Conrad (The Minnesota Kingstons #2)

Chapter 2

TWO

Next time she texted, he wouldn’t wait two weeks to answer.

Conrad sat next to Penelope at his assigned table, watching her tell the other eight guests about her previous murder-podcast investigation—one involving country-music star Oaken Fox, now his brother-in-law, and the attempt on reality-show star Mike Grizz.

She was animated and brilliant, and he still couldn’t believe she’d taken him up on his invitation to invade the men’s room.

Gutsy.

A server leaned over him and took away the plate of quail, new potatoes, and asparagus. Penelope had barely touched hers, but she’d been laughing at his stories. Like they might be teammates, hosting the table.

Of course she’d won the auction for him—outbidding the nearest offer by miles. The gesture stirred the heat inside him that had grown to a simmer over the evening.

Maybe he’d text her first next time.

A speaker got up, and he remembered Penelope calling her Tia, her sister. Pretty, with shoulder-length black hair and a solid, determined look about her, she thanked everyone for coming and then explained their organization as well as key accomplishments for the last year.

“We believe sports are life, and when children are able to be physically fit and participate in a team, they build confidence and life skills that help them heal.” She then showed a short video of three kids who’d survived violence in their community and then thrived—one on an inner-city baseball team, another with a community hockey team, a third on her local volleyball team, all sponsored by EmPowerPlay.

“Our biggest need is for coaches to volunteer,” she said as the lights came back up. “And, of course, funding. You’re changing lives. Be generous.” She then invited guests to visit the various rooms on the second floor, where team members waited to meet them.

“And then be sure to stick around for the dancing.” She grinned, winked. And Conrad saw the family charm in her smile.

“How did EmPower start?” he asked Penelope as servers set down chocolate cake at their places.

“My dad’s idea. We had a friend whose family survived a hostage situation, and he wanted to help them heal. Children heal better when they feel strong and safe.” She picked up her fork, considered the cake, then put it back down. Glanced at him. “Should we go visit the rooms?”

He, too, pushed away the cake, excused himself from the table, and followed her through the crowd, down the stairs to the second floor. Already, guests mingled in the rooms. Three rooms—volleyball, baseball, and hockey. Inside each, mounted posters on easels depicted teams, and action shots hung on the walls. Representatives fielded questions and handed out team brochures.

“Each team is funded both individually and through the main foundation,” Penelope said. “We usually have a younger-teen and an older-teen group. The difference is that our coaches aren’t there to make champions but to invest in lives. The teams do compete with small private schools or other community teams, but really it’s about drawing kids out of themselves and helping them trust and try.” They had walked into the baseball room, and she greeted the representative, took a brochure. “Did you ever play baseball?”

He nodded. “One year. And I hated it. All that waiting around for the ball to come to you? No, give me the fast action of hockey all day.” But he pocketed the brochure, perused the signs. “Is this just a Minneapolis/St. Paul organization?”

“Oh no. We’re in small towns too—in fact, we’ve discovered that many small towns don’t have the money for local teams, so we have a number of sponsored teams around Minneapolis. And we’re growing—thanks, Stef.” Penelope lifted a hand to the representative and led him out of the room. “We have a team in Duluth, and one in Grand Rapids, and even over in Moorhead.” She walked into the volleyball room. “The only criteria is that the players aren’t already in a school sport.”

“It costs money to be in an extracurricular sport,” he said, reading the boards. Again, teams and action shots and even a couple medals from local tournaments. A teenager, maybe sixteen, with long blonde hair, wore an EmPowerPlay T-shirt and dress pants, and he shook her hand.

“I’m Emily,” she said, turning a little red.

“Conrad.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“You from here?”

“Out west. Waconia area. I play on the Northwest Smash.” She pointed to an action shot of herself three feet off the ground, mid-spike.

“Nice moves.”

She grinned.

He greeted the coach, a woman in her mid-thirties who held a volleyball casually under her arm.

“Lydia is a coach for a local high school. Donates her time.”

“Are most of the coaches professional?” He followed Penelope out of the room. She headed for the hockey display.

“Not all of them. Some. Most of the time they’re former players, or just people with experience.” They entered the hockey room.

This one contained a couple trophies along with team posters and more action shots. A man, late twenties, stood talking with a couple near a window. He seemed familiar but Conrad couldn’t place him. Or wait ? —

“Simon McHale?”

The man turned, and a smile spread over his face. Sandy-brown hair, still lean, although he’d filled out, he wore a pair of dress pants and a hockey jersey. “King Conrad.”

Heat rose at the high-school nickname that had followed him into the league, but Conrad didn’t refute it as he shook Simon’s hand. “McHalestorm.”

Simon laughed, pulled him in, and clamped him on the back. Then he turned to Penelope. “Oh, I see how it is. I should have guessed you might be involved with EmPowerPlay.” He held out his hand. “Miss Pepper.”

She took his hand, glanced at Conrad.

“Simon and I played together in high school,” he said. “He’s a couple years younger than me, but an excellent left winger.”

“I just tried to keep up with His Excellence.”

Penelope raised an eyebrow, a smile playing at her lips, and he didn’t make a play at shutting Simon down. Not with that spark in her eye.

“So, you’re coaching the . . .” Conrad glanced at the jersey. “Ice Hawks?”

“Yep. Hey, Jeremy, c’mere. I’d like to introduce you to?—”

“The King.” The voice, just a little gasp behind him, made Conrad turn. A kid, maybe fifteen, tall, skinny, walked up. “Wow.” The kid held out his hand. “My dad is a huge fan.”

“Really.” Conrad shook his hand. Good grip.

“Yeah. Wait until I tell him that I met you!”

“Your dad already knows the King, kid,” said Simon, putting his hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. He looked at Conrad. “You remember Joe Johnson. Security Guard at the North Star Arena back when we played? That was before his accident.”

Conrad didn’t move, managed to keep his smile, but everything inside him seized.

Yes. Of course he remembered Joe. Oh.

Breathe.

He managed a nod, his body on autopilot, and then, “How is Joe?”

“Aw, Dad’s good. Getting around better since he had his leg amputated. Sometimes helps at the games.”

But Conrad’s brain stopped on amputated.

He might be ill.

Penelope was watching him, a small hitch in her brow.

“You should come to a game,” Simon said. “We play at the new arena—the Arctic Edge—or at least we practice there. We play all over Minnesota. But we have a great team—mostly kids from Chester, although we get a few from Duck Lake. A lot of them are recovering from the trauma of the tornado a few years ago, of course. But others just need a way to burn off energy. And then there are kids like Jeremy here, who’s a natural. They just need a little support getting onto a team.”

A.k.a. funding. Because Jeremy’s dad probably lived off disability.

His knees might buckle. “I’d love to come to a game,” he said, his smile still fixed. “Good to meet you, Jeremy.”

Conrad pointed at Simon and then met him in a hand grab. He hoped his palm didn’t feel as sweaty as his body.

Then he practically fled the room, walking with his hands in his pockets. Don’t run. But he desperately needed air.

Penelope instead led him back to the ballroom. Ed Sheeran’s “Photograph” played and a few people danced. Penelope looped her arm through his. “Dance?”

No. “Sure.”

Just breathe.

He took her hand, led her to the middle, where other guests were slow dancing, and pulled her into his arms.

Certainly she couldn’t feel his thundering heart?—

“You okay?” She’d circled her arms around his neck, searching his face.

“Me?” He cleared his throat.

“No. I’m talking to Justin Blake, the rookie—yes, you. You went pale down there, like you’d seen your life flash before your eyes.”

He swallowed. “Oh. Um. Just . . . you know. High-school memories—hey, is that Stein?” What was his older brother doing here? Stein wore a plain black suit, stood near the wall with his hands clasped, watching, wait— “He’s with Declan Stone.”

The billionaire had hosted Oaken Fox’s bachelor party at his lake estate near Duck Lake a month ago.

She glanced over. “Yeah. Declan and my dad are friends. He gives a lot to EmPowerPlay. I didn’t know your brother knew him.”

Or worked for him? Huh. But it suddenly made sense why, after their sister’s wedding, Conrad’s former-SEAL brother hadn’t returned to his life in the Caribbean teaching tourists how to scuba dive. And why he’d been a little tight-lipped about the deets.

He’d gotten a security gig. Interesting.

The song changed, again Ed Sheeran, and Penelope started to hum.

“I found a love . . .”

He stared down at her. She could take his breath away, really. Cause him to lose himself in the golden layers of her eyes, sink his gaze onto her full lips tinted with a hint of pink. Desire crested over him.

“I never knew you were the someone waitin’ for me . . .”

Maybe he would survive, because he’d stopped shaking. So see, he was fine. Just fine.

And just like that, the image of Jeremy—not fifteen, but one year old—toddling onto the ice with his dad at the arena flashed into his mind and— aw ?—

The room started to turn fuzzy around the edges.

He stepped away from Penelope, the sweat rushing over him, and headed through the crowd for the hallway. Pushing through the doors, he leaned against the wall, then bent over and grabbed his knees.

Hot, the room spinning—he needed air.

Door, at the end of the hall. He practically sprinted for it, barreled through, down the back stairs to the second, then first floor, his gut still roiling?—

Then out into the brisk winter air with the stars sparkling overhead, watching as he paced the parking lot filled with limos and SUVs and even his Dodge Charger. He looked up, heavenward, not asking any questions, because frankly, well, maybe he had enough answers for tonight.

It didn’t matter how much Conrad lied to himself, clearly God hadn’t forgotten.

He finally braced himself against the back of his car, taking in cool breaths, his body still shaking.

Focus.

He closed his eyes, trying to conjure up the boat, the waves, the wind?—

“Bro?”

He stiffened, opened his eyes. Turned.

Steinbeck stood in the lot, pale blue eyes on him, worried.

“Hey,” Conrad managed, standing up. And right then, of course, his gut decided it had waited long enough. He pushed past Stein and beelined to a nearby dumpster.

Don’t lose it, don’t ? —

He held on to the edge, gulping in breaths, fighting.

“You eat something bad?” Stein again. “Don’t tell me you had something to drink.”

Conrad held up a hand. Swallowed. Maybe . . . He turned to Stein. “No.” But suddenly, his stained shirt, the dampness against his body, made him shiver. “Just . . . yeah, something didn’t sit right.”

Like running smack into his dark night of the soul.

He ran a hand across his mouth. “You working for Stone?”

Stein lifted a shoulder. “Short-term gig. How’d you know?”

“You have a look.”

“I’ll work on that.”

“Good luck. You were born with it. How’d you get that gig?”

“Long story. I’ll tell you about it next weekend at Doyle’s party. But this isn’t about me. What happened in there?”

What was he going to say? The last, very last thing he wanted his family, especially Stein, to know was that the panic had returned. In force.

See, this was why he shouldn’t do calendar shoots and public events and . . . generally leave the safety of the ice?—

The door opened, and of course Penelope came out into the darkness. Aw . . .

He walked over to her, still wobbly. “Sorry to leave you?—”

“Are you okay?” She put her hands on his arms, concern in her beautiful eyes.

“Probably the quail,” Stein said, arms folded.

“Really? Are you allergic?”

He didn’t want to lie, but . . . oh . . . “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“I’ll get your keys,” Stein said and headed around the building to the valets at the front.

Conrad blew out a long breath. “You’re cold. Go back inside. I need to go home.”

She blinked, swallowed, then nodded, stepping back. “Okay, I, uh . . .” She wrapped her arms around herself. “Right.” She took another step away, and he fisted his hands at his side to keep from doing something crazy, impulsive, even pedestrian like reaching for her.

Telling her that he sort of, a little, might like her.

After one date that wasn’t a date but a rescue, really?

No. Still, “Can I text you?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea . . . ”

And as his heart stilled, a rock in his chest, she added, “This was fun, Conrad. You’re . . . Anyway, thanks for what you did in the bathroom. Take care.”

Then she turned and quick walked back into the mansion, leaving him standing in the dark parking lot.

Again trying not to throw up.

By the time Stein returned with his keys, Conrad was leaning on the back of his car, arms folded, sufficiently chilled, breathing easier. Still, as Stein handed the keys over, he wore a question in his eyes.

“It’s nothing,” Conrad said. “Like you said, bad quail.”

“So we’re going with that?”

“Absolutely.” He took the keys. Because not even he could voice the truth.

But he couldn’t help but glance one last time at the bright lights of the mansion as he pulled out of the lot and into the cold night.

* * *

She hadn’t hated the charity event.

For once. For the first time, really, in longer than she could remember.

Penelope sat at the massive granite counter of her parents’ expansive kitchen overlooking the frozen lake, a spoon in her granola and yogurt, stirring. Stirring. Stirring.

“Okay, give, Pep. Who was that hottie you were dancing with?”

She looked over to the door where her sister Tia walked into the room. She blinked and gathered herself away from the moment in the shadowed parking lot. Away from Conrad’s beautiful blue eyes clouded with hurt— maybe hurt, although she could be dreaming that part up—after her words “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Tia raised an eyebrow and set down her coffee mug to pour more from the French press on the counter. Clearly big sis had already been up for hours despite their late-night return from the party. Penelope had opted to overnight at her parents’ lakeshore home in Wayzata instead of driving home to her uptown bungalow.

Of course, Tia looked perfectly put together. Aside from her dark hair, pulled back in a sleek bun, Tia wore an ivory velour leisure suit, gold earrings, and a pair of fluffy UGG slippers. No wonder Edward had fallen for her.

Tia glanced at Penelope’s pajama bottoms and oversized maroon University of Minnesota T-shirt and raised an eyebrow.

Hey, she wasn’t the event planner, the foundation head, the beauty and brains of the Pepper family philanthropy, thank you.

Just a murder podcaster trying to find justice. One men’s bathroom at a time.

Her mouth tweaked at the memory of Conrad holding the door open. “Now or never.”

Shoot, it might have been never if it weren’t for him.

“Pep. The guy. Give.” Tia had poured the coffee and now slid onto a chair at the black-and-white granite island. Reached for one of the fresh blueberry muffins that Greta had made before leaving for the grocery store.

“You’ve never met Conrad Kingston?” Penelope kept her voice casual. “Plays center for the Blue Ox. They call him King Con.”

Tia broke apart the muffin onto a napkin. “Oh, I know what they call him.” She winked. “Just wanted to make sure you did. But what I want to know is how you know Mr. June.”

Right. Poor man—he’d looked like he’d wanted to bolt when Tia had introduced him. He might have relaxed a little, however, when Tia read off Penelope’s winning bid.

“He was in the wedding I was in last month.”

“ Boo Hoo Kingston’s wedding.”

“I think they’re just calling her Boo,” Penelope said.

Tia took a bite of the muffin. “Sorry. Habit. And I forget that you two are friends. I saw the pictures in People . Beautiful wedding.”

Penelope nodded. No need for Tia to know about the three days that Penelope had spent hiding from a killer, right? She’d just alert security, and suddenly Franco would be following her home to sit in her driveway, and “Pep” would be right back to her high-school days when everyone knew she came with security checks and babysitters.

“So you met Conrad at the wedding?”

“Briefly. We’re just friends.”

“Mm-hmm.” Tia took a sip of coffee, set it down. “Not the way you two were slow dancing.”

“Oh, good grief, it was a slow dance. Nothing more.”

Tia took another bite of muffin. “You might want to rethink that. He’s a doll. All that scruffy, long blond hair, the hockey beard, and those eyes—” She put her wrist to her forehead. “Swoon.”

Penelope laughed, and Tia grinned. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

Tia pushed the other half of her muffin toward Penelope. “Please. The no-athletes rule?”

“One was enough for me.”

“Ted was hardly the example of a good boyfriend. So what he had other motives?—”

“That’s the thing, T. You lucked out with Edward, right? You knew him from childhood, knew he wasn’t trying to get anything from you?—”

“I think you’re safe with Conrad Kingston. He has his own money.”

“Pay attention. His contract expires this year. Dad is a part owner of the team. Don’t you think his contract will come up in conversation? He dates me and suddenly there are stakes. Broken heart equals broken future.”

“Only because Dad is desperate for you to find ‘the One.’” She finger quoted the words.

“I don’t need ‘the One.’” Penelope mimicked the gesture. “I have a job I love, and not everybody gets what Mom and Dad have.”

Oops.

Because Tia’s mouth tightened and she looked away, drew in a breath.

“Sorry.”

“No. It’s fine.” She turned back to Penelope. “Listen, Pep. I’ll always miss Edward, but . . . I need to let go. Keep moving forward.”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing with the Pepper Foundation and EmPowerPlay?”

Tia went quiet. Sighed. “Maybe. Or maybe I need a change. Something different. Away.” She glanced at Penelope again. “A fresh start.”

Penelope took a sip of coffee, set it down. “Listening.”

“I talked with Declan Stone last night. He has an orphanage down in the Caribbean in need of a manager.”

“You’re going to move to the Caribbean to take care of kids ?” Oh. She didn’t mean it how it sounded, but—“What about the foundation? I mean?—”

“Maybe you could step up.”

The voice came from behind her, from the hallway that led to her parents’ wing, with her father’s private home office, her mother’s library, the master-bedroom suites and off-rooms.

She turned as her father walked into the room. Clean-shaven, still built even in his early sixties, he wore a pair of dress pants, a black pullover V-necked sweater, and carried a coffee mug. He came over, set it on the counter, and met her gaze. “I think it’s time, Pep.”

“Dad—”

He held up a hand, his gray eyes on hers. “Listen. It’s time to stop horsing around with this podcast gig and invest in the things that matter.” He glanced at her sister. “Tia’s done her service. And frankly, it’s your turn to do your part.”

She stared at him. “Dad. I’m not a philanthropist. I don’t want to change the world.”

“Of course you are. Why do you think you’ve been on this crusade to find a killer responsible for Edward’s death for the past three years?”

She stilled, glanced at Tia, back at her father. “Because no one else has?”

Tia’s mouth opened, closed, and she gave her father a hard look.

He sighed. “Pep. You need to stop the fantasy. Edward’s death was an accident. A terrible, cruel accident that we all grieved.” He put a hand on hers, warm, solid. “And I know you grieved just as much as Tia. He was, after all, your friend first.”

Her throat thickened even after her father let her hand go. “He was murdered,” she said softly, barely. “I know it.”

Silence. Tia looked at her coffee. Her father didn’t move his gaze from her.

“The forensic report came back inconclusive,” Tia said finally. “And you carrying on with this belief only makes it harder for us all to heal.” She looked up, her eyes glistening. “You need to let me have a future.”

Oh.

“Can you just do this for me?” Tia wiped her cheek almost violently.

“I’m not a financial wizard like you,” Penelope said, then looked at her dad. “You know that.”

He sighed. “I’ll hire a foundation manager. But we need you to be the face. Show up at events, give interviews. Be a spokesperson. That’s all I ask.” He lifted a shoulder. “You can still do your podcast if you want.”

Like it was a hobby. “Dad. I make money with the podcast. We’re nationally syndicated. It’s a big deal.” Or could be, if her ratings hadn’t tanked after she’d failed to fulfill her promise to uncover Sarah Livingston’s killer on her podcast a month ago. She’d even received more than was fair thumbs-down and hate posts calling her a fraud.

So that hurt.

And now her father arched a brow and delivered a zinger. “A three-point-four-million-dollar-charitable-fund big deal?”

“Wow.”

“Just saying. You want to change the world, maybe look closer to home.”

“Strong-arm much?” She finished her coffee, then got up and put her mug in the sink. Turned to face her oppressors.

Her father wore a frown. Tia looked away, outside, probably to the future that Penelope was keeping her from pursuing.

“Don’t you guys want peace? To be able to sleep through the night knowing you did everything to find justice for Edward?”

A beat, and then, “You don’t have to have justice to find peace,” Tia said.

Whatever . “Fine. Okay. I’ll . . . show up and smile. Just tell me when and where.”

“Great,” her father said. He cast a gaze at Tia.

Tia sighed, her smile tight. “Thanks, Pep. We have a small photo event with a local team later this week. The news wants to do a feature on us and what we’re doing. I’ll text you the deets.”

She slid off the chair, then came over and pulled Penelope into a hug. “It’s okay to let go of the past. It doesn’t mean you didn’t love him.”

Maybe Tia’s words were for herself. Still, Penelope nodded.

Tia let her go, grabbed her half-full mug, and headed out of the room.

Her father stood there watching her go, compassion in his eyes for his oldest daughter. Of course.

Funny, but she’d never seen him look at her that way. Then again, she’d never quite measured up to Tia, who took after him in nearly every tangible way, from her no-nonsense business head to her athletic spirit to her ability to lead.

Still, it wasn’t a terrible gig. Show up, support the kids. She could do this.

“I saw you talking with Conrad Kingston last night.”

Oh. She had picked up her phone and now glanced at her father. “Yeah. He’s a friend.”

“Be careful with that one, Pep. We don’t need any drama. Investors are on social media too.”

She frowned. “Are you talking about the scandal with Torch and his girlfriend?”

He held up a hand. “No. I don’t believe a word of social media. But scandal affects ticket sales. And it’s not just his rep. I get Blue Ox team reports. King Con’s stats are dropping, and the truth is, investors are worried. He might get traded, and I don’t want him to break your heart.” He walked over, delivered a kiss to her cheek, then squeezed her forearm and headed out of the room.

Aw, shoot, that was information she didn’t need to know. So maybe it was a good thing she’d turned Conrad down.

She picked up her phone, opened her email, and spotted a message from Clarice, her new manager, thanks to Harper’s recommendation. And she could hardly ignore the “Open Me Immediately!!” subject line.

No greeting, text above a picture?—

Clarice

Did you do this on purpose?

And then a photo of . . . oh boy. Her and Conrad on the dance floor, his big hands on the small of her back, her arms wrapped around his neck, and shoot but he was sweet and handsome and looked down at her with a hint of a smile.

She couldn’t take her eyes off the smile. Because it seemed . . . oh no . . . it seemed like he actually liked her. At least, from the warmth in his gaze.

Hitting Reply:

Penelope

It was just a dance.

She sent it. Set down her phone.

And it didn’t take much for her to remember his chest against hers as they’d danced, the strength of his arms cocooning her, the woodsy scent of him?—

Her phone rang and she swiped open the call, put it on speaker. “I promise, it’s not a thing.”

“Looks like a thing.” Clarice, probably in her cute Franklin, Tennessee home office, already three cups of coffee into her day.

“It was a charity event for EmPowerPlay. He plays hockey?—”

“I know who King Con is, Penelope. And who he should be to you.”

What?

Clarice’s chair squeaked, as if she might be leaning forward. “You should date him.”

“No. What? No, absolutely not.”

“I don’t mean for real. I get it. Conrad Kingston is a player. He stole a teammate’s girlfriend from right under his nose. He has at least one restraining order out on a previous girlfriend. And at least a half dozen shadow Instagram accounts who post sightings. Who knows if he’s behind them, but let’s say his combined reach is nearly double yours.”

It is?

“You post a few pictures of you two out, tag him, and your podcast will explode.”

“Wait. You want me to join the ranks as one of Conrad’s ice bunnies?”

“No. Okay, maybe yes. But frankly, you’d help him too—he needs a bit of a reputation cleanup. I already have a call in to Felicity?—”

“Who?”

“The publicist for the Blue Ox. Listen. It doesn’t have to be forever. Just a few events, you two smiling, and boom, it’s Travis Kelce dating Taylor Swift. Although you’d be Kelce in this situation.”

“The football player?”

“Who had a podcast. That exploded when he started dating Swift.”

“I think he was popular before he started dating her?—”

“Didn’t hurt his reach though, did it?”

A beat. “You want me to use Conrad for his social-media audience? That’s . . . um . . .”

“Done all the time, sweetie. And like I said—it’s a win for Conrad too. To be dating a Pepper? Think of what it might do for your little charity. What’s it called—Power Play?”

“EmPowerPlay, and it’s hardly little—whatever. It feels slimy.”

“Not if you really like him. Then it’s a meet-cute, with wins all around.”

“What are you, a screenwriter?”

“That’s not a bad idea. Maybe I’ll put out a Request for Proposal?—”

“Stop.” She picked up the phone, took it off speaker, and walked to the window. Outside, the sun shone down on the frosty lake, gilding it, the sky a glorious blue.

“He might get traded.” Her father’s words pinged back to her, along with the squeeze of her heart.

She’d met his family. The last thing Conrad would want is to have to move. Probably.

Except Tia was suddenly in her head. “Dad is desperate for you to find ‘the One.’”

If he thought Conrad and his daughter were dating, maybe her father wouldn’t be so eager to trade him, right?

It still felt slimy. “How long do I have to do this?”

“A month, tops. By then, it’s old news. Show up to a few of his games wearing his jersey, give him a hug, maybe go out for dinner—someplace public. Snap some shots of you two doing something fun—whatever. One month of content, one million new followers, and suddenly you’re back in the black, solving crimes, finding justice.”

Doing something that mattered, on her own.

“Okay. You talk to Felicity. If Conrad agrees, then . . . one month. Then I’m out.”

“If you don’t fall in love first.”

She laughed. “Don’t hold your breath.” Because if he said yes, then he was using her too.

And she’d been there, done that, thank you.

She didn’t care how beautiful his eyes, his smile, the aura of protection, or even his Mr. June physique. She wasn’t going to fall for a liar.