I cleared my throat. “Before you walked in, I was going over some paperwork.”
He lifted a brow. “Okay?”
“Financial paperwork,” I added.
His expression shifted to curiosity, suspicion, maybe a flicker of hope he didn’t want to show. “Good for you?”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t be smug. It’s not a contest.”
“With you, everything is a contest.”
“That is absolutely not—okay, sometimes,” I said. “But this isn’t one of those moments.”
My fingers brushed the trust fund documents again. Gosh. What was I doing? Why was I even considering this? Ledger and I could barely share oxygen without arguing. Helping him, really helping him, would be the most unhinged idea I’d ever had.
At the same time …
The image of him standing outside the Wilson Center two days ago—panicked, pale, trying to breathe through what sounded like an impending financial collapse—wouldn’t stop replaying in my head.
The image of him just now, looking like someone had wrung all the life out of him, was worse.
I inhaled slowly. “I overheard you the other day.”
His shoulders tensed. “Overheard what?”
“The Wilson Center,” I admitted. “You and Ridge.”
He stared at me, eyes going flat. “You had no right?—”
“I know,” I cut in quickly, hands lifting in surrender. “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. I was just … walking.”
He didn’t soften. “And now what? You think you can swoop in and fix things?”
“No,” I said. “I think I might be able to … offer something.”
His brows drew together, irritation sharpening his features. “Roxie, if this is about charity?—”
“Oh, my gosh,” I muttered, pinching the bridge of my nose. “It’s not charity.”
“Then what is it?”
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
This was wildly stupid.Iwas wildly stupid. No amount of iced coffee could give me the kind of courage this conversation was going to require.
I glanced down at the trust fund papers again, the line item that spelled outRelationship requirement: Married by age twenty-six to maintain inheritance claim. I’d ignored that clause for years. I’d railed against it, cursed my grandmother, rolled my eyes at every condescending note from the family attorney reminding me of the deadline.
But the deadline … was in four months.
Four months until I lost access to the trust fund. Theone that could pay my looming rent, keep me from having to move back home because I couldn’t make it on my own, and help me build something I could be proud of instead of working a dead end job.
Four months until I had nothing.
Ledger had only days. How many? I wasn’t sure.
