She grimaces. “It must have been devastating.”
“It was.”
She studies me a moment longer and then gives a little nod. Like Mrs. Carter, she slips a card out of a small silver clutch she’scarrying. Baylee always bemoans the lack of pockets in her clothing, and I’m guessing women’s eveningwear is even worse than regular clothes, given the number of clutches I see at these events on a regular basis.
She hands the card to me. “I want to make a sizable donation. Can we meet next week to talk about it?”
I take the card and slip it into my pocket to rest amid a few others. But hers feels so much more important. The fact that she asked how much we need has to mean something, right? I try to quash the hope rising in my chest again, but I can’t. Even just another few million would be huge for us right now. Houses that could be returned to families, businesses that could be restored, loans paid off. My hands tingle with the possibilities. And maybe I could convince Libby to talk to the rest of her family.
“Absolutely,” I say.
She reaches out to shake my hand. It’s small inside of mine, which is nothing new. I’m a former hockey player. I’m large by default. “I’ll be in touch.”
I hold her hand for a second longer than I should. I need Libby to know how much this would mean to me for her to help us out. “I look forward to it.”
CHAPTER 3
LIBBY
It seems like fate that Mrs. Carter dropped Jordan Atkinson right into my lap like that. The stroke of genius hit me as soon as she mentioned that he used to play hockey. I need my new team to be a smashing success so that my new show will also be a smashing success. As long as I bring money in to the network, they’ll let me stay in control of the narrative—and that’s the whole point.
Prove to the world that Libby Bennet is not the emotional, dramatic teenager I was portrayed as ten years ago.
But the truth is, I grew up on football. I don’t know anything about hockey. Of course, I’ve been learning about it since deciding to buy the Denver White Wolves: watching games and YouTube videos, reading books, and everything else I can think of, not to mention the business strategies I need to know.
But having an advisor? Someone to help me hire all the right people and formulate the right strategies?
That’s a great idea.
I think Jordan might be my guy.
Well, notmyguy. Not in a romantic way like that might sound. Jordan is actually the type of guy I stay far away from. I won’t hold his good looks and pro-athlete résumé against him,but the charming guys are the ones I keep at arm’s length. Is there such a thing as stilts for arms? I would keep him at stilt-arm’s length. Because those charming ones are the ones that get ya.
Don’t ask me how I know.
Since I got the idea after meeting Jordan, he’s the first hockey player I look into. My impulsive side wants to hire him right away and go with my gut, but I make myself find a few other guys that could be possibilities as well, including a couple former players who already live in the Denver area after retiring in the last five years. But even the basic research I do on Jordan has me pretty confident he’s a good fit for what I need.
By the next week, everything I’ve found makes me confident that he knows his hockey and is the man for the job. It’s nice to have private detectives on my payroll for things like that. I have my assistant get in touch with Jordan to set up lunch for next Thursday, because I’ve made up my mind.
I choose a quiet little bistro that’s loyal to my family—they never publicize if we’re there, always seat us out of the way, and take care of other customers trying to get nosy. Jordan is already waiting when I arrive, which tells me that he might be eager enough to take my crazy proposition.
I mean, he’d be crazy not to as well, considering what I’m about to offer, but asking him to move to Denver for a job is still a lot.
He jumps up when I get to the table. “Good to see you,” he says, holding out a hand to shake.
I hesitate. Not because I don’t trust Jordan, but because I don’t trust myself. He’s so good-looking it’s disarming. He has short, dark blond hair, slightly longer on top. It’s thick and has a little curl to it, giving him a boyish look. His eyes are bright blue and, well, show-stopping. I happen to know he was voted in the top ten of hockey’s hottest players three years ago. All of this is probably how he talks ladies like Mrs. Carter into opening their purses.
But he was welcoming at the benefit last week too. His smile was warm and genuine. And he gave me the story about his sister and Bryce Hayes straight—a story I already knew before coming to the fundraiser. But he didn’t shy away from it, and he was honest.
I hesitate because, at the fundraiser, I liked having my hand folded up in his too much. There was a spark of something that I need to quash. I have to keep this professional.
Still, I need to greet him like a normal person. So I steel myself and let him take my hand, pulling it away quickly and taking my seat. I should work harder at charming him, the way Ellie always does in business meetings. She knows exactly what to say to people to soften them up, or exactly what to say to put them in their place without them realizing it.
Normally I’m better at that too, but Jordan has me a little upended. Which is stupid. He’s a guy I want to do business with, and he happens to be hot. It’s not a big deal.
“I’m excited to work with you,” he says as he slides into his own seat.
“That’s good to know.” I decide to jump right in. “Because this meeting is about more than how much money I’d like to donate to the Redhaven Foundation.”
