“Not when they're leasing public land and getting taxpayer-funded infrastructure improvements.” She pulls out the official document. “Your lawyer probably isn’t used to selectivelyenforced municipal codes when he deals with overseas acquisitions.”
“Apparently.” I massage my temples. “So this is a real law that’s just been … sitting there?”
“Yup. It doesn’t come up a lot anymore because most business owners here are local anyway. The few that have popped up have been one-offs. A friend or cousin of someone somewhere in town. But it sounds like people have been on high alert because a major corporate developer tried to move into Sugar Maple last year and take it over.” Scottie adjusts her glasses. “The thing is, now that someone's brought it to the mayor's attention—and with all the publicity around your ownership—they pretty much have to enforce it or look like they're playing favorites.”
“And I’m no one’s favorite.” I close my eyes and let out a low, dark laugh as I move my face massage to pressure points on the inside of my eyebrows. “You don’t know my ex, but this has Aldridge's fingerprints all over it. Part of some master plan to get me crawling back to him."
But even as I say it, something nags at me. The bitterness in Delia's voice at the potluck wasn't about Aldridge—it was about all those families she mentioned that got gutted by outside money. This town has been burned before, long before I broke Aldridge’s heart. "He didn't create this law," I say slowly, the pieces clicking together. "But I bet he found out about it. Probably had his lawyers research every possible way to squeeze me out." I lean back in my chair. "Maybe he’s not pulling the strings, but he positioned himself perfectly to catch me when I fall."
I drop my hands and force my eyes back to the field, needing something normal to focus on.
Down on the pitcher’s mound, Logan Fischer is winding up, and when he throws, the ball has the strangest movement I’veever seen. The announcer says, “Fischer with a knuckleball. And it’s a strike!”
Applause bursts from the crowd, and Logan tips his cap toward the stands. I follow that movement all the way back to Serena’s row, where she and her Southern Living Barbie friends are tittering.
And Serena rules over them like a Queen Bee.
She’s married. She has a child. She cheated on the man she was supposed to love, and the town still handed her the crown and made her their queen. And why? Because she’s local? Because she pulled herself up from the bottom … and married into the right family? Because she brought deviled eggs with red pepper hearts?
In the game of life, Serena’s not just beating me. She’s playing by a different set of rules.
“Can you send a copy of the ordinance to my lawyer? There has to be some loophole.”
Her legs are folded, but the bottom one is bouncing restlessly. “Yeah, if you want to get married.”
My eyes flutter closed. “A spousal exemption?”
“That sounds like a smutty romance novel,” Scottie says, and I chuckle in spite of myself.
Logan strikes out another player, ending the inning, and as “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” starts playing over the speakers, I watch the fans stand and start singing.
And that’s when I spot a broad set of shoulders, a thick beard, and dark hair that looks like it’s been trimmed since yesterday.
“I’m heading down to the field. Thanks, Scottie.”
“You okay?”
“I’ll get back to you on that.” I give her a smile, and she nods and turns out of the suite. Then I grab my insulated water bottle—a sleek powder blue one today to match the team (and my chambray shirt)—and head out of the luxury box.
I make my way down the corner concourse toward the stadium seating. On the way, I see a mom struggling with a boy of around four or five. He’s throwing his body and screaming, and the muscles in her arms must be on fire for how she’s trying to keep him from smacking his head on the armrest.
I rush through a row to her.
“Are you both okay?” I ask, crouching down so I’m lower than them.
The mom looks like she’s about to cry. “He has sensory issues, and some cotton candy melted on his hand?—“
“We have a sensory room, if you’d like to take a break.”
Tears spring to her eyes. “You’re serious?”
I wave down an usher. “Can you escort these two to the sensory room? And make sure they get whatever drinks or snacks they need, okay?”
The usher nods, and a moment later, the crying mom and crying toddler are going up the stairs.
Past Serena.
Of course she saw this. But I don’t care what she thinks. It’s not like she’d believe I was helping, even if she heard me.
