He nods. “He told me to gather the funds for his bail. His arraignment is Monday, but his lawyers gave him an estimate.”
“How much?” I breathe.
“Two to three million.”
I gasp. The Bradleys are loaded, but putting up two million bucks to get their dad out of jail when he’s going to end up right back there again anyway feels…well, a little outside my level of comprehension.
I do pretty well in my business. I’m a freelancer, so it’s not like I have a boss taking half my wages—other than the government. I make enough that I’m ready to invest in some properties for myself, anyway.
But I can’t imagine giving away two million dollars and having it tied up in the courts for however long this trial might take with the hope and prayer you’ll get it back when you’re betting on someone who’s clearly guilty and would likely take any opportunity to flee.
Then again, if he was a flight risk, they wouldn’t even grant him bail.
“What are you going to do?”
“Liam and I are going to chip in. It could be up to a year before we see that money back, so I’m going to put the mansion up for sale to pay us back in the short-term. And on that note, I need to head to Chicago after the weekend to survey what the place looks like after the feds searched it. You know, get it into tiptop shape to get it on the market ASAP.”
I think of the Bradley Mansion with a feeling of nostalgia. It’s a twenty-five thousand square foot monstrosity, one of the largest mansions in the city limits, and it was a place I hung out at often during my childhood. Mr. Bradley custom built the place before he and his wife filled it with a family, and the outside is all limestone with balconies on an enormous plot of land that overlooks the Chicago skyline. The inside is gorgeous. It had the kind of marble entryway that was fancier for prom pictures than the actual venue where prom was held.
Every time I pulled up to the gated mansion, my heart would race—and not just because I had a crush on Archer, who was nothing more than a close friend back in high school before we shifted to something more in college. It was because that mansion meant something.
Archer and I would sit out in the yard at night. We couldn’t see the stars so close to the city, but we’d stare at the Chicago skyline as we dreamed together about what would come next. He always knew he was going pro. Some people are justthatgood, and he is. I was the only person he ever opened up to, though.
It’s not just nostalgic because of Archer, though. I became friends with Ford then, too, and even though we’ve gotten closer in more recent years, I remember laughing until I cried about the stupidest things when we were supposed to be working on homework.
But they weren’t stupid when they meant so much—when I’d go home to my smaller house several miles away with an aching stomach from laughing so hard and wishing I could just stay just a little longer at the Bradleys’ house.
And the kiss.
The kiss we never spoke about again.
The kiss that was probably never meant to happen. The one he never mentioned and probably was too drunk to remember.
I push that thought away.
We were just friends back then, but that didn’t mean my parents would allow me to sleep over there like they did at my girlfriends’ houses.
I did once—after senior prom when all of the couples in our group returned to the mansion to spend the night. It was pretty much the entire baseball team, and it was against Archer’s wishes, but he had the biggest house and therefore the most space to accommodate the twenty kids on the team plus their dates.
“I’d love to help. Can I come with you?” I ask. “The mansion means a lot to me.”
“I’d love for you to come,” he says quietly, and the way he says it shows me how much he cares for me. Just a few simple words have that power coming from him. “And it means a lot to all of us, but it’s also worth a shitload of money. It’s just a house. It’ll still stand there, and we’ve got the pictures to remember it.”
I press my lips together. It feels like a cold response. “You’re not sentimental,” I say, and it’s not an accusation so much as stating a fact.
He shakes his head. “No, I’m not. But even if I was, it doesn’t make sense to keep that much money tied up in a house that no longer serves its purpose. You know? My father is in trouble, and he needs the money. We grew up there, but people move all the time. My parents don’t need a mansion with nine bedrooms anymore. We don’t know how much time my mom has left. We don’t know how long my dad will be in prison if he’s found guilty. Ivy still lives at home, but it’d be easy enough for her to find somewhere to settle in that isn’t a twenty-five thousand square foot mansion for one person.”
He looks nearly vulnerable as he says the words, and it’s an interesting contrast—the big, bad starting tight end for the Tampa Bay Beasts versus the intellectual strategist trying to imagine solutions for his baby sister as his family falls apart. Maybe he’s more sentimental than he realizes.
“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to work. I’m going to order dinner from downstairs. You want anything?” he asks.
I nod. “I’m in the mood for spaghetti and meatballs. Again.”
“You got it,” he says, and he ducks off to let me return to my work.
I stare at the papers in front of me as our conversation plays over in my mind. He’d love for me to come with him. He thinks I’m brilliant.
Why does he have to be so kind, so cute, and also so off-limits?
