What If I Never (Necklace Trilogy 1)

PLAYLIST

“Girl Like You” by Jason Aldean

“Live Like You’re Dying” by Time McGraw

“Best Shot” by Jimmie Allen

“What If I Never Get Over You” by Lady A

“I Hope You’re Happy Now” by Carly Pearce and Lee Brice

“I Don’t Drink Anymore” by Jason Aldean

CHAPTER ONE

The small package with the pink ribbon arrives on a Thursday, the first week of October.

I’m at my desk at the Nashville’s Frist Art Museum when Carrie, our receptionist, sets it in front of me. “A courier service dropped this off for you two weeks ago. I’m so sorry. Apparently, the temp we had up front had stuffed it in the drawer and just remembered it.”

“Oh,” I say. “Well, no one has complained that I haven’t responded to whatever it is, so no worries.”

“It looks personal to me.” She laces her fingers together and presses her hands beneath her chin and rocks just a little. “A gift from someone special, maybe?” she asks, oh-so-coyly, but the phone panel lights up next to me, which means it’s lighting up at the front desk, as well. “Dang it,” she says, “I have to go back to my desk but I’m dying to know what’s inside that box. Please come show me.” She wiggles her eyebrows and adds, “If it’s not too personal.” She dashes out of the office.

I laugh at her silliness, and how can I not? I’ve been here for three months, and already Carrie feels like a kid sister, who big sister wants to protect. My little clone, too short not to wear heals, with dark brown hair and green eyes. Funny how thirty-two feels old compared to Carrie’s twenty-four, but then again, the past few months have aged me in ways beyond my years, as well.

As for the package, my brows dip as I study the box with the card that reads nothing but, “Allie.” That nickname, used by those close to me, certainly explains why Carrie assumes this to be a personal gift, and of course, so do I. I go by Allison on the job, but while Carrie assumes this is some kind of romantic gesture, I do not. I’m not dating anyone right now, nor have I dated any time in the recent past.

I quickly open the box to find another box inside. A long, slender velvet box with a pink ribbon.

That ribbon, symbolic of breast cancer, jolts me, and how can it not? Cancer is the beast my mother has battled these past few months, and finally, conquered. I still can’t believe this is our reality, her reality, but she’s good now, I remind myself. And she has my stepfather by her side, a man who’s both loving and loyal, a real hero fireman. I could easily return to my real dream career at the world-renowned Riptide Auction House right now, if I so pleased, but I just can’t seem to leave.

I slide the ribbon off the box and then open the lid, sucking in a breath at the sight of an expensive diamond necklace. I mean, holy wow, it’s gorgeous, the overhead lights catching on what my career at Riptide tells me to be high-quality sparkling stones. The necklace is a choker, a long strand of star-shaped diamonds, meant to grab attention. A card is taped to the inner lid that reads, “Forgive me.”

CHAPTER TWO

There are only two men that would ask me to forgive them: my father, who is a retired professional football player, and my ex, who has been my father’s agent of ten years. I also found out the hard way, that Brandon, said ex, is far more my father’s son than I am his daughter and I’m the only one of the two of us actually related. I shove aside that thought before I fall down the rabbit hole of a big ol’ bunch of yuck. Bottom line, I’m in this headspace for one reason: both Brandon and my father have proven that they believe gifts and money are replacements for honesty and love. Brandon Montgomery really is a chip off the old block, AKA my father. And I am not.

Irritated at the pinch in my chest with this idea, I shut the box, intending to send it back to whichever one of them hopes to slide back into my life. I grab the paper that was around the box to eye the return address but find none. That’s when my gaze catches on the recipient's information. It reads “Attention: Allison W,” but the address is for the powerhouse entertainment law firm a few blocks down the road. I know this because our address is 365, and theirs is 355, so we frequently get their deliveries. I quickly grab my phone and look up the firm’s reception number.

I punch the call button and listen as the line rings.

“Hawk Legal,” a female greets, the infamous Tyler Hawk being the primary founder of the firm, but there must be hundreds of attorneys on staff that don’t even get a name on the door. “How can I help you?” she asks.