CHAPTER 43 Ford Bradley
Riding the Bradley Coattails
Something’s going on with her, but since I’ve never been around her during one of her weddings, I’m trying to chalk it up to that. She’s stressed and wants this to be amazing. She told me so, and I’m choosing to believe that’s why she’s been a little quiet with me lately.
I also had football to focus on before. I was gone a good chunk of time each day. Maybe this is too much Ford for her.
I’m doing my best to strike a balance where she’s getting the independence she needs while implementing systems to help automate some of her business.
And I’ve been actively looking for an assistant for her. As it turns out, the woman about to become Devon’s wife has experience as an assistant, and I think depending how today’s wedding goes, she may be interested in learning more about working for Tatum.
I peek into her room to see if she needs anything, but she’s in the shower. While she’s moved into my bed physically each night, she still works in here, and she hasn’t yet made the transition to my closet and my bathroom. We’ve been a little busy, I guess.
An article is pulled up on her computer, and I glance at the headline.
How the Bradley Connection Landed an NFL Star’s Wedding.
She has seventeen tabs open—not unusual for her—but as I scan the tabs, it looks like at least half of them are articles with a similar headline from the few words I can see of each.
Zillow is open, too. Nothing unusual about that. She’s always looking at houses that could become potential venues.
I don’t click on anything but instead slip out of her room as I hear the shower turn off.
I wonder why she’s looking at those headlines.
Is it true? Is she just using me for my name?
Was she using Archer all those years for that same name?
She built a thriving business in Vegas—a business that’s still thriving and largely being run by her assistant there.
Did she build it off Archer’s back, though?
Off his connections? Are we both so blinded by how we feel about her that we completely missed that?
Or is it just a lucky byproduct of being with professional athletes? She’s damn good at what she does. She could’ve built this business without us. Easily. And it must be devastating to continually see accusations that she couldn’t have.
Maybe that’s why she’s been quiet with me lately.
But something tells me that’s not it.
It’s neither the time nor the place, but when she joins me in the kitchen for a fresh cup of coffee before she finishes getting ready, I can’t help but bring it up.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“I wish you’d stop asking me that,” she snaps. “Everything’s fine.”
“For what it’s worth, I think you are incredible, Tatum. Today is going to be amazing.”
She presses her lips together and nods as she moves to walk out of the room.
“Those articles…they don’t know what they’re talking about.”
She spins around to look at me. “What articles?”
“The ones pulled up on your computer.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Are you snooping on me?”
I reel back a little, my body physically reacting to the accusation. “Of course not. I came in to check if you needed anything, and I saw the headline on your screen. They got it wrong, Tate.”
“You don’t think I’m riding the Bradley coattails all the way to the bank?” she asks.
“Are you?”
She looks insulted I’d ask, and part of me feels relieved by that.
“Not intentionally, but none of these articles are giving me any credit at all for the work I’ve done. I don’t know if they ever will, and that kind of hurts.”
“It’s not personal,” I say, trying to make her feel better.
“Isn’t it? They did the same damn thing with Archer back in Vegas.” She shakes her head. “I’ll never be recognized for my attributes as a woman. Only for my connections to the men in my life.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s not the thing I wish you were sorry for,” she mutters.
My brows dip as cluelessness claws its way in. “Excuse me?”
She presses her lips together and sets both hands on her hips, and then she lets me have it. “The mansion,” she says flatly. “You sold it and didn’t tell me.”
I stare dumbly at her. “That’s why you’re mad?”
“Of course that’s why I’m mad. You kept it from me. The fact that I wanted to figure out a way to buy it aside, your siblings didn’t want you to sell it, either.”
“We all want things. Little girls want unicorns. Lotto players want the jackpot,” I point out. “Just because you want something doesn’t mean you get to have it.”
“Don’t minimize what this is. That’s not what it’s about.”
“Then what’s it about?” I ask, truly dumbfounded, which only seems to make her angrier.
“It belongs to the Bradley family. It’s your history. We can preserve it so you can all come home again.”
“You just said you wanted me to figure out how to help you buy it,” I point out.
“Exactly. And I thought marriage meant we’d make these decisions together.
As a team.” She purses her lips as she draws in a breath.
“You made a promise to me that you wouldn’t sell it without exploring all the options first. But you didn’t.
We could’ve gone in together with the money we got back from Winston and financed the rest.”
“You know financing ten million dollars would cost you, what…sixty, seventy grand a month? How long are you making those payments before cash runs dry? This destination wedding brand is a great concept. But it’s not a guaranteed cash cow, and you’re already stretching yourself too thin.”
She huffs out a frustrated breath that’s paired with an argh sort of garbled sound. “It’s not about the goddamn house. It’s about the fact that you didn’t tell me you took an offer. You kept it from me. It’s trust, pure and simple. Why didn’t you just treat me like a partner?”
“This! This right here,” I say. “So we wouldn’t fight about it. Everything always comes back to my family, and every time it comes back to them, it turns into a fight.”
“Don’t project your insecurities on me,” she warns.
“I’m not. If I was, I’d be standing here asking you if you’re really over my brother or if attaching yourself to me is some elaborate ploy to win him back.”
“Is that what you think?” Her voice is eerily quiet as she practically hisses at me.
She stares across the space separating us as I wish I could take those words back.
“Of course not,” I say a little weakly. It’s not what I think. It’s my biggest fear when it comes to her, and suddenly it feels like now that the words are out there floating between us…maybe it’s not so far-fetched.
She spins on her heel and heads back to her room to finish getting ready as I stand in the kitchen wallowing in the fact that I really fucked that one up.
“You look beautiful,” I say once she emerges from her room.
“Thanks,” she mutters.
I walk over to her. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry we had a fight. Let’s just put it behind us.”
“I can’t,” she says thickly, and it’s the first alarm bell ringing in my mind that tells me that maybe, just maybe…we won’t make it past this.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re sorry we had a fight. You’re not sorry that you withheld information from me. I need to feel chosen, Ford. I need to feel like we’re a team. Like we’re making decisions together. Archer kept enough shit from me, and look at how that ended. I don’t need it from you, too.”
“You’re right,” I say. “And I’m sorry about all of it. I’ve spent my entire adult life waiting for the opportunity to choose you. Trust me. It’s you.”
“You said my business isn’t a cash cow, though. It feels like you don’t take me seriously as a businesswoman, and that hurts.”
“How can you say that?” I practically roar. “I’ve spent the last week helping you with your business. I’ve automated systems and created strategies. I cleared out your inbox. I believe in you. In us.”
She presses her lips together and brushes some hair off her forehead. “Maybe I’m too much of a dreamer and you’re too practical. The things I want may feel unrealistic to you, but it’s who I am.”
My breath catches in my throat as she heads toward the door. It’s not like this conversation is over if she walks out. We’re driving to the manor together.
She jabs at the elevator call button as I join her in the hallway.
“You don’t really believe that, do you?” I ask.
She folds her arms across her chest. “I don’t know. Today doesn’t much feel like love is enough.” Her words are soft and broken as she whispers them.
“Can you really say that as you leave home to take care of every last detail for a wedding you’ve spent the last two months planning?” I ask.
“We’re married now. We can’t keep secrets from each other. And your secret makes me feel like you’re not willing to take a risk on me, my business…or us.”
It’s not true—at least to me, it isn’t. But the way she delivers those harsh words feels an awful lot like she’s already made up her mind.
In my head, I just wanted to get rid of the mansion. To get my money back. To be done with it.
To her, it was an act of betrayal.
And no matter how much I love her, or how much she loves me, I’m not sure how we overcome that.