Page 23 of Surrender
Tanner’s face turns red. “Rocky’s upstairs with Dad!”
“Well, you should be making it a habit!” she snaps back.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I groan and cover my face with my hands. “Our family is beyond dysfunctional. What’s worse than dysfunctional?”
“Mmm,” Belle says, raising a finger and finishing a bite of cake at the opposite end of the counter. “I think the word you’re looking for is psychotic.” She licks her lips, her face completely pleasant.
“That’s the one,” I reply with a finger wag. “You guys are all psychotic.”
“Well, we’re related, so you’re part of this bloody nuthouse.” Tanner tosses a peanut into his mouth and strokes his beard with a proud smirk on his face.
“But seriously,” Vi states, bringing us back to the task at hand. “That is so weird she hasn’t been speaking to you. Why would she do that?”
“She’s ghosting him.” Poppy sing-songs her statement from her seat next to Booker at the counter. All heads turn toward her. She looks surprised to have all of our attention.
“What the fuck is ghosting?” I ask, only mildly curious.
“Erm,” she starts, nervously toying with her short blonde hair. “It’s when someone stops all communication with a person in hopes that person will get the hint and give up.”
“We’re Harrises!” Tanners barks, straightening his posture. “We don’t get ghosted because we don’t give up. Right, Gareth?”
I roll my eyes. “I guess after a while I pretty much did give up.”
“So you ghosted her,” Poppy adds knowingly.
Shoving my cake plate away, I reply, “I tried to talk to her at first, but she wanted nothing to do with me. I just…Fuck me, I don’t know. I just didn’t do anything more.”
“But you guys had a connection?” she asks.
I nod reluctantly. God, this is bizarre. It’s usually me giving advice to everyone else. I hate being the focus, but I’m mortifyingly curious about Poppy’s thoughts.
“It sounds more like jitter ghosting to me then.”
I inwardly deflate. I’m almost scared to ask. “What the hell is jitter ghosting?”
Poppy leans forward, her green eyes alight with excitement. “It’s when you feel strongly for the other person, but you’re paralysed with the fear of rejection, so you say nothing at all. It usually applies to people who are too much of a coward to say what they’re really thinking.” Her eyes glance around the room nervously as we all stare, hanging on her every word. “At least that’s what I hear the kids say at school.”
“Bloody hell, my baby mama is brilliant!” Booker states, planting a sloppy kiss on Poppy’s cheek. Then he leans in and whispers, “Sunshine, did I jitter ghost you?”
“A bit,” she replies with a tiny shrug, then places her hands on her stomach. “But it’s all right now, Lamb Chop. We’re all the better for it.”
Their disgusting pet names for each other are enough to divert all of our attention away. In the background, I hear Tanner concocting a game plan for me to see Sloan. I think I even hear him mention a Harris Shakedown, but my mind is elsewhere.
When I saw Sloan last week, she was worried about a commitment, which wasn’t close to where my mind was going. I don’t have time for a girlfriend. I’m far too busy with the team and my family drama that’s an everyday occurrence. I also have no interest in sharing my deepest, darkest secrets with someone. In fact, the latter usually has women storming away from me in a huff.
But my reaction after we fucked was extremely traditional. Flowers, texts, phone calls. That’s a lot to blast at a newly divorced woman. She’d just gotten out of a bad marriage. The last thing she needed was traditional bullshit. What was I thinking?
Perhaps if I approach her with something decidedly untraditional, she’ll be more keen to agree. And the thought of untraditional and Sloan sounds better than Vi’s delicious cake.
IT’S AN UNSEASONABLY WARMNOVEMBERday as I drive out to Astbury with my windows down to visit Hobart Walter—a German midfielder for Man U—and his girlfriend, Brandi Smith—a striker for Manchester City. Two rival teams and two rival sexes.
I take in a big breath of fresh country air hoping it will calm my nerves as I drive down the gravel road that passes by the entrance to Gareth’s property. I gaze wistfully down the lane and wonder if he’s home. Then I shake my head with annoyance. I need to be focused today. I needed to be focused this past year. That is why I couldn’t just waltz back into Gareth’s home after what happened. That’s why I never took his calls. I was busy having a midlife crisis at barely thirty years old. I had to prepare for life as a single mother. Real world problems to deal with. I didn’t have time to obsess over the one-night stand I had with a client the night I found out my husband was leaving me.
Good God, I’m pathetic.
The Walter Estate has a similar security gate as Gareth’s. After being admitted, I pull up to an old home that reminds me of the one I lived in with Callum. Steeling myself to be professional, I grab my satchel that contains my portfolio and some magazines and stride up the gravel lane to the front door.
A tall, lean man with a thick European accent steps out of the giant double doors and strides toward me just as I reach the top step. “Ah, Ms. Montgomery! Thanks for coming all the way out here!” He extends a hand out to me and I take it, widening my stance as he nearly shakes my arm out of its socket. “The name’s Hobart. Call me Hobo. Everyone else does.”
