Wade huffs out a soft laugh. “We did what we could. Sometimes that wasn’t much.” A beat passes. “Money comes and goes, Sam. It always has for us.”
My grip tightens on the phone.It’s only money.
My words hit harder coming back to me through Becca's Dad.
Wade keeps going, easy, like it’s nothing. “You learn not to hold it too tight. You take care of your people, and you figure the rest out.”
I swallow, something sharp settling low in my chest. Because to him, money was something that moved. ToBecca, living through that, it was something she needed to stay, to feel grounded.
Something she could hold on to and rely on. Something that meant she’d never have to wonder if the lights would stay on or if there’d be food in the fridge.
And I didn’t just take it. I took the one thing that made her feel safe. Hell, worse than that—she walked out of our house. And I signed a postnup that made damn sure it stayed mine. What have I done?
I grab my phone pulling up Phoenix's number. One call, that is all it would take to undo it. Fix my mistake, put things back where they belong.
My thumb hovers over the call button … and I stop myself. But this wasn't a mistake; this is what she asked for. What Becca needed to feel safe again.
I set my phone down and sit in my truck, hands gripping the wheel. My stomach growls, loud enough to echo in the quiet cab. Of course I’m starving. There's no food at the house because Becca usually handles the meal planning and groceries on Sundays. Another thing I took for granted.
I drive to the store, pulling up our banking app before heading inside. After signing that postnup, I figure I’ll need to move things around to cover the bills this month. Hell, I wouldn’t trust me with money either.
I scroll through the account. Her direct deposit hit—less than usual—but when I do the math, my chest tightens. She left enough to cover all our bills, knowing I wouldn't receive the final payment for my last job until next week. Even padded it with a buffer.
She took herself off the house, and she still made sure I wouldn’t fall behind. God, this woman is too good to me.
I can’t just keeptaking. I need to make her feel like she’s safe again. Like she’sseen. Where would she be?
I won’t show up at her job. She deserves better than that. Then it hits me—Becca’s calendar. Well, it’s a shared calendar, but I rarely check it. She made it early in our relationship, color-coded and organized down to the hour. Another thing she built that I took for granted.
Becca might be my passenger princess on the road. She never worries about gas, directions, or traffic. But when it comes to our life? I’ve been the one along for the ride.
I open the calendar. There it is:“Watch Bernard Rothschild”I almost laugh. Of course.
The Rothschilds often invited her to stay at their house. But after weeks of photos showing Bernie’s luxury dog bed and home-cooked chicken in our guest room, they were glad to let him stay with us. So if Becca’s watching himthere, it means she’s safe. Somewhere familiar. Somewhere she can breathe and live in some luxury she deserves.
A quiet relief settles into my chest. Becca is staying in a house with top of the line security. Cascadia is a safe place, but I never want my woman to fear for her safety.
What about her financial safety, asshole?
I sigh to myself and drive to the grocery store. I grab what I can for the meals I know how to make. My version of Sunday grocery shopping is a lot more “wing it” than Becca’s spreadsheet-style prep.
At checkout, the woman behind the counter rings me up. “That’ll be $98.59,” she says.
I blink. What the hell? Becca feeds us all week for way less than that—and somehow makes it look easy.
I swipe my card and bag the groceries, shaking my head as I head home. Every little thing I touch has her fingerprints on it. Every corner of our life runs smoother because of her.
Back at the house, I’m halfway through unpacking when my foreman calls.
“Hey Sam, we were shorted a box of the White Oak planks. I already called Timber & Tile. They’ve got it pulled for us. We’re close to install. Can you grab it?”
“Yeah,” I say, already grabbing my keys. “I’m on my way.”
I hop back into my truck and head to the store. The bell jingles overhead as I enter.
“Hey, Jim,” I call out to the beer-bellied owner who’s already halfway through the back door.
“I’ve got your box ready, sorry about the mix-up,” he calls over his shoulder.
