We scroll through a handful more applicants, all people who used to live in Redhaven and claim that Bryce used his connections to the town to scam them. Every explanation for lack of documentation is similar: records not accessible because of the length of time, some claim cash investments with Bryce, and other seemingly plausible reasons why they don’t have a paper trail to prove Bryce stole from them.
Baylee watches me as I study each one and then gives me a worried look when I’m done. “What are we going to do?”
I let out a sigh. “We can’t pay all these out. We’d need another couple million. And … they don’t feel legit.”
Baylee shakes her head. “It feels exactly like Bryce’s MO, though. Especially these cash ones for under ten thousand.”
I shrug. “Maybe, yeah. But we can’t just hand out this money. We’ll be the target of anyone looking to get a couple thousand dollars quick.”
“If Bryce stole from these people?—”
I reach across the desk to take Baylee’s hand. “We can’t fix every person Bryce stole from. There’s no way Redhaven was his first target.” But Baylee’s expression doesn’t relax. Since the day Bryce took off with millions of dollars from hardworking Redhaven families, my sister has felt responsible. She dated the man, got engaged to him, gave him a place of trust in our community.
But honestly? Baylee lost the most out of anyone. Not just her life savings and the little house she’d saved up to buy. Bryce charmed her, made her feel loved, promised her a life she’d always dreamed of, and then used her to steal from people she cared about. Baylee might never trust another man again, and though the way she was taken advantage of is different from many of the clients Libby works with every day, she’s the reason I’ll keep every rule and boundary Libby makes, no matter how I feel about her. I will never be the reason a woman looks askance at a man.
“You keep working on the applications we’ve already approved,” I tell Baylee. “I’ll start working on these. Calling people to see if we can figure out a way to document what they lost.”
“You’regoing to call Mitchell Hurst?”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “I will be nice. Cross my heart.”
She laughs dryly. That’s fair. I did break his nose back in highschool when he dumped Baylee right after high school graduation because “they needed to go their own ways.” And only in part because he ripped offHigh School Musical.
Baylee walks me to the door when I get ready to leave and hugs me tightly.
“I’ll see you soon, Bay,” I promise. “My jet-setting wife will have me back and forth between Denver and Houston plenty.”
She keeps her hands on my shoulders as she leans back to study me. “Be careful. I know you don’t want to hear it, but don’t go falling in love with her willy-nilly.”
“Willy-nilly?”
She slaps me on the arm. “Seriously. I know you think you can handle a broken heart, but I don’t know if I can handle seeing you suffer through one, okay?”
I pull her back into a hug. “Okay. Fine. I won’t fall in love willy-nilly.”
She sighs and pushes me away, then shoves me out the door. She still watches me go down the sidewalk to my car and waves as I drive away, worry in her expression as I pull from the curb.
I wish I could reassure her more, but the problem is, I don’t think I can walk back what I feel for Libby Bennet. How can I when we’re married?
CHAPTER 15
LIBBY
Sunday night, two nights before our flight to Denver, my—our—apartment is packed up and already shipped off, so we order takeout even though I prefer Jordan’s cooking. We choose pizza from a gourmet place nearby, but it’s got nothing on Mrs. Atkinson’s crust recipe. We should go out and be seen doing cute stuff, but considering we’re going to be on display a lot more in Denver, I crave a night in to be myself. Besides, hanging out with Jordan with no pressure is fun. When we’re not worried about what people think of us—or when I’m not worried about how I feel about him—it’s easy to hang out and be friends. Jordan can even usually manage not to flirt.
Not always, but he’s working on it, which is endearing.
Jordan goes to the door to get the pizza when it arrives, and when he comes back into the kitchen with the box, he asks, “Dinner at the table or on the couch watching hockey?”
“Hockey,” I say. We’ve been going over film the last couple weeks, talking about the guys on our team and the strategies Jordan wants to share with the coaches and administration staff when we meet them on Tuesday. I’m feeling more confident about my knowledge, especially when I have Jordan around, but every little bit helps.
“My kind of dinner arrangement,” he says, setting the pizza box on the coffee table and heading back into the kitchen for plates and utensils. I move to stand and help, but he waves me away. “Sit down. I’ve got it, bab—” He cuts himself off, his cheeks going red. He busies himself in the kitchen, gathering the items and ignoring that the term of endearment he uses for me in public almost slipped out. I don’t blame him. And like I said, it’s cute when he has to hold back from flirting.
I ignore it too, for his sake, and instead set up my laptop on the coffee table. It’s what we’ll have to make do watching since the TV is already gone.
“What do you want to watch tonight?” I ask.
He comes back into the living room, plates, forks, and napkins in hand. “There’s a preseason Outlaws game on in about ten minutes. Do you mind if we watch that?” He sets the stuff down on the coffee table and heads back to the kitchen for cups and drinks.
