CHAPTER 9 Tatum Barker
Garden Party Fundraiser
It’s a whirlwind trip to Chicago, and we’re back on the last flight out of Midway, heading back to Tampa before midnight.
I get that Ford is choosing his sense of obligation here, but there has to be some solution.
My trust fund isn’t anywhere near the size of the ones with the last name Bradley on the account.
But it would be enough for a down payment.
The problem is that I don’t have enough liquid assets to finance the monthly payments, and it would obliterate my plans to have several venues in different places since all my money would be tied up in one place.
I should let the idea go. But I just can’t stop picturing the fairy lights and the floral archways and the white marble…
or that damn kiss in that damn kitchen twelve years ago.
The nights of laughter. The time Ford made popcorn in the kitchen, and I went down to get a bowl for Archer and me to share, and a popcorn-tossing contest erupted where we each threw a kernel in the air to see how high we could get it and still catch it. He won. I laughed.
I meant what I said to him. I don’t want him to rush into this sale.
I know he loves his family. He pretends he isn’t loyal to them since he’s so far removed geographically from everyone else, but I know his heart, and I truly think he’d feel regret if he sold it off to the first bidder when we can work together to find ways to keep it in the family.
The family I’m no longer a part of…or never really was, I suppose. It felt like I was, though, and not just because I was with Archer so long. Ford feels like family, too.
On top of all of that, I can’t stop seeing myself in white as I stand on that gorgeous staircase lost in thoughtful ruminations as I create the perfect wedding day photos with my husband.
His face is blurry in my daydream. Still, I can’t stop seeing it.
It’s so vivid and so real in my thoughts that I’m too distracted to work on the plane ride home.
Ford’s quiet, too, but he’s watching football stuff on his tablet, so I close my eyes and first try to come up with a solution, but when that feels totally futile, I allow myself to dream of just exactly how grand it could be.
Dream big or go home, right?
Well, I’m doing both, apparently. Except I don’t really have a home at the moment. I’m mooching off two different friends because I needed to run away from Vegas for a while, and now I’m getting these big ideas that are probably too big to accomplish.
Ford doesn’t have practice on Tuesdays, but he’s in meetings all day in his home office. He talks to his lawyer, his agent, his financial advisor, and who knows who else.
My phone starts to ring just after lunch, and I’m shocked when I see it’s Archer calling.
“Hi,” I answer quietly. I head out to the terrace to take the call.
“Hey.”
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m holding up.”
“I assume you heard about your parents,” I say. Ford got a call shortly before we had to leave for the airport while we were still at the mansion about how much the judge set bail at, and from the way he choked on the phone call, I don’t assume it was a small amount.
“Yes.”
“Is the FBI still looking into you?”
“I actually called to talk about the fundraiser,” he says, dodging my question.
He asked me to plan a fundraiser for his foundation ages ago, and I created this cute little evening garden party fundraiser with a live band.
The entire thing has been booked and planned for months, but I’ll need to get back to town a few days prior to the event to hammer out the last-minute details.
“What about it?” I ask.
“Is everything still on?”
“You think because you dumped me that I’d be so unprofessional as to fuck over your event?” I ask, more than a little bruised that he’d think so little of me after we were together for so long.
“Of course not, Tate. And you know I didn’t dump you. That’s not what happened.”
“Felt like it,” I mutter petulantly.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice all low and raspy in that way he does when he really means something. “I just need everything to go off without a hitch since I’m still being watched.”
It feels like code. Like he can’t talk about it—maybe his phone is tapped, or someone’s watching. He can’t be too careful.
In any event, I miss what we once had. We weren’t destined to make it to forever, and I’ve come to terms with that.
It still sucks big time to have your entire world flipped upside down. We were friends first, and I miss our friendship.
I blow out a breath. “Everything is set in place. I’ll check in a week before the event to let you know if we need anything.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Mm-hmm.” I very nearly let it slip. K, love you, bye!
It was the way I always ended our calls.
Not anymore.
“Well, talk to you then,” I say instead. I cut the call before he can say anything else, and then I promptly burst into tears.
And wouldn’t you know it? That’s how Ford finds me after he finishes up his calls.
“What’s wrong?” he asks gently as he settles into place on the chair beside the one I’m occupying.
“Nothing,” I lie.
“You can tell me.”
I draw in a deep breath and sniffle, and then I wipe my eyes as I square my shoulders.
“Archer called. He wouldn’t talk to me about the big stuff, and then he presumed to suggest that I’d be immature enough to drop the ball on a charity event I’d been planning for him because of what happened between us.
Between that and you selling the mansion, I don’t know.
It’s just been a disappointing twenty-four hours, you know? ”
“I know.” He reaches over and squeezes my forearm. “I’m really sorry. And I wanted to let you know the mansion is listed.”
All the air deflates out of me at his words. It felt like there was still a chance when it wasn’t listed, but whoever took that listing, of course, would work quickly because of the sheer scale of how much he or she could make off the deal.
“But I also have good news,” he says before I can beg him to help me figure out how we can save the mansion.
“What?”
“You know Devon Pratt?” he asks.
My brows push together as I shake my head a little. “Who?”
He chuckles. “I thought you said you watched every single one of my games.”
I hold a hand to my chest. “No, I said I put every single one of your games on. I didn’t say I paid attention.”
He barks out a laugh at that. “Fine. He’s the safety.”
“Safety?” I ask, wrinkling my nose in confusion. “Like a security guard?”
He laughs. “No. He’s on defense. Anyway, he proposed to his girlfriend.”
“Good for him,” I say, throwing out a sarcastic thumbs-up.
I’m out here crying about how I’m decidedly not getting married and especially not at my dream location, and he’s all excited about some dude I don’t even know who is getting married?
I’m not sure what the hell he’s going on about, but I don’t need him rubbing everyone else’s happiness in my face when I’m back to square one where my own happiness is concerned.
“Tate.” He says my name like a command, and I glance over at him. “He’s getting married. Here in Tampa. He’s planning a wedding.”
“Yes, as people tend to do when they propose and the other person says yes.”
“Oh my God, you’re hardheaded. He’s going to need someone to plan that wedding. You plan weddings. Are you getting it yet?”
It hits me all at once, and I feel the tension start to dissipate from my chest. I leap up from my chair as it finally hits me. “Oh! Oh my God, I need to score that wedding! If you don’t mind me staying here with you a little longer, of course.”
“You’re welcome here as long as you need,” he says quietly as he stands, too. “And I’ll gladly hook you and Lindsay up. That’s Devon’s fiancée.”
I glance over at him, and I swear for the tiniest second his eyes flick to my lips. I can’t help but lick them a little self-consciously, as if maybe some of the yogurt I ate for lunch has gathered in a crevice and I hadn’t felt it. There doesn’t seem to be anything there.
“You’re the best, Ford. Thank you.” I move to give him a hug, and his arms wrap around me, warm and strong and tight.
It feels good here.
It feels great here, actually. Tampa, this condo overlooking the city, the arms of this kind and gorgeous man who so effortlessly seems to want to support me and my career despite the whole thing with the mansion.
I try my hardest to let that go.
He’s trying to make up for it, and it’s not mine to have no matter how much of a dream it might be. That’s all it can be—a dream.
Sort of like whatever it is I’m starting to feel for Ford Bradley.