Iced Romance Read online

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  WiDō Publishing

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  widopublishing.com

  Copyright © 2012 by Whitney Boyd

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Steven Novak

  Book design by Marny K. Parkin

  Print ISBN: 978-1-937178-28-4

  To my wonderful mother, Deborrah.

  Thanks for being my biggest fan!

  Chapter One

  “May I help you?”

  The woman across the counter from me smiles, showing off both rows of her straight, too-white teeth. She brushes her curly blonde hair over her shoulder and blinks at me, her brilliant blue eyes clashing with the teal of her suit jacket.

  She looks like the cheerleader type, and I suppress a small wave of jealousy. I always wished, secretly, that I could be an outgoing, gorgeous Barbie doll.

  “Uh, yeah, I’m looking for a flight to—” I trail off and look hopefully toward the posters of beaches and cities that line the walls, trying to find inspiration.

  The travel agent’s smile does not falter. She taps something into her keyboard and then looks up at me expectantly. “To where? What destination do you have in mind?”

  I have many destinations in mind, but the only thing they have in common, the only important thing, is that they are far, far away from here.

  She is still looking at me, and I realize that she is waiting for my reply. I pull my shoulders back a little and shoot her what I hope is a dazzling smile. A smile that says, “No, I’m not crazy, thanks.”

  “No destination, per se, but somewhere warm, English-speaking, friendly, you know, like Canada, only tropical and where they don’t like hockey. Somewhere a person could disappear if they wanted to.”

  I sound like a complete nutcase. I should clarify, say something that will make her realize I’m not a murderer or terrorist, you know, something that will make me seem completely sane. But I don’t want to lie. I’m not sane at the moment.

  “No destination, but where you could disappear.” The woman echoes, shooting me a strange look. Her manicured eyebrows rise slightly. “What, a relationship gone south?”

  I shrug. “Something like that.”

  It’s actually a relationship that crashed and burned and derailed my entire life in the process, but I let the details slide.

  Todd. There are a lot of four letter words that I could use instead of his name, but it takes too much effort to come up with them. Besides, the shooting pain in my chest whenever I think of him makes me lose focus.

  The woman makes a sympathetic snorting sound. At least, I assume it’s sympathetic. “Men are scum,” she says wisely. She taps away on her keyboard again.

  I shift from one foot to the other. I’m wearing my bright orange high heels. Alexander McQueen, I think, his latest collection pieces. They’re pretty awesome shoes, although not overly comfortable. My shins are killing me, but my feet and legs look amazing.

  “All right.” She types and then clicks something with her mouse. The printer behind her hums to life and a couple sheets of paper spit out. She swivels in her important-looking leather chair and snatches them, spreading them on the counter in front of me.

  I lean on my forearms and my eyes scan the various destinations as the woman murmurs inconsequential details about the weather and current economic situations.

  Los Angeles, California—$590 plus tax. No thanks. I know too many people who live there. Way too many. Plus Todd likes to vacation there with Carrie Underwood’s husband with the not-so-secret hope of getting his picture taken and plastered all over People magazine. So, definitely no to L.A.

  Nassau, Bahamas—$932 plus tax. Hmm, that’s nice and far away. But I might stand out too much. I’m a bit too high strung to relate to the chill, yeah-man mentality of the Caribbean.

  Austin, Texas—$320 plus tax. Texas is good. No huge hockey fans there. But I’m not that into beef, and isn’t that their big thing? Vegetarians in Texas might get shot.

  Orlando, Florida—$90 plus tax. I blink and reread it. No, I wasn’t hallucinating. It definitely says ‘Orlando, Florida’ and ninety dollars in the same line.

  I am trembling. I’ve only been to Florida once before. It was two years ago, when Todd’s team had the game against Tampa Bay, but they got their trash kicked and I think Todd even got a concussion from an illegal play. Or was that the time he broke his ankle? Either way, he was damaged somehow and ended up in the hospital. I like Florida.

  Besides, ninety bucks? How can you go wrong for ninety bucks? I point at the Orlando line and say, forcing nonchalance, “Looks like you have a typo here, ha-ha. Florida for ninety dollars?”

  The woman nods her head. “A total steal, isn’t it?”

  So it’s not a typo?

  “How much is it with taxes? And when does it leave?”

  The woman types again then looks up. “Total will be one hundred and forty dollars. It leaves on Tuesday morning at six, so you’ll have to be at the airport around five. Does that sound okay?”

  I’m shaking. I take a deep breath. “Yes. Please book me on that flight.”

  “I’ll need to see some identification.”

  I reach into my wallet and pull out my driver’s license.

  Kennedy Carter

  Age: 25

  Eye color: Brown

  Hair color: Brown

  Height: 5' 7"

  Weight: 120 lbs

  The picture shows me grimacing like a mug shot, looking a lot like Jim Carrey in The Grinch. My biggest fear is that I look like this in real, everyday life. And it’s a perfectly justifiable fear, too, considering nobody ever looks twice at it when trying to ID me. It mustn’t be too far from the real me, which is a sad thought.

  The travel agent takes the card, barely glances at my picture, and types the information into the computer. After about a minute the printer spits out papers. When she asks for my method of payment, I hand her a debit card. A few seconds later, everything is complete.

  “All right, Miss Carter. This is your confirmation number. Bring these papers to the airport on Tuesday and they’ll give you the ticket. You ha
ve one bag paid for; anything more will be extra, payable at the airport.” The travel agent is very efficient.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Would you like me to make a reservation for a hotel room or give you information on rental cars?”

  Crap, I hadn’t even thought about things like that. I think fast. I could use a hotel, at least for the first night. But a car? I better take a cab or I’ll end up lost and dead in some alley. Or something.

  “Uh, sure, a hotel near the airport would be nice.”

  While she types into her computer, I stuff my driver’s license, debit card, and wallet back into my Valentino purse.

  “Here you are. You have a reservation at the Hilton that night. They have a shuttle that picks you up from the airport. Is there anything else?”

  I shake my head no. “Thank you.”

  I grab the papers she hands me and turn toward the door. My limbs feel like they are going to give way and I need to find a bench. I walk through the door into the huge, open mall. An elegant, wooden bench with some graffiti in black marker on the back is a few yards away. I make a beeline for it. I sink slowly onto the hard seat and bury my head in my hands.

  I feel relief. I feel terror. I feel pain.

  Am I seriously going to run away from everything?

  I close my eyes and see an image of Todd, smirking and shrugging, getting away with yet another indiscretion. I see the people who I had thought were my friends turning a blind eye to it all, more worried about their reputations and losing their social status than thinking about me. I see our condo, the paintings, the furniture; everything that used to mean so much to me but now only causes me pain.

  Oh, I’m going, all right.

  And I’m not coming back.

  Chapter Two

  My head is still spinning a few hours later as I climb the last few steps to the condo. I usually take the elevator, but today I thought the burn from the stairs would make me feel better. You know, clear my head and all that. I’m delusional. Somehow I feel worse than ever. My legs are killing me and I’m pretty sure the blisters on my feet have had babies.

  When I reach the top step, I kick off my shoes and walk gingerly the rest of the way down the carpeted hall to the front door of our penthouse. I fumble with my keys then hear the little click as the deadbolt slides open. I push through the door and survey the white, modern room.

  There is no sign of Todd, thank heavens. I couldn’t deal with another confrontation right now. Then I remember his team is on the road for the next few days, heading out to California somewhere. I’ll have the condo all to myself.

  And when he gets back, I’ll be gone.

  I grind my teeth and throw my purse onto the couch. I’ll pay for the extra suitcase. Money is not an issue. In fact, maybe I’m lucky, but for my whole life, it has never been an issue. The real problem? What do you bring with you when you have to fit your whole life into two suitcases, but you don’t really care since you’ve already lost everything important to you anyway?

  My thoughts trail to my parents. They were always distant and intimidating, so caught up in their careers I don’t think they remembered they had a daughter. Yet they were still the most important things to me, and I tried so hard to please them.

  When they died, my dad when I was twelve and my mom just before my eighteenth birthday, I felt lost. School, my friends, none of it mattered.

  Until I met Todd, and finally somebody loved me. All the years of neglect from my parents faded. I had the world because I had Todd. And now, even he has betrayed me.

  I groan and massage my temples. I can’t think about this now.

  I walk into the majestic master bedroom and flick on the light. Everything is pristine. The towel I’d tossed onto the floor after my shower is neatly hanging in the en suite bathroom. The piles of clothes I had gone through while looking for my Prada jeans have disappeared, either gone to the laundry or folded and back into the wardrobe. The cleaning woman must have been here this morning.

  Which means, I think happily, the fridge will be stocked with all kinds of yummy things. My stomach rumbles, right on cue, and I hurry to the spacious kitchen.

  Mmm, fresh feta cheese and hummus from the Greek deli down the street, and pita chips from that little bakery I’ve come to depend on. There are some rich chocolate tortes in the dessert drawer. They’re Todd’s favorites, and I feel perverse satisfaction as I reach in and take all four. Even if I can’t eat them all, I’m not letting him get them.

  I spread some hummus on a pita chip and pile a morsel of the feta on top while I think about my current situation. I’ll need money for my escape to Florida.

  My trust fund has been depleted for years, but Todd and I have a joint checking account. I haven’t exactly contributed any money to the account, but that’s irrelevant. I’ve earned my share.

  Being engaged to a hockey player means you don’t get to hold down a full-time job of your own. The engagement is the full-time job. All the photo shoots, the team family luncheons, the interviews where you stand by your man, smiling and nodding as he talks about how you make him a better person; not to mention the awards ceremonies and banquets and weddings of his friends and teammates.

  I’ll take half of whatever is in there, I decide. I’m not going to rob him blind, but I’ve earned it. Besides, if we’d gotten married I’d get half of everything in the divorce settlement anyway. It’s not my fault that we’ve been perpetually engaged for the last three years without any sign of him agreeing to an actual date and making it so I can’t divorce him.

  I finish off my pita chip and make myself another. I’ll pawn my engagement ring. That should get me extra money, and it’s not like I want to keep it for sentimental reasons. I hold out my hand and stare at it. It’s huge, a Neil Lane special creation, and it cost Todd a small fortune.

  But it’s mine.

  And I get to decide what to do with it.

  I stuff the rest of the pita into my mouth and grab a bottle of Diet Coke from the fridge. I tap the top twice to keep it from fizzing over and then open it, the familiar smell calming my nerves before I take a sip.

  I lean my elbows on the black marble counter top and rap my fingers nervously against the aluminum can. I should find a place to stay before Tuesday. Sure, I have the hotel for the first night, but I’ll need a house. I can’t just show up in Florida and expect everything to be great. This takes planning and preparation and—

  Rapid tapping on the front door interrupts my thoughts. I wipe at my eyes to make sure I haven’t been leaking tears again, which lately I am prone to do, and silently step to the door. I peek out the security hole and sigh.

  I could pretend I’m not home.

  It’s not that I don’t like my neighbor, it’s just I need to be alone right now and figure stuff out.

  She raises her hand to knock again and I see something in her hand. A plate of what appears to be chocolate chip cookies. And they look delicious. I need to have one of those in my mouth soon.

  “Hi, Mrs. Lawrence!” I swing the door open, a smile pasted onto my face. I force myself to not look at what she holds in her hands so I can act surprised when she hands them to me.

  “Hello, Kennedy, dear,” she replies in her raspy voice.

  Her pinkish tinged hair is tightly curled and frames her face like a little poodle dog. She is wearing clothes that probably cost more than our condo, but they, like her, are ancient. They must have been stylish at one time, back in the fifties and sixties, but now they smell like mothballs.

  I take a step back, still holding onto the door. “Would you like to come in?”

  She nods and holds out the plate of cookies. “I was baking this afternoon and thought I’d bring you some.”

  I’m sure the fake surprise on my face looks, well, fake, but I go w
ith it anyway. “Wow! That’s really sweet of you,” I say, meaning every word of it despite my horrible acting skills.

  I take the plate and the delicious scent of freshly baked cookies rises up and greets my nostrils. I sniff and say with a conspiratorial grin, “You’re trying to fatten me up, aren’t you?”

  “You need it. All you young girls, thin as rails. Why, in my time, people envied girls with curves, you know. Marilyn Monroe was the sexiest woman on the planet, believe me.”

  I suppress another smile and beckon for her to enter the condo. Mrs. Lawrence is quite possibly my only actual friend at the moment, which is both a touching and terrifying thought.

  “I think Marilyn Monroe is still considered to be an icon,” I reply idly as I place the cookies on the counter, grab myself one of the largest ones, and step into the sitting area.

  It’s a stylish area, one that Todd spent thousands of dollars on to get just right. Large, black, leather couches line two walls. There is a Monet painting on the wall and a glass coffee table on a thick, plush rug in the center. It’s artistic, minimalistic and youthful, or at least that’s what the overpaid designer told us when he showed us the sketches.

  Mrs. Lawrence sits primly on the sofa, her ankles crossed and her hands in her lap. “You know,” she begins, and I swallow hard as I recognize the tone. I know where this is headed, the real reason for the visit and the cookies. “I’m not one to pry, my dear, but it’s been all over the news and I knew I needed to come see how you are.”

  My cheeks flood with color. This is the most humiliating situation I have ever been in. Ever since the story broke, I’ve been overwhelmed with pity from strangers, friends, and everyone in between. I don’t know how Elin Nordegren put up with it all, to be honest. As a private person, I find the embarrassment debilitating. Yet they always say that the best self-defense is confidence. I just have to be confident and nobody will see how mortifying this is for me.

  I smile warmly at Mrs. Lawrence. “Of course,” I say, “that is so thoughtful of you to be thinking of me. But, you know, things like this happen. It’s just life. People break up.”