Page 44 of Silver Fox's Secret Triplets
"She sounded awful on the phone. I was just trying to help."
"Help." He repeated the word as if it tasted bitter. "And it didn't occur to you that she has family to take care of her when she's sick?"
"Of course. I just thought?—"
"You thought what, exactly?" Bill stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous quiet. "That you'd play the concerned boss? That you'd check on my daughter while I'm at the hospital with my dying wife?"
The question was an accusation that felt like a slap to the face. "Bill, it's not?—"
"Not what? Not exactly what it looks like?"
I opened my mouth to defend myself, then closed it again. Because it was exactly what it looked like. I was Bill's best friend, standing on his doorstep with soup for his daughter, lying about my motivations.
"Stay away from her, Duncan." Bill's tone left no room for argument. "I mean it. Whatever you think is happening here, whatever you're hoping might happen—stop. Now."
"She's an adult, Bill. She can?—"
"She's my daughter. And you're supposed to be my friend. The fact that I have to spell this out for you is deeply disappointing."
He waited for me to respond, to argue, to defend my actions. Instead, I took a step back, the soup bag heavy in my hands. "I understand," I said quietly.
"Do you? Because years ago, you promised me you'd never put me in this position. You promised you'd stay away from her."
"I remember."
"Then act accordingly."
Bill walked past me toward his car, not looking back. I stood there listening to his engine start, watching his taillights disappear down the street. The front porch light cast everything in harsh shadows, making the whole encounter feel like a confrontation from a noir film.
I looked at the soup in my hands, then at the darkened windows of the house. Ivy was inside, probably wondering what had happened. But I couldn't go to her now. Not after Bill's warning. Not when I'd already betrayed my friend's trust.
I walked back to my car, set the soup on the passenger seat, and drove away. The guilt sat heavy in my chest, mixing with disappointment and self-recrimination. I'd handled this badly. I'd let my feelings for Ivy cloud my judgment, and now I'd damaged a friendship that had survived scandal, business disagreements, and years of complicated loyalty.
What kind of man pursued his best friend's daughter? What kind of friend broke promises made in good faith?
The kind who was desperately lonely, apparently. The kind who'd mistaken physical attraction for emotional connection, who'd convinced himself that three years and a few stolen kisses could erase the fundamental wrongness of the situation.
I was stopped at a red light two blocks from Bill's house when I noticed the minivan parked along the curb. Dark blue, older model, nothing remarkable about it except for the small yellow sign in the rear window.
Baby on Board.
For a moment, I wondered if it was Ivy's. I hadn't paid attention to what she drove, had never seen her in the parking lot. But then I dismissed the thought. If Ivy had a car, she wouldn't need to worry about her father finding out about soupdeliveries. She could have met me somewhere neutral, away from family complications.
Besides, the "Baby on Board" sign made no sense. Ivy didn't have children. She'd spent the last three years in Maine, presumably single, presumably focused on rebuilding her life after whatever had driven her away from Boston.
The light turned green, and I drove home through empty streets, my mind churning through the evening's events. Bill's anger had been real, justified. I'd crossed a line I'd promised not to cross, and now I had to live with the consequences.
The question was, what came next? Did I respect Bill's wishes and maintain professional distance from Ivy? Did I transfer her to another department to avoid temptation? Did I pretend that night more than three years ago had never happened and go back to planning my quiet retirement?
Or did I fight for something that might be worth fighting for, even if it cost me a friendship I'd valued for fifteen years?
I pulled into my driveway, the soup growing cold beside me, and realized I didn't know the answer. All I knew was that I'd never felt more alone than I did sitting in my car, staring at the house I'd bought for solitude, wondering if solitude was really what I wanted after all.
17
IVY
The phone buzzed against the granite countertop, Mom's contact photo lighting up the screen—a picture from last Christmas where her smile was still bright and her hair fell in waves past her shoulders. Now that hair was cut short and thinning, and even her smile had dimmed. I swiped to answer with fingers that trembled more than they should have.
