Page 81 of The Devil of Downtown

“You’re both here!” she beams. “Can we go to the park? Pleeease?”

Sloane caves immediately. “Ten minutes.”

At the park, Elsie finds friends instantly, leaving Sloane and me on a bench.

“So,” Sloane says, “the Bexleys. What are they like? I need to know whose egos I’m managing.”

“They’re nice,” I say. “Impeccable manners. Well spoken. Stan and Felicity Bexley are warm, so they’ll be in their element. Felicity, particularly, seems to love a party.”

“What about Hugo?” she asks. “Dane mentioned he will need to be managed.”

“Hugo Bexley is...” I lower my voice. “Your classic red flag. Drunk, high, probably allergic to sobriety. Honestly? A walking STD with a trust fund—someone has to keep him from setting himself on fire.”

Sloane winces. “Yikes, no wonder Dane wants me there.”

“But Dominic Bexley, his younger brother,” I add. “He’s a sweetheart; you won’t have any problems with him.”

“Well, that’s one silver lining.”

My stomach tightens, not because of the Bexleys but because I haven’t told her about Dane and me. Every time I get close, something stops me.

It’s nothing. A fling. A mistake with a timer. There’s no point in worrying her.

Elsie runs toward me. “IVY! Push me on the swing, please!”

I stand grateful for the rescue. “Duty calls.”

I’m halfway through pushing her on the swing when Sloane walks over.

“Alright Els, time to get you home for dinner,” she says.

Elsie whines, but one raised eyebrow from Sloane ends the protest. She hops off the swing and takes Sloane’s hand.

That’s when I hear a familiar voice.

“Ives?”

Brody.

He jogs across the park, hands in pockets, hood pulled up against the wind. Elsie charges at him and wraps her arms around his legs. “Brody!”

“Hey, Munchkin,” Brody says, crouching to ruffle her hair. “Geez, look how tall you’ve got.”

Sloane stiffens slightly and leans down, putting her arm around Elsie. “Come on, sweetheart, we need to go.” She shoots me a sisterly warning look over her shoulder as she leads Elsie away.

Brody waits until they’re gone before nodding toward the half-deflated basketball abandoned near the hoop. “Wanna shoot?”

“What...you came all the way to play ball?” I smile as he picks up the ball, tossing it to me.

“Is there a better reason?” He grins, walking backwards to the court, motioning for me to toss the ball back.

I shake my head and pass it back, following him.

We fall into an easy rhythm—passing, taking turns shooting, missing more than we make.

It’s comfortable in a way only old history can be.

He shoulder-checks me lightly when I sink a shot.