the only feasible option she had, her phone started buzzing in her pocket.

“Hello?” she picked up, not recognizing the number.

“Ms. Ayer? This is Wendy from Delivery Bride, are you free to speak?” the woman on the line was very softly spoken, a vast improvement from the stern tones of Mrs. Atkinson.

“Hi Wendy, I’m free.”

“Lovely. We have good news; we think there’s a likely match for you – a gentleman who owns a ranch in Wyoming, with one daughter. Never been married. We have a letter, if you’d like to read it?”

“Oh!” Heather was shocked – after her meeting with Mrs. Atkinson, she really hadn’t expected anything to come from it. “Well…” Heather hesitated, wondering if she should just leave it – the entire idea was starting to become faintly ridiculous, an act of desperation which perhaps wasn’t as necessary now.

“Maybe you just want to come and read the letter, and then decide?” Wendy prompted, gently.

Heather looked up to the street sign nearest her. She was about four blocks from the agency, what harm would it do to keep her options open?

“Okay, sure – I’ll be there in about twenty minutes, is that okay?”

“That’s great Ms. Ayer, we’ll see you shortly.”

Heather hung up the phone, slightly dazed. She turned the corner, heading in the direction of the agency. It had stopped raining, and the sun was starting to break through the grey day. For the first time in weeks, Heather felt things were looking up.