Page 1 of The Romance Game

Harley

CHAPTER 1

If I had ducks, they would not be in a row. The t’s are not crossed. The i’s lack their dots. In other words, I’m a walking, talking disaster.

I can all but hear my sisters’ voices now, telling me that’s nonsense and pumping me up about how great I am—a girl boss who does it all, but the juggle is real. I know the truth, and it stings a little.

I’m locking the door behind us when I realize I forgot to pack extra diapers. No sooner do I have those in hand than I realize I took my apron inside last night to wash, which means I need my backup.

And my phone is around here somewhere. Can’t leave without that.

Steady breath, girl. Steady.

All the while, Luke burbles happily on my hip. I nuzzle my forehead against his every time the ride gets bumpy and I have to turn around to go back inside.

He is my greatest blessing.

“Am I forgetting anything else?” Obviously, he has no idea, but who else am I going to ask?

Luke puffs his cheeks, and he squeals with delight. “Ma!”

It tears me up that we’ll be apart for the next seven hours. I’d give almost anything to stay home with him today, read board books, play with his toys, take a long walk, and snuggle at naptime.

I rub my nose against his and say, “That’s right. I was forgetting something. I love you, Lukey-boy. Mama loves you to bits and back again.”

And that is what is going to get me through the day at the Gastrodome. It’s a haven for lovers of fried food and sports, with plasma screen televisions covering the surface of every wall. The flashing images play behind my eyes well after my shifts are over.

After buckling Luke into his car seat and making sure he has everything he needs—his blanket, a teether, and his favorite bunny stuffed animal—I get into the driver’s seat. No sooner am I on the main road that leads from our nondescript studio apartment, than the low gas indicator beeps.

Usually, it only gives a trill in warning, but it must be malfunctioning because it beeps every ten seconds. I too feel like I’m running out of gas—in life. I’m behind on bills. Which ones? I’m not sure because that would require me to open my mail and email. Even though it’s just a simple tearing of an envelope or a click of a button, putting off finding out how much debt I have is somehow easier.

I know, I know. That’s not true in the long run, but sometimes getting through the day with clean clothes (okay, I wore these pants twice already, but I only have so many pairs that meet the “fitted and flattering” uniform requirement for the Gastrodome), food in our bellies (I get by on my employee meal and whatever is left over from Luke’s breakfast and dinner), and a semblance of normalcy.

Actual normalcy went out the window the day I met the “Givenator,” aka Troy Givens, also known as my ex. He got famous for winning the lottery and then giving it all away. Well, supposedly. He made grandiose claims about pledging huge amounts of money to various charities and entities. When thedonations weren’t made, people started to get suspicious. He vowed that it was all a big misunderstanding. Turns out, he spent it all and then some.

I bought into it. Into him. He was a charmer. A narcissistic, lying prince charmer.

On the upside, I got my little prince out of the disastrous three-week marriage—all the wedding suppliers and companies sent me past-due bills when he’d promised to cover expenses. And that was just the beginning of the avalanche of debt.

Luke makes a beeping sound in time with the warning light. I send up a prayer.

God, if you get me to Little Steps Child Care Center and then the Gastrodome, I will go to sleep at a reasonable hour tonight.

Most nights, I doze off when I’m putting Luke down, then I wake up anywhere from ten to thirty minutes later and get a second wind. But because our apartment is so small, it’s not like I can use that time productively because I’d risk waking up Luke. Instead, I scroll social media or ruminate.

Leaving my career behind. What the Givenator took from me. My finances.

After dropping Luke off at daycare, I’m nearly back to my sister’s old Pontiac, and by old, I mean that she drove it in high school and recently celebrated her twentieth reunion. Before that, the vehicle belonged to our Aunt Martina and still has Florida plates. If anyone here in Mobile, Alabama thinks I’m from out of town, they’re mistaken. The Owens aren’t known for following rules or procedures. We’re not criminals, we just have our way of doing things, and that sometimes involvesnotdoing things.

Transferring the registration is on my mile-long to-do list—promise—along with a plethora of other things that I won’t mention because I don’t want to be judged.

Debating between whether to get gas now or later, the key is in the car door lock when one of the daycare moms waves.

Please don’t come over to chat. I don’t have time for small talk or mom talk.

It’s not that I’m antisocial, it’s just that this morning is timed down to the minute. One of the waitresses at the Gastrodome got fired last week for having someone else clock in for her, so I won’t risk texting any of my coworkers to do me a favor so I don’t get docked for being late.

“Hey, Harley. It’s Tabby, Wilder’s mom.”

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