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I nod. “It is. But that doesn’t make it any less lonely than being an only child. And since the one closest to my age is still a full five years older than me, I often felt like an only child. I mean, Madden is fifteen years older than me. He was halfway through high school when I was born, you know? We were never particularly close. He was off to college when I was three, and Dex was behind him by a couple years. The only reason I talk to Dex now is because of Ains.”

“So what’s the story there?” he asks.

I laugh and launch into the absolutely unbelievable story of my best friend literally running into my brother a decade older than her as she escaped a reality TV wedding in her wedding dress.

He’s laughing as I tell the story, and hell, as I think about it, all of my siblings have fascinating stories of how they ended up with their partners. I guess we can add my story to the list—a drunken Vegas wedding.

We stop an hour in and eat some protein bars. We begin the second half of our walk holding onto our sports drinks filled with electrolytes.

I feel closer to him as we talk about how we grew up. He had a modest upbringing, and he didn’t buy his mom a new house with his fat hockey paychecks. Instead, he paid off her house and remodeled her kitchen. She didn’t want to move. She simply wanted to maintain the same life she’d always lived but wanted the ability to come visit her son whenever she felt like it. He made that happen.

He really, truly is the down-home, Midwestern boy. He wants to take care of her, but he respects her boundaries of wanting to be a school librarian despite the fact that he could make it so she never has to work again. I feel myself not just falling for him a little more but growing to like him even more.

And I tell him about my more lavish lifestyle. About my designer, couture gowns for school dances, and the nanny who often felt more like a mother to me than my actual mom did. I tell him about how Ainsley and I grew close through volleyball, and I had to work hard to make both volleyball and dance fit into my schedule in high school.

We’re from two completely different lifestyles, two totally different backgrounds, and yet we somehow align on so many things.

“So why’d you end up majoring in fashion?” he asks as we turn for the final stretch of the trail.

I give him a wry glance. “Truthfully, I wanted to go into social media management. My old-school father told me in not so many words that it wasn’t a viable career option.”

“What?” he breathes, surprised by that. “Ivy, that’s crazy. You have such a knack for it, and it’s absolutely a viable career choice. You have such a handle on the graphics, the content, the analytics. All of it.”

“He said if it wasn’t a major, it wasn’t a career.” I press my lips together as I remember the conversation.

“For one thing, it absolutely is. It falls under the marketing umbrella. But for another…fuck him. If you have a dream, you deserve the chance to make it happen.” His words are passionate, and it’s actually touching how he’s standing up for me. “Parents should always support their kids, and it feels like a gross injustice when they don’t.”

“I guess I always just saw it as him looking out for me.”

He squeezes my hand. “I get it. We look at our parents as these superhumans who we expect to do no wrong, and it’s hard seeing that maybe they’re imperfect just like the rest of us.”

I’m surprised at his words. Most people harp on what an asshole my father is for the crimes he committed rather than seeing past that. Nobody seems to understand why we all gave him so many chances, why we all showed up to his verdict, why we all continued to show up for him. It’s exactly the reason Cash just said. Because he’s definitely imperfect, but he’s still my dad.

“I think part of why I accepted Ev’s offer to work for Ever-Brand was because it felt like it was the closest I’ll get to my dream career without the degree.”

He presses his lips together. “Not if you’re my social media manager.”

My brows dip. “I’m your brand strategist, remember?”

He lifts a shoulder. “What if you’re both? You work for Everleigh during the day, and I pay you on the side to be my social media manager.”

“You already have one,” I point out.

“Right. One you already said you could do better than. Remember?”

I chuckle. “Yeah. I remember.”

Is he really offering me my dream job on a platter? And could I actually do it? I still don’t know a damn thing about hockey, but I’m learning.

I know branding. I know socials, like he said.

“Think about it,” he suggests. “I won’t fire anybody yet, but the offer stands.”

We arrive back at the car with a lot more to think about than I thought I’d have. He taps around on his phone before he starts up the car, and we head back toward Vegas. Less than an hour later, we’re pulling into the driveway.

“Pack an overnight bag,” he says as he pulls into the garage. “If you can call in sick for Monday and Tuesday, pack for three nights. If you can’t, I’ll have you back here tomorrow.”

My jaw hinges open. “What?”