Page 76 of Caught Up In You

And then there’s a whole other stew of emotions that I try not to look at too closely. The last time I loaded up my truck and drove away from a man, I was in pieces. Owen isn’t Griffin. The hurt would be different, but it would hurt all the same.

“What’s up, buttercup?” Libby pads into the kitchen in leggings and an oversize sweatshirt, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She’s been working days at the diner lately, which means Idon’t cross paths with her all that much, what with me working nights at the bar.

I’m not mad about it.

Before I can send Hazel some sister telepathy, she pipes up. “We’re going to Betsy’s soccer game.”

Libby pours coffee and lets out a catlike yawn. “Who’s Betsy again?”

I scoff, but Hazel ignores it and smiles at our mother. “Archer’s neighbor’s daughter.”

“And Archer is?”

“The older brother of Owen, who is Wyatt’s?—”

“Nothing,” I say through gritted teeth. This time Hazel shuts her mouth.

“Oh, right, the good doctor,” Libby says in a playground singsong. She waggles her eyebrows over her coffee mug. “How are things with the two of you?”

I ignore her and focus on Hazel and my promise that I would try to keep the peace. “Grace is arranging a whole pregame brunch thing on the sidelines, so I have to be there at seven thirty. You want to ride with me?”

“I want to go,” Libby says.

“No,” I reply.

She pouts. “Come on. I haven’t had a morning off in forever.”

“And you want to spend it watching children you don’t know play soccer?”

“No, I want to spend it with my girls,” she says with a theatrical touch of pain in her voice.

Hazel gives me a look. “It’s fine,” she tells me, as if saying it will make it so. Then she turns back to Libby. “You can ride with Eden and me. I need to scrub the peanut butter off this one, so you go ahead, Wyatt. We’ll meet you there.”

“Peachy,” I mutter, suddenly dreading this soccer game a whole hell of a lot more.

I arrive at the field to find the whole McBride clan gathered by the soccer field at Whitlow Park. Grace told me she was putting together “a little pregame brunch,” but this is another level.

“Jeez, you went full Ole Miss tailgate,” I say as I peruse the folding table she brought, topped with a red linen tablecloth. Grace is a bomb-ass cook, and she’s really outdone herself this morning. The table is practically creaking under the weight of platters filled with flaky biscuits, French toast sticks, bacon-wrapped sausages, egg bites, and a colorful fruit salad. A large pitcher of orange juice sits beside a stack of red Solo cups.

“There’s champagne under the table,” she whispers, lifting a corner of the tablecloth. “Be discreet. I’m pretty sure it’s illegal, and Archer will kill me if I embarrass him at this game.”

Across the field, Archer has his feet planted shoulder width apart, arms crossed over his chest, a whistle in his mouth. He’s blowing it at regular intervals while his team of nine-year-old soccer players moves through warm-up drills like a squad of Navy SEALs.

“I don’t think it’s illegal, but getting tipsy at a children’s soccer game is certainly frowned upon,” Felix says, reaching for one of the cups.

Grace snatches it from his hand. “Then no mimosas for you,” she retorts.

“Hey, no judgment!” Felix says, then looks around. Mr. McBride is standing hip to hip with Corianne, his girlfriend, as they share a heap of goodies from a red paper plate. “Where’s Dan?”

“Archer said he was coming, but then Dad said he left last night to go back to New York. So as usual, I have no idea what his deal is,” she says with a sigh, sipping her mimosa.

“Well, a guy in a suit stopped bymyhouse this morning looking for him. Said he was with the SEC and left his card,” Felix says. “Apparently Dan gave them my address when he was crashing with us? But that was months ago.”

“SEC? Like the football conference?” I ask.

“The Securities and Exchange Commission,” Felix says.

“What thehell?” Grace asks.

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