Page 78 of The Heartbreaker Next Door

“Don’t pretend you care about Maverick now.”

He shrugged, but I could see the barb had landed. “I care about both of you. In my own way.”

Which was maybe the saddest, truest thing he’d ever said to me.

I shook my head as I held up the letter. “So this is why you showed up after all these months, isn’t it, because you thought I was going to have millions. Look whatever you want from me, it’s not happening. You’re not getting a cut of the farm, or the ranch, or anything.”

He didn’t move—just stood there, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his designer sweatpants, as if maybe he’d stay rooted in my kitchen until I crumbled and gave him something else to hold over me.

When it became clear I wouldn’t, he sighed. “You know what your problem is, Felly? You think everyone’s going to hurt you, so you never let anyone help, either.”

I blinked hard. “You never helped. You just made everything harder.”

He nodded, that sad-old-man expression back in place. “You’re right. I did.” He looked down at the counter, then back at me. “Look, I’m here if you want to talk. I’m not going anywhere. You know where to find me.”

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.

He started for the door, then paused, one hand on the knob. “Just…don’t let them use you, okay? If something seems too good to be true, it probably is.”

The door shut and those words sank into me. I’d just been worried about that being the case. Was that my intuition? Or was I letting Tanner get into my head?

I didn’t have those answers, but I did know where to find them.

27

MANILA ENVELOPES RUINED MY LIFE

Dean

I’d always thought the worst bombshells would come with a phone call, or a knock on the door at 3 AM: a siren, a blurted confession, a sheet pulled quietly over a face. But this one came in the form of a single, yellowed business envelope caked in dust, stuffed in a box marked LOCKHART RANCH – ARCH 1984-1985. I’d pulled the box from the attic crawlspace in the main barn, trying to find out more information about the loan that Blackburn had talked about during our last phone call, and what I found told me exactly why there was no “official” record.

It was a record of a deal between my grandfather and Walter Foster. There was a promissory note and deed with notary stamps and signatures. I scanned the fine print, my pulse thumping louder with every line. Lockhart Ranch, and what looked like a staggering amount of acreage, was listed under security interest.

My vision tunneled, the world reduced to that yellowing contract and the implications it carried. No wonder the old man never spoke about it. This wasn’t a matter of a few thousand dollars exchanged under the table, this was the whole damn ranch, leveraged and basically up for grabs if a certain set of circumstances aligned.

I immediately called Blackburn’s office on speaker.

“Blackburn Law, Gina speaking, how can I help you?”

“Hey Gina, Dean Lockhart, I need to see Ray as soon as possible.”

“You caught us on a good day,” she chirped, sounding exactly as cheerful and unruffled as she had all through elementary, middle, and high school, where she’d been a straight A, honor roll student and at spelling bee champion. “Mr. Blackburn just finished mediation with Mr. Barbero and is free if you can make it down in the next thirty minutes.”

“Great, I’ll be there in ten.”

I didn’t waste time. I threw the envelope in the passenger seat of my truck, gunned it down the long drive, and headed for Main Street, where Blackburn and his paralegals ruled the only law office in a thirty-mile radius. The air was thick with salt and pine and the faint, sweet burn of logging stacks up the coast. My thoughts cycled through every possibility, none of them good.

What the hell had my grandfather been thinking? Why hadn’t he told my dad what was going on? Why hadn’t Walter said something after my Grandad passed?

I made it to the law office in under ten minutes. Inside, the office was a time capsule of Valentine Bay’s last thirty years, wood paneling, local art, a faded Seahawks pennant, and the lingering smell of Gina’s perfume. She greeted me at the door, her lipstick a deep shade of red, her hair in the same neat bun I remembered from high school during her campaign for class president.

“Dean!” she beamed. “I see you survived the fundraiser. Your mom sure knows how to throw a party.”

It wasn’t my mom who’d hosted it, although she was the one who made the speech because Felicity did not like the spotlight. That fundraiser had been all Felicity’s doing.

“Yes, she does,” I agreed because it was easier than explaining who the credit belonged to, which I was sure would only lead to more questions.

She waved her hand towards the hallway. “He’s waiting.”