“Not boyfriend,” I say between gritted teeth. “Friend. And that’s being generous.”
Joy pops a chocolate-covered almond in her mouth, unbothered. “Is he cute?”
My body betrays me. Heat creeps up my neck as the memory of Ben in a tuxedo flashes back—broad shoulders, sharp jawline, a smirk that, against all logic, still felt a little like home.
“Irrelevant,” I say, turning my attention back to the towering glass and steel building I’ve been staring at for almost an hour. It gleams in the sun, a futuristic monster among the older brick buildings on Elm Street, promising luxury, power, and bottled water that probably costs twelve dollars. And within this fortress of wealth is AJ Finance and its villain—CraigfreakingMiller.
“So... not cute. Hot,” Joy teases, elbowing me.
“Maybe bringing you was a bad idea.”
“Aw, come on.” She holds up the bag of candy. “I brought snacks.”
“And not enough caffeine for this conversation,” I grumble, covering a yawn. “Hand them over.”
She pours a handful of candy into her palm before handing me the bag like I’m two seconds from setting the building on fire. Honestly, I might.
Is sleep deprivation a reasonable excuse for arson?
This is why I dragged my most loyal and sarcastic best friend here. Because after four miserable hours of sleep, there’s no telling what I might convince myself to do without adult supervision.
“How long did you google him last night?” Joy asks, chewing thoughtfully.
“Too long,” I groan, letting my head thump against the headrest. “Searched social media. Court records. Even considered paying one of those creepy ‘find anyone’ websites.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Nada. Zilch. It’s like he doesn’t exist.”
“Hot, mysterious finance ghost,” Joy says, voice chipper.
I ignore her. If I wanted the truth about Bennett Bradley, one call to Athena would give me everything I needed. But I’m not ready for that conversation. Not until I get some clarity on why the boy I used to know is lying about who he is.
It’s the question that kept me up all night. The question that had me spending hours digging through the old photo albums my aunt Renee gave me after every summer spent on the ranch.
Growing up, moving constantly with my mom, we didn’t have much that couldn’t be crammed into the back of a car or borrowed pickup. Those albums were my proof that, at least for a little while, I belonged somewhere.
It surprised me how quickly the images made the memories come alive—and the emotions too. Especially the memories of Ben. How I didn’t like him. Until... I did. Untilliketurned into a hopeless teenage crush that had me believing, for one stupid second, that maybe he felt the same way.
It’s been more than a decade since that last summer, since that night.
Ben asked me to meet him there—at the oak tree, the one in the west pasture, where he first teased me about falling off a fence post and then offered his hand like it meant something. That day, I thought he was going to tell me he liked me. That our childhood teasing had somehow turned into flirting and that maybe it meant we could be something. I wore my nicest sundress, the one with little blue flowers that I was saving for graduation the following year. I was two seconds away from believing in a different future.
But then I overheard him.
Ben laughing with Rex, saying something stupid. Something careless.“You think I’m into her? Come on, Rex. She’s a mess. Reckless.”
It was so long ago, but I remember everything about that moment—where I was standing, the ache in my chest, the heat behind my eyes. I didn’t go to the tree. I told myself it didn’t matter. That he would’ve broken my heart eventually anyway. And since that night, I let his words fuel my focus.
So no—Ben Bradley is not my childhood boyfriend. He’s the boy who taught me that love is something you have to earn. And it’s why I don’t trust him.
Somewhere around three in the morning, after too many memories and too many feelings I thought I had buried, I stuffed the albums under my bed. Out of sight, out of mind.
Or so I told myself.
I woke up this morning, went to work, organized Mr. Edmond’s schedule for the day, including two investor meetings and a site inspection, and flagged contracts for his lawyer to look over. And then Mr. Edmond handed me a file with financial service authorizations he wanted me to scan and archive. Nothing revealing. Nothing criminal. Except for CraigfreakingMiller’s name listed as an outside consultant. And here I am.
“CraigfreakingMiller,” I say again.
