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Gibson knew enough to school his features into a semblance of composure. He’d been doing as much his whole life in front of cameras, so he could perform the trick now even when the desire to lash out at the guy was strong. His divorce hadn’t been about the stupid photos—taken at a charity event with a drunken attendee who’d asked for a picture with him and turned it into an opportunity to plaster herself to him. Still, he understood how the timing had looked suspect.
That charity event had prevented him from taking calls from Lark when she’d been upset about something different—something that happened hours before the drunk photos. It had been one of many times he hadn’t been there for her, and he’d come to regret that bitterly. He’d been so focused on trying to lift that struggling team of young guys who’d all looked to him to turn their season around, he’d hurt the person who had mattered most.
At the time, he’d only been upset that she couldn’t understand how much they needed him.
Fortunately, Lark’s attorney objected to the other lawyer’s remarks for all the obvious reasons, while the judge urged the man to ask a relevant question if he had one.
“Very well.” Mateo Barclay’s legal counsel continued, returning his attention to Gibson. “Mr. Vaughn, is it true you’re planning to win back your ex-wife?”
Schooled though he might be in maintaining his composure in front of a crowd, the question still rattled him while the attorney for the Barclay sisters objected to the personal question. They’d worked out a few scenarios in case the lawyer asked about the future grazing or sale rights, but hadn’t expected it to get so personal.
While lawyers and judge sorted out whether to allow it or not, all Gibson could think about was the direct query.
Memories of kissing Lark on his porch fired through him. Of the way she’d promised to visit his ailing mom.
The way she’d looked at him when he’d stood at the threshold of her bedroom, her eyes full of heat.
Was he trying to win her back?
A moment later, with the objection overruled, Mateo Barclay’s lawyer circled closer to the witness stand. The older man tapped a knuckle on the wooden rail separating them as he zeroed in on Gibson.
“Mr. Vaughn, is it your intention to resume a relationship with Lark Barclay?”
Gibson knew where the question would lead. Him wanting Lark back in his life would give the impression that his testimony was self-serving because if they ever married again, Lark’s portion of the Crooked Elm property could potentially belong to him as well.
His gaze flipped to Lark’s, her green eyes shooting him a warning. But since he was under oath, he had no choice but to answer with a truth he’d just come to acknowledge himself.
“Only a fool wouldn’t want her back,” he said into the microphone, watching every nuance of Lark’s expression while her full lips tightened into a frown. “And I assure you, I’m no fool.”
After the bombshell of Gibson’s surprise revelation, Lark sat through the remainder of the day’s hearing in a sort of fog. Dimly, she’d been aware of the aftermath in the courtroom. Her father’s counsel had tried to make it sound like Gibson was a washed-up hockey player who needed his ex-wife’s inheritance to make his new bison ranch venture a success now that his sports career had ended. All of Gibson’s helpful testimony about Antonia assuring him she wanted Crooked Elm to go to her granddaughters certainly came into question.
Of course her father’s legal team would try to undermine him, and Gibson had played right into their hands.
Since when did he want her back? The idea tied her emotions in knots. Because surely he wouldn’t have lied under oath. More importantly, what did his words mean?
“Lark?” On her left, Fleur nudged her with an elbow. “Did you hear what I said?”
Dragging her thoughts from the drama of Gibson’s declaration and the probate hearing, she refocused on her sister. At the same time, she realized the judge had exited the courtroom, signaling the end of the day’s session. Her father was giving his lawyer a hearty slap on the shoulder while Jessamyn and Ryder were listening intently to their attorney. The few other attendees were standing to leave.
Gibson, however, still sat in the place he’d taken after he’d been excused from the stand. At the far end of her row, he scrolled through his phone.
“I’m sorry. I must have zoned out for a moment.” Lark reached for her cross-body bag that had slid to one side of her on the seat, preparing to leave the courtroom. “What did you say?”
“I said you should have an exit strategy for leaving the building. When I turned my phone on, I got a million notifications about Gibson’s support for us today.” Fleur waggled her device for emphasis, the photo on her screen showing a split-frame image of Lark and Gibson with a dividing line between them. Words had been printed over the image reading, “Her Ex to the Rescue?”
“I’m guessing the number of interested bystanders and media hounds has tripled by now,” Fleur continued. “But they’re not all here for Gibson. There are memes all over the place from when you confronted the media about the lack of coverage for female athletes. That story has taken on a whole life of its own.”
Tension coiled in her belly at the thought. She didn’t want to be a spokesperson for a cause that wasn’t really hers to champion. She’d just been sounding off. And as for Gibson’s sudden declaration about their relationship, how much interest would that draw? She might have gotten a little better with handling the media, but she didn’t look forward to a slew of uncomfortable questions when she walked through the band of assorted media types.
Unlike Gibson, Lark didn’t have the knack for schooling her features into a neutral expression when someone asked her something upsetting. It was one thing to control her visible response to distressing news in the course of her patient appointments. It was entirely different to remain poised when someone came at her personally. Shooting to her feet, she wished she could sprint from here to Fleur’s vehicle without looking back.
“Lark?” The deep rumble of Gibson’s voice sounded behind her.
Sensation raced up her arms and down her spine, a strong physical reaction to his nearness that she did not want to feel. Especially when at any moment the press could be racing up to snap a photo which might capture her feelings for the world to see.
Spinning around to face him, she whispered furiously, “Haven’t you done enough to upend this hearing already?”
“You’re right.” He laid a hand on her shoulder, a gesture meant to comfort perhaps, but it only stoked the sensations zinging through her already. “And I’m sorry if my testimony proves to be a roadblock for you.”
