“This development will completely destroy the historic district. I might not have a right to call this place home the way my husband does, but dammit, Dale garners enough respect to cover the two of us. He is still fragile and recovering from his stroke, and that stress alone is too much. Right now, our house is a revolving door. Our youngest daughter is packing up to head to Texas, and our oldest is fresh off a difficult divorce. She just moved back into her childhood bedroom, though she might be moving in with one of your teammates soon to work as a nanny. Regardless, when life’s safety nets dropped out beneath her, she had us—she had Sweetwater. And no fancy billionaire with big ideas and amusement parks is going to take that away.”
Everyone around the yard nods, a collective murmur of understanding passing through the family. Around here, everyone knows everyone’s business, and we all protect our own.
“Our home is only one example,” Sarah says, her voice thick with emotion but strong. “It’s the one stable place where our family can come and go as life tosses them around. In a world where our young people might not be able to afford a place of their own—hell, maybe ever—we can’t risk losing the one place we can all call home, nomatter what or when. If they take these properties, where would everyone go? How is anyone supposed to afford some fancy new condo complex after getting a minuscule, insulting compensation check for a property that’s been paid off for decades?”
The words hang in the air, heavy and true. Campbell looks at Sarah, and I can practically see the sparks flying as their minds lock into place. With Campbell’s inside legal knowledge of her father’s usual tactics and Sarah’s masterful grasp on grassroots PR and local politics, they make a perfect counter-match for Eric Hines. He can bring all the associates he wants. It won’t matter. They won’t stand a chance.
“We reframe the narrative,” Campbell says, her lips inching up on one side. “We don’t fight them in a courtroom where my father can outspend us. We turn the public into a wall they can’t drive through.”
Right then and there, over paper plates and sweet tea, they officially form an unwavering alliance. Sarah looks at Winnie, then at Campbell. “Welcome to Save Sweetwater, girls.”
I slide into a lawn chair next to my dad at the edge of the patio, picking at my brisket while we watch the women completely take over, mapping out every detail from large-scale media strategies all the way down to phone trees.
I shake my head, looking over at my dad. “I don’t even know what to do or how to help with this kind of stuff.”
Roddy takes a slow sip of his beer, a rare amused smirk playing on his face as his sister and Campbell exchange notes.
“Simple, kid. You do exactly what you’re told. Don’t worry, these women won’t be shy about giving orders.”
TWENTY
CAMPBELL
For the entire fifteen-minute drive from Daisy’s homestead back to Jake’s place, neither of us says a word. It isn’t a heavy, suffocating silence; it’s more like the quiet that settles over a dugout after a massive win, where we double the other team’s runs, and everyone is just too exhausted and dialed in to speak.
I keep my hand resting on the center console, palm up, and Jake keeps his fingers firmly laced through mine, his thumb occasionally grazing the side of my hand in slow strokes. My mind is spinning at ten thousand revolutions per minute. Just three hours ago, I was Eric Hines’s daughter, an optics problem with a fancy law degree and street smarts in damage control. Now? I am the newly minted strategist for a ragtag grassroots rebellion calledSave Sweetwater, sitting next to a minor-league catcher who looks at me like I have personally handed him the moon.
Even the highway that runs alongside Jake’s complex is quiet, barely a single car zooming by us as he parks in his usual spot under the tin carport. I link my fingers with his ashe leads me to his place, and when he unlocks the door to his apartment, the reality of the last forty-eight hours finally breaches my perimeter.
I blink into focus, seeing this space with new eyes, from the perspective of a woman who is giving up some pretty cush digs and might be living in a place much like this one come next month.
Fuck, if I can even afford that.
Jake’s apartment isn’t small; it’s tiny. A classic, industrial studio with exposed brick that has seen better days, a single massive window overlooking a gravel alley, and a floor plan where the kitchen counter bleeds right into the living room, which, naturally, bleeds into his unmade queen-sized bed. It’s clean, but I think that’s only because it’s sparse. It’s the home of a man who spends four hours a day crouching in the dirt and the rest of his time swinging a wooden bat at a ball—and bookends his time on the field by working himself to the bone on his family’s farm.
I drop my heavy tote onto the scratched hardwood floor with a dull thud. The sound echoes off the high ceiling, sounding definitively like a closing door. Ironic.
I don’t have a job.The thought crystallizes.I don’t have an income. I am officially, undeniably, unemployed.
Jake tosses his keys into a ceramic bowl by the door and watches me. He doesn’t push. He just sheds his light jacket, leaving him in a fitted charcoal gray T-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders and muscular chest, and gestures toward the small, worn brown-leather couch pushed against the brick wall.
I walk over and sink into the left corner, pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. Jake doesn’t crowd me. He sits on the opposite end, his long legs stretching out, shifting his body so he is facing mecompletely from his side. We are like two prize fighters nearing the end of a fifteen-round bout, staring across the ring, trying to figure out whether the referee has officially called the fight or if we have to muster up enough guts and glory to go one more round.
“You’re thinking so loud I can hear it from over here,” Jake says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. His head falls to the side, resting on the brick wall, and his warm eyes widen, taking me in.
I let out a short, breathy laugh, staring at the space between our feet on the cushions. “I am currently calculating the exact timeline of my financial ruin. It’s a very precise legal algorithm.”
“You aren’t going to ruin.”
“Jake, I wrote a resignation letter that essentially called my now-former boss a traitor to his own people and called the lawyer pulling the strings a bad father. Oh, and then I told him to go screw himself.” I rest my chin on my knees. “I didn’t just burn the bridge. I blew up the bedrock it was anchored to. My savings account can sustain me for maybe two months if I eat nothing but instant ramen and stop putting premium gas in my car. Which brings me to my next point. I’m going to have to sell the Mercedes.”
Jake’s brow instantly furrows, his jaw tightening slightly.
“The hell you are.”
“I have to,” I insist, matching the tilt of his head with my own as panic bleeds into my tone. “It’s a luxury asset. It’s a depreciating piece of German engineering that represents everything I am currently trying to expunge from my life. It was a graduation gift for passing the bar. I feel like a massive fraud driving it around this town. Every time I turn the key, it feels like I’m driving a billboard that saysProperty of Eric Hines.” I pause, wiping a hand across my tired eyes. “Granted, my mother is actually the one in charge of gift giving. My dad just signs the checks and okays the credit swipes. She picked the diamond-stitch leather because she thought it would look good in the country club parking lot should I ever join her and her gaggle of hens for . . .brunch.”
Before I can launch into a full financial autopsy, Jake reaches across the small distance between us and catches my ankle. His calloused hand is warm against my skin, and his touch effectively cuts off my frantic monologue.
