Page 46 of Another Fox Bites the Dust

I nod. “We’ve run into a little bit of a hiccup.” I force a smile.

“Is there anything I can do?”

Against my will and better judgment, my eyes scan down his lean form, from the shirt outlining his broad shoulders, down to the jeans hugging his trim hips.

Not helpful.

“No. We’ll keep to the same schedule. I’ll find someone else.”

I will not let this impede our forward progress. I can’t.

Even though it feels like I’m sinking into the thickest, darkest quicksand and it’s rushing up over my legs, about to suck me into the abyss.

I can’t catch a break. I’m a total fuckup. How the hell am I going to find someone on such short notice?

Straightening my shoulders, I tug a confident expression around me like a suit of armor.

“It’s not a problem. Don’t worry. This doesn’t change our plans.” I infuse my voice with all the confidence I can muster. “Everything is going to be fine.”

* * *

“Everything is not fine. What am I supposed to do now?” I ask Keanu Reeves.

I’m lying in my childhood bed, hugging my pillow and staring up at a magazine photo I stuck up on my wall when I was a teenager. I can’t believe that little piece of tape has been gripping the wall securely for 16 years.

“You’re the only one who’s stuck around for me, Keanu.”

I’ve lost it. This is where I finally crack. What the hell am I going to do? We could record the songs ourselves, but I’m not a producer. This album is my one shot to get my career back. We have to put out the best possible product.

My mind sorts through options and possibilities, but Jerry was my last-ditch effort.

Damn it, Jerry.

After the phone call, I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t be around Luke without the truth of how dire our situation actually is spilling out of my mouth, so I told him I needed to make some calls. I came back to the house to talk to Finley, but she’s not here. No one was here—except Taylor, who was downstairs painting her nails—so I booked it upstairs and have been trying not to have a total panic attack ever since while lamenting all my problems to Keanu.

He's such a great listener.

Finley isn’t answering her phone. She was giving ice skating lessons today, but they should be over by now.

Maybe she’s still at the rink.

Taylor isn’t downstairs when I head back out, but the lingering scent of nail polish remover hangs in the air. We haven’t spoken since dinner the other night. Over the years, we’ve become experts at evading each other.

I walk down the drive and cut across behind the cabins to get to the skating rink.

Pushing open the thick steel doors to the building, I’m greeted by a gust of chilly air. It’s almost colder inside than it is out. Under the cathedral ceiling, standing in the middle of the rink, Archer comes into view. He’s in his sneakers, watching Finley while she skates around him.

I make my way around the walkway that hugs the barrier wall of the rink.

The swish of her blades cutting into the ice echoes in the cavernous space.

Her movements are confident and smooth, gliding across the ice like she was born with the blades strapped to her feet. My heart twists. She was born to do this.

At eighteen, she placed fourth at Nationals, missing the Olympics by one since they send the top three.

Four years later, she placed first in Sectionals. We all knew she would be heading to the Olympics. It was her year. The other competitors couldn’t touch her.

Then Aria died a week before Nationals. Finley came home to take care of Piper and Taylor and Jake. I would have left college, too, and come home to help, but she insisted I stay and finish school. I was in my last year.

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