Her face flashes in my mind. We went on a couple dates a few months ago—four, according to Mitchell.
“Think about it, okay?” he says. “And get back to me.” He hangs up. No more demands. No time frame. He’s that confident I’m going to write a check.
The thing is, there’s a chance I could. I don’t know what he knows about me and Libby. If I have to, I’ll figure out a way to write a check to save her, though it won’t be from the Redhaven Foundation. There’s no way I’ll risk that either.
I search Daria’s name on Instagram and then scroll back through her pictures. I grumble to myself when I find one of us together four months ago, a selfie she took on our second or third date. This is my fault. I told Libby I hadn’t really dated anyone the last six months, so the story was plausible. And I hadn’t. No real relationships. Just four dates with Daria. A handful of dates here or there with other women. No relationships. Nothing I thought had made it into the online sphere.
The picture isn’t damning. We could be two friends hanging out. It’s eerily similar to the first picture Libby posted online of us together, having a casual lunch. I read the captions of Daria’s posts around the times we went out, but there’s nothing there either. I let out a frustrated sigh as I sit back. That means that Mitchell has to have something else that I don’t know about. He can’t possibly believe I’ll pay his claim based on this picture. I rack my brain, but those couple weeks weren’t memorable—hence us not going out again. I thought it was mutual for Daria, and maybe it was but she found a chance to get a payday out of it?
I run a hand through my hair. This makes me feel like I’m more of a problem for Libby than a solution. First I’m the fake husband who fell in love and wants it to all be real. That’s definitely not what she signed up for. Now I’m dragging this into the mix and jeopardizing what she had to sacrifice to buy the White Wolves. What will Mr. Stevens and the board do if they find out Libby married me just to look like the stable owner they wanted? Surely we can spin this so I take the fall and it looks as though Libby never knew about my “cheating.”
Worst-case scenario, I tell myself. I need to talk to Libby right away and see what she thinks. She’s the one who has experience in handling PR situations like this.
When Libby’s not in her office, I remember she’s in meetings with the operations staff, finalizing some perks they’re going to offer for family season tickets, and she won’t be done until it’s time to go home.
All the better. This is probably a conversation we need to have away from any possible eavesdropping ears.
CHAPTER 31
LIBBY
Jordan texts to let me know he’s leaving work without me, but only because he’s headed home to start dinner so it will be ready when I get there.
I really have the best husband.
I hope he’s making pizza. His mom’s crust is spectacular. Shockingly, despite being a pretty perfect husband, he can’t read my mind, so I text him.
Libby
Pizza?
Jordan
You’ve got it, boss.
Boss is such a great term of endearment. Especially the husky way he said it the other day in his office. I know I shouldn’t flirt with him like that when he can’t flirt back—well, he won’t flirt back. He’s been so careful since the night he told me about his feelings. Sometimes it’s frustrating that he’s denying his natural inclinations to flirt with me, because I like it. But seeing him resist to show me that he can be trusted? Very hot.
He’s pulling a pizza loaded with toppings out of the oven when I come into the kitchen after work.
“Oh my goodness, Jordan,” I moan, kicking off my shoes and dropping onto one of the upholstered stools at the kitchen island. “That looks fabulous.”
He sets it proudly down on a silicone hot pad in front of me. “Pepperoni, sausage, bacon, fresh mozzarella, tomatoes, onions, peppers,no olives.” He eyes me, and somehow he’s figured out that I don’t like them. He’s a wizard. “Loaded up with all the good stuff.”
“You’ve outdone yourself.”
He bows with a flourish, and I laugh. “Want to go change while it cools? It’ll be ready to eat in about five minutes.”
I shake my head and glance down at the lightweight, mustard-colored, wide-leg dress pants I’m wearing. “These pants are very comfortable, actually. I’m good. I’d rather chat with you. I haven’t seen you all afternoon.”
“How’d the meeting go?” he asks as he turns to grab plates from the cupboard.
“Great. I’m excited about the family deals we’re offering. We’re going to make some lifelong fans. Fabulous investment.”
He leans his elbows on the island after gathering our dinnerware. “You realize, Libby, that according to this theory of families at the games, our children are going to be hockey players, not football—” He stiffens, then straightens. “Sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that?—”
I laugh. “Wearemarried.”
His cheeks are so red. “I know, but?—”
