I chuckle good-naturedly. “Hockey takes a toll on your body. I’m old in sports years.”
She giggles, and I widen my smile more, hoping I’m not overdoing it. “You don’t look it.” She beams at me.
“Stop it, Mrs. Carter. You’re making me blush.” I wink at her. She giggles again, but she glances around, spotting her husband nearby, chatting with one of my former teammates. She smiles, and I relax a little. With all the fundraising that Baylee and I are doing, I fear for the day I flirt too much and end up in a pickle with one of the rich wives.
Her expression turns serious. “And how are you and Baylee doing?” she asks. “If I understand the situation correctly, you were both also victims.” There’s a motherly quality to her tone that makes me feel less guilty about my flirting—reassuring me that she doesn’t see it as serious either.
“We’re fine, Mrs. Carter,” I assure her. When she squints at me in disbelief, I add, “I promise. He didn’t geteverythingof mine.” At least he left enough for me to live off for a while, and once we’ve raised what we need to help the people of our hometown, I’ll start looking for a coaching position. It’s what I always planned to do after I retired from hockey anyway. Since Bayleedidlose pretty much everything, the foundation pays her a small salary to live off. I had to fight her on that, pointing out that she’s entitled to it since she’s a victim of Bryce’s too.
“Hmmm.” Mrs. Carter eyes me and then looks down at her black clutch she’s been carrying, popping it open and pulling out a card and a pen. She makes a motion for me to turn around, so I oblige, and she puts the card on my mid back to write something on it. When she’s done, she spins me back toward her and holds out the card.
“I’m head of the board for Carter Tech,” she says, and I swallow back surprise. I should know better than to believe that the Carters’ money was made by Mr. Carter. “This is the number for Kaitlyn Beck. She runs our foundation. I’ll let her know you’ll be calling.”
My returning grin for Mrs. Carter is genuine. “Thank you.”
“Of course. Bryce Hayes is a first-class—oh! Libby!” She cuts herself off, but I’m not disappointed. She’s preaching to the choir. I’ve called my sister’s former fiancé a lot of terrible things over the last six months. Whatever Mrs. Carter was about to say was probably mild compared to that.
She’s waving over a beautiful woman wearing a simple black cocktail dress, with thick brown hair pulled back in an elegant ponytail. She outshines every woman in this room, despite her dress being basic. She looks vaguely familiar, but that’s common when Baylee and I organize these events, since the invitees are typically Houston’s rich and famous and it’s a relatively small crowd.
“Libby,” Mrs. Carter repeats as she gets closer. “Come over here and meet Jordan.”
Libby turns to me, her hand out and smiling wide. Except I instantly clock that it’s fake, even though it’s a good fake. I’ve gotten a lot of practice analyzing rich women—first during my career as a pro hockey player when I mingled with women like her all the time, and now while I try to convince them to give me money. Though Libby’s eyes are friendly, they don’t match the wattage of her smile.
“Libby, this is Jordan Atkinson. He and his sister have organized the benefit. Jordan, meet Libby Bennet. She and her sisters are the queens of philanthropy in Houston. She can certainly help you meet your goals like that.” She snaps her fingers.
Ahhh, Bennet. That’s why I know her face. Because Mrs. Carter is right: the daughters of the owner of the Houston Pumas, the pro football team, are very well known for the causes they promote. Baylee has been in contact with a foundation that Janelle Bennet Baldwin is on the board of, and the whole family is high on our list for reaching out to.
“Hardly the queens,” Libby says, resting a hand on Mrs. Carter’s arm. “Maybe princesses.” She smirks at the woman, and they both laugh.
Mrs. Carter snakes an arm around Libby’s shoulders and gives her a motherly squeeze. “You’re going to love Jordan’s story, Libby,” she says. “Pro hockey player turned philanthropist. It’s right up your alley.”
Libby’s gaze lights up, which is a bit of surprise. She comes from football royalty. Is she allowed to like other sports? “Hockey?” she repeats.
Mrs. Carter nudges Libby with her elbow. “Be careful with this one,” she says with a teasing smile. “He’s a shameless flirt. You’ll be handing over millions in ten minutes flat.” Thenshewinks atme.
I snort with laughter, but when I glance at Libby, her expression has gone from excited to calculated. Libby Bennet is beautiful. She’s probably been flirted with a lot to get at her money, and probably for less altruistic reasons than to replenish the savings of an entire small town. Despite Mrs. Carter’s words, I suspect it will take more than my pretty smile to coax Libby out of the kind of cash I’m hoping she’ll hand over.
“I’ll keep my eye on him,” Libby says to Mrs. Carter. Her tone is light and has the same teasing tone Mrs. Carter used a moment ago, but her careful expression belies the joke.
“I’ll leave you to talking her out of her money.” Mrs. Carter leans toward me, giving me a quick peck on the cheek before she glides away to join her husband. I watch as he slips a hand around her waist and surreptitiously slides it down to her butt, squeezing. I swallow back a laugh.
I like Mrs. Carter.
“So,” Libby says. “How did you get yourself involved in helping people that Bryce Hayes scammed?”
“He scammed my sister first,” I reply easily. This is a story I’m used to telling. From the very first, Baylee was adamant that we be honest with people about what happened. The more genuine our story, the more successful we could be. I shrug. “Well, probably not his first-ever victim—but she was engagedto him and inadvertently helped him steal the life savings of most of the residents of our hometown.”
Libby narrows her eyes and shakes her head. “Every time I hear something about him, I hate him more.” She studies me for several moments. “How much would you need to replenish everything?”
My heart rate picks up, but I squash down hope quickly. Libby comes from a family of billionaires. They could take care of our little town without blinking. It’s also rumored that the Bennet sisters are all incredibly wealthy in their own right. Ellie Bennet Pemberton just bought a football team.
But I’ve met plenty of obscenely rich people in the last few months, and we’re still very short of our goal.
“Ten million dollars,” I say flatly. Libby strikes me as someone who wants the truth straight, and I’m happy to give it to her. “There were about two hundred victims in Redhaven. They each lost an average of around $75,000. We’ve raised about five million over the last six months.” The numbers come out almost as a report. I know these numbers intimately, but I’ve never spoken so candidly about them.
Libby lets out a long breath. “What’s the population of Redhaven?” she asks. Her expression is soft and caring. It makes my stomach lurch with guilt that I didn’t at least try to get to know her better before asking for money. I know so little about the Bennet family—only that they own the Pumas, they’re incredibly wealthy, and they used to have a reality TV show. Despite them being on the list of donors Baylee and I were interested in, I haven’t watched a single episode of that old show. Or even looked up any of them on social media. Or looked into their stories.
“Just under five hundred people,” I tell her.
