“Okay, fine.” Libby pouts, and I clench my fists, letting my nails bite into my palms to keep my brain on the conversation at hand and not hopping over the desk to take her in my arms. “I have lunch with some of the top donors in the Captain’s Club. Want to come?”
I lean back, trying to appear unaffected by her. Probably an impossible task. “Do you want me there?”
“I always want you there,” she says, grinning slowly at me.
“Boss,” I growl, scooting my chair back and away from her. “Are you flirting with me?”
“Sorry.” She doesn’t look very contrite. In fact, she bites her bottom lip.
I close my eyes, pray for patience, and hear her giggle. “Oh, you are trouble,” I say, trying not to laugh.
“Of course I want you to come to lunch with me,” she says, her grin wide. “You make me look good with the hockey people.”
I flip my laptop closed, then pick it up and stuff it in my backpack. “If by that you mean standing next to my questionable face highlights your exceptional beauty, I concur with that.”
She scoffs. “I’m fairly certain you must have been voted hockey’s sexiest player at least once, if not for all eight years you played.”
I snort with laughter. “Not that I’m aware of. Is that a thing?”
She hooks her arm through my elbow as we walk into the hallway. “It should be.”
I look down at her, unable to stop myself from taking in her bright smile. She beams up at me. “Trouble,” I repeat under my breath. I’m completely done for. This woman has me wrapped around her finger, and I’m not even concerned about it one bit.
CHAPTER 30
JORDAN
Libby and I settle into a routine that’s … doable for me. I’m falling for her more and more every day in the small moments we share: looks we share when the cameras are at the house that communicate our mutual amusement at something Erin has asked us to do to amp up tension, dinners together most nights, playing games or watching shows, hanging out with Will and Ellie and the girls. It’s perfect. It’s a preview of what’s to come for us if I can be patient. It makes the waiting bearable.
It’s over a week before I hear from Mitchell again. I send one follow-up text in the middle of that week to feel like I’m working on his case and not letting it fall by the wayside. He responds with,I’m working on it.
It’s fine. It’s his money. But it is still stressing Baylee out. I tell her to focus on disbursing the money Libby gave us and let me handle this; she complies but still sends me a text every other day asking about it.
Despite my annoyance with his claim, I am relieved when he finally calls on a Monday afternoon.
“I’ve looked everywhere. I can’t find a slip or a statement. Nothing on my computer or emails either,” he says.
I run a hand through my hair and swallow back frustration.How can this be possible? Does he think that he’ll wear me down with this if he just waits it out?
Did he really give Bryce Hayes $500,000? Surely, he’d have something if he did. I can’t wrap my brain around paying that much cash to someone and not keeping the receipts.
“Okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice patient. “I have a couple other avenues we can try. There’s something called a currency transaction report. Banks are required to file them for cash withdrawals over $10,000. We can request the record that way. I’m also working on getting some records from the FBI that will help us verify this claim and some others, so no matter what, we should be able to get yours taken care of.” There’s a long sigh on the other end, and I bite my tongue to keep from telling Mitchell it’s his own fault for not keeping records himself. “I know this is frustrating, but we’ll figure it out. I’m doing my best.” I’m going above and beyond what we’ve done for other claims. Even the tough ones were easier to sort out than this.
“Yeah,” Mitchell says shortly. Then his tone changes to something colder. “Pay the claim, Atkinson, and make it easy on yourself.”
I scowl. What’s that supposed to mean? “Sorry, what?” My fingers close into a fist, as though they have muscle memory of exactly what Mitchell deserves.
“Come up with some documentation—whatever you want to put in there—and pay the claim.” He says it calmly, like that’s going to make me do what he says.
“Mitch—” He always hated being called that, and I get satisfaction saying it. “I want to help you out, but Redhaven can’t write a check based only on a verbal claim. We’d put in jeopardy the legal status of the foundation and the millions of dollars paid to other victims.” I stay calm too and let confusion leak into my tone. What’s he trying to do here?
“Does your wife know you cheated on her four months ago?” he asks.
Something heavy drops in my stomach. Four months ago, Ididn’t even know my wife. Everything public in my life was checked—probably by Caleb Gallagher, now that I think about it—to make sure nothing could contradict our story. I only post hockey stuff, so it was fine.
“Are you trying to blackmail me?” I ask in a low, angry tone.
He chuckles. “Chill, bro. Just wondering if she knows about Daria Cane.”
