Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Bridger
“Loren?”
I stroke her cheek, and she stirs. Then moans.
“Hey. Loren,” I repeat, more urgently. I may sound gruff, but she just scared the crap out of me. Also, she’s lying in my lap, so I need her to wake up. Preferably now.
“Come on, Lo.”
Her lids finally crack open, and she blinks up at me. “Hi?”
“Welcome back.” On the surface, I’m pretending to be calm. Inside, though, I’m in turmoil. It’s possible she won’t remember what I just told her about the money. I might be able to take this all back. A do-over, as the kids say.
Actually, I’m not sure that phrase still exists.
Man, I’m old.
“What happened?” she croaks.
“You passed out.”
“I—what?” Her head lolls against my shoulder, red hair slipping loose from her clip. “Oof. Dizzy.”
“It’s all right,” I murmur. “I’ve got you.”
And I do. Have her.
Loren, on the other hand, probably has dehydration. And hypoglycemia. Maybe a touch of orthostatic hypotension. As she pointed out, I teach AP Phys. And I’m reasonably sure she didn’t faint just because I blurted out the one thing I thought I’d never admit.
To anyone.
She tries to sit up, glancing around, her eyes unfocused at first, then sharpening as she takes in the scene. Rose petals. Candles. My arms wrapped around her.
Uhhhhh, yeah. Awkward.
I’d let her go, but her face is still sheet white, and I’m not sure she’s steady enough to sit on her own. Before I can figure out how to proceed, noises come from the porch. Stomping footsteps. A fumble of keys. Giggles. Then someone kicks the door open.
What the—
Dex appears in the entryway with Sayla draped in his arms. He’s expecting to carry his bride over the threshold, isn’t he? Damn. His gaze cuts to me, with Loren curled in my lap. His jaw drops.
Then Dex drops his wife.
“Ack!” Sayla tumbles to the floor, and he blurts out a mix of curses and apologies while simultaneously hauling her back to her feet. When they finally turn toward us, their eyes are wide with shock.
Yeah, guys. I know the feeling.
“It’s not what you think,” I mumble, but my protest is pointless, because Dex’s grin is already lopsided.
With glee.
For more than a year, he’s accused me of crushing on Loren. For all I know, he’s said something to Sayla. I can only hope she hasn’t told Loren.
Yet.
“Well, well, well.” Dex chuckles. “This is new.”
“They aren’t making out, dummy,” Sayla blurts. She rushes over to our little pile of humanity and falls to her knees in front of us. “What happened?”
I look down at Loren. I think I’ll let her take this one.
Her gaze bounces between Sayla and me, then she pastes a sheepish smile on her face. “I … I just … I missed the fainting couch. Like a heroine in some Victorian novel.”
“And Bridger caught you?”
“Apparently.”
“Quite the hero,” Sayla says, examining Loren’s face. “Have you eaten today?”
“Like … food?”
“That is what people generally eat, yes.”
“Then, yes,” Loren answers. There’s a pause, then she furrows her brow. “Wait. I mean, no. Well, there was a donut …”
“Yeah, I figured as much.” Sayla frowns. “Your recent self-care has been, how should I put this delicately? Garbage.”
Loren wrinkles her nose. “Sorry?”
“Oh, stop,” Sayla tells her, before barking out orders. “Dex, get Loren some water. Bridger, let’s help her up.”
Sayla’s taking control, and for this, I’m grateful. Not that I mind caring for Loren. The exact opposite is true. Holding her like this was starting to feel a little too good.
For my own good.
We maneuver Loren onto her feet and help her hobble to the couch, where she collapses in a heap. “You can stop fussing over me now,” she says. “Both of you. Really. Nothing to see here, folks.”
Her eyes wander up to mine, and my chest cinches tight. Maybe her little blackout erased what I just told her about being the anonymous donor. Or she might be covering for me. Or she could be about to out me right now.
“Awwww, you guys,” Sayla squeals. Her gaze sweeps the room, pausing at the candles and the roses. “Did Dex and I just catch you two setting up some kind of romantic surprise for us?”
Saved by the bride.
I throw my hands up. “All Loren’s idea.”
“But I couldn’t have done it without help,” she says. “And we just finished moving all my stuff into Dex’s apartment.”
“Already?” Dex returns with a glass of water. He hands it to Loren. “You could’ve stayed here as long as you—”
“I know,” she interrupts. “You told me a million times. Which was so generous and very on brand. For both of you. But you should start your new life as husband and wife without a third wheel cramping your style.”
He smirks. “I rarely cramp.”
“And you’re not a wheel,” Sayla says. “Wheels don’t faint.”
“Eh. I’m all good now.” Loren hitches her shoulders. “And anyway, Bridger and I were just about to leave. The newly minted Mr. and Mrs. Michaels need to continue their life of champagne and roses.”
I hazard a quick glance at Dex. His eyes are on me, mouth sideways again, like he’s not completely believing my story. And he’s not completely wrong. There’s a lot more going on here.
I’m just not sure exactly what.
“Need help with your bags?” I ask, because that’s what I would’ve offered if I hadn’t just been caught holding Loren.
“Nah, I’m good, man.” He drifts to Sayla’s side and throws an arm around her. And I won’t lie. My guts ache a little.
“Just get Loren home safe,” Sayla says. “But make sure she’s fed first.”
“Absolutely.”
“And watered,” she insists.
“Gotcha.”
“You promise? Because our little friend here can be a wily one, claiming she’s fine, when she’s—”
“Helloooo, I’m right here.” Loren sticks a hand up like she’s one of our students waiting to be called on. “Also, I’m not a houseplant.”
“If you were, you’d be the prettiest one in all the land.” Sayla bends down to give Loren a hug. “You really are the best, best, best,” she coos directly into her ear. “Text me when you’re home. Okay?”
“And say hi to my coffee table for me,” Dex adds with a grin.
Sayla socks him in the arm.
On the way to my car, I resist the urge to put my hand on the small of Loren’s back.
The evening is still warm, and the scent of something sugary wafts between us.
Probably from the donut she barely ate. I open the passenger door, then wait until she’s buckled before circling around to the driver's seat.
“So, Hickory Grill for dinner?” I toss out, as I slide in beside her. The suggestion is inane, given the elephant in the car with us. And yet I keep going. “A burger and fries should hit the spot. We could call in an order.”
“First things first.” Loren turns to face me. Full body contortion in her seatbelt. “Who are you really?”
I reach for a handshake, like this is some kind of ice breaker. “Bridger Jefferson Adams. Nice to meet you.”
“Wrong answer.” She pushes my hand away, not like she’s angry, more like she’s confused. Or possibly hurt. Which would be the worst-case scenario.
I’d rather amputate a limb than hurt her.
“My friend Bridger Adams teaches science at Stony Peak High,” she says. “He has a one-bedroom place across town. He buys apple cider donuts, and he fixes smoke detectors and functions on a teacher’s salary like the rest of us.”
Friend. Right.
Cue the old stabbing behind my ribs again. Right on time. Because I needed a reminder of exactly what zone I’m in when it comes to Loren Cane.
“All true,” I force out.
“So please explain how you just casually funded a seven-figure rebuild of half the school last fall.”
I glance back at the house. “If we stay parked out here for too long, Sayla and Dex will see us and get curious.” I move to start the car.
“Fine. But just pull around the corner. We need to keep talking face-to-face. Total eye contact. No staring at the road while you drive.”
“Sure, boss.”
While I find us a new place to park, one block up and over, Loren stays focused on me. I can practically feel her gaze boring a hole in my temple. I cut the engine under a maple tree and turn toward her again.
“Commence firing squad,” I say.
“Okay.” She narrows her eyes. “What kind of big shot are you, anyway? Finance? Royalty? Mafia?”
I grimace. “Nothing sinister. I swear. The Adams family just owns an intellectual property firm. That’s all.”
She screws up her face. “Meaning …?”
“Meaning patents, mostly. In the tech world. And medicine. Aerospace.” I hitch my shoulders. “Boring stuff that makes them an obscene amount of money.”
“Them.” She tips her chin. “Not you?”
I bob my head. “I tried joining the family business for about a minute, when I got out of college the first time. But being gifted a seat on some board just because of my last name felt … kind of hollow. And let’s just say the powers that be had no interest in me making any decisions of my own.”
“Powers that be?”
“Exactly.” I decide to let that hang there for a moment. Move on to why I’m here now. “Anyway, you already know I’m a science guy.”
Her lip quirks. “Bill Nye.”
“Yeah, well, that started way back when I was a little kid. And throughout school. The subjects just came easy to me, you know? Chem. Bio. Physics. Physiology. All of it.”
She smirks. “Cannot relate.”
“The thing is, I was lucky to have some amazing teachers. And I really wanted to pay that forward. Educate the next generation. Help shape the future, not own it, you know?”
“Yeah, that I get. But what happened, then?” She shrugs. “You … you just went back to school, got your credential, and opted out of the family fortune?”
“That’s the Scooby Doo version. Pretty much.”
“Hmm.” She pauses, processing. “You must still have access to the money, though, right? Or else you couldn’t have arranged that anonymous donation.”
“A trust.” I nod. “Set up when I was eighteen.”
“Wow.” She exhales, shaking her head. “So Bill Nye is actually Richie Rich.”
“In a nutshell.” I blow out a breath. Not exactly the reputation of my dreams. “I hadn’t touched the trust in years,” I explain.
“Not until after the storm last fall. I saw a chance to fix things at Stony Peak. And that felt pretty good. Especially when Superintendent Dewey agreed to keep my identity a secret.”
“Yeah.” She shakes her head, frowning. “That’s the part I still don’t understand. Why stay anonymous?”
I take a beat, calculating how to word this without sounding like I’m looking for sympathy, because I’m definitely not. But the whole truth is that a certain level of wealth means never knowing anyone’s true intentions.
Does your prom date like your sense of humor, or your AmEx Black Card?
Did you really make the team laugh, or are they just hoping you’ll pay the tab?
Still, Loren’s never gonna hear any financial complaints from me.
Ever.
So I land on this: “Money changes people,” I say. Slowly. Deliberately. “At least their perceptions of you change. I learned that early.”
“Right.” She quirks a brow. “Guess I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“Either way, I just wanted to be me, you know? The guy you hang out with at the football games. The one wearing a lab coat in the cadaver lab.”
Her lip curves up. “I kinda like that guy,” she says.
“Good,” I manage, but man, my throat is thick.
“So if giving money to Stony Peak felt so good, why stop the recurring donation?”
The question makes me flinch. “Sorry about that.” I drag a hand through my hair. “I had no idea you’d end up out of a summer job.”
“Duh.” She nudges my shoulder. “I figured you weren’t trying to ruin my life on purpose.”
“The thing is, there’s this ridiculous clause in my trust that could shift voting control to the trustee when I turn thirty.”
“Your birthday’s in—like—three weeks.”
“I am aware.”
“And you’re turning thirty.”
“Aware of that, too.”
“So.”
“So, I made the decision to walk away from the trust permanently rather than jump through … hoops. But now I’m not so sure that’s the best choice.”
“Why?” Her eyes narrow. “Did the hoops suddenly disappear?”
“I guess I was just thinking … If I could help you out, then—”
“Nope.” She presses a fingertip to my lips, and that one small touch singes my entire mouth.
“But—”
“Stop.” She presses harder, making a zipper motion. “We’re talking about you right now. Not me.”
“Hmph.” I blink my agreement. She drops her hand.
I miss it already.
“So, what’s this clause that could shift control of the trust?” She puts air quotes around the words “could shift.” She was really listening. Man, I like that about her.
“Trust me,” I say. “It’s stupid. You don’t want to know.”
“Incorrect.” She pokes my chest. “Now I want to know extra. And if we have until your birthday, maybe I can help you.”
“You can’t.”
“Try me.”
“Fine.” I blow out a breath, frustrated by what she wants me to reveal. But Loren’s made herself vulnerable to me today. Might as well join the club. “To inherit full control, I have to get married. Before my thirtieth birthday.”
Her jaw drops. An appropriate response.
“I told you.” I shake my head. “Ridiculous. Archaic. Medieval. But that’s my mom for you.”
“Your mother?”
“She’s the trustee.” My teeth clench. “The clause is vintage Margaret Adams.”
Loren’s gaping again, so I might as well rip off the rest of the Band-Aid.
“It gets worse,” I say.
She snorts. “Worse than forced marriage?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I hate to prove you wrong.” I take a beat. “But my mom already picked out my bride.”