A Little Something Extra

Dear Abby

This Invertary story takes place about eight years after Bad Boy.

Dear Abby,

You are the love of my life.

“You’re really going to write her a letter about this?” Flynn’s thirteen-year-old daughter shook her head as she looked over his shoulder.

Flynn Boyle held up the card he’d spent good money on. “It isn’t a letter. It’s a huge, sparkly card. With. Hearts.”

She gave him a pitying look. “It won’t work. And you can’t start it like that. It’s really corny.”

Flynn let out a frustrated growl and tried again.

Dear Abby,

You are the love of my life. You’re the most amazing woman I know.

“Still corny,” Katy said.

“If you aren’t going to help, you need to get lost.”

She put a hand on his back, tossed her plaited hair over her shoulder, and gave him the kind of superior look only a newly minted teenager could deliver. “A hand-written note won’t get you out of this mess. Maybe you should take her away somewhere, like Paris. Or the moon. Somewhere she can’t see what you’ve done.”

“Helpful. Really helpful.” He eyed her Invertary Juniors soccer strip. “Why aren’t you at practice?”

“Because the coach is here, screwing up his marriage.”

“Your mother will kill me if she hears you saying screwing.”

“Then you need to stop saying it too. You’re setting a bad example.”

“And that’s still no excuse for missing practice. Serious football players put in the work. You know that.”

“What’s the point? There’s hardly any opportunity for me to play anyway. Apart from our tiny league, there’s nothing for girls around here. There’s no girls’ team at school, and they won’t let me join the boys’ team—even though I am way better than all their other players put together.”

Damn right she was. “Don’t worry. I’m dealing with that. By the time my lawyers are finished with your school, they’ll be begging you to captain their boys’ team. Which is why you can’t miss any practices, and why I asked Harry to cover for me while I deal with this.”

“Uncle Harry doesn’t know squat about football. We both know that he’ll have the team stay inside and play FIFA International Soccer online, while he calls it a strategy session.”

She had a point.

“Go away. I need to concentrate. Go find your sisters and annoy them.”

“Um, they’re busy playing with your new acquisition.” She pointed at the wall of windows overlooking the garden, to the paddock beyond, where the two seven-years-olds were adding bows to the latest animal he’d been conned into rescuing.

“How does this keep happening to me?” Flynn groaned.

Katy patted his back. “It’s because you’re a soft touch. You shouldn’t have done that interview with Cosmo where you told the world all about the animals you rescue. I told you it was a bad idea. Now everybody wants you to take on their unwanted pets because you’re rich enough to look after them and you’re easy to con. At least before that interview, the begging phone calls only came from locals. Now we’re getting them from all over Europe. I picked up the phone the other day and someone asked me about a monkey–in French!”

“I did the interview to spread the word about responsible animal ownership.” He’d wanted to use his fame from his footballing days to promote a worthy cause. One that was dear to his heart, now he was a newly minted veterinarian. What the hell was wrong with that?

“It was Cosmo, Dad. They didn’t care about your cause, all they cared about was getting you shirtless and comparing you to Beckham. Which, by the way, was disgusting. You need to keep your clothes on.”

“Bloody Beckham. I hate that smug bastard. And there’s no competition; I look way better than he does, and that’s without all the makeup and tattoos he needs to look pretty. Plus, I was a better player than he ever managed to be, even on his good days. Which weren’t many. Do I have to remind you about that red card? In a World Cup game? A game he could have helped his team win if he hadn’t been such a dickhead and got kicked off the field. Okay, so he was playing for England, and national pride forbids any decent Scot from supporting their World Cup efforts, but as a professional footballer, I was affronted. He played like a wean throwing a tantrum. That kind of thing makes us all look bad. And don’t even get me started on that ‘magic left foot’ of his. Magic, my arse.” He glanced out the window and shot to his feet. “Crap!” He raced for the doors, threw them open and shouted, “Fergus Boyle, stop painting the alpacas!”

His four-year-old grinned at him but carried right on where he’d left off.