Page 11 of On the Line

“I don’t know. He was always telling me about our finances, different investments, the endorsement contracts ...” She pauses, like she’s trying to remember. “So maybe he mentioned it, but if so, I don’t remember. He always just took care of that stuff.”

She glances out the large kitchen windows. Beyond them is a bluestone patio surrounded by evergreens. String lights are hung from the house to the trees, and the way they are catching the rising sun makes them appear to glow bright orange.

“I assumed you knew about it and knew I was the executor. The fact that you didn’t ... I guess that explains why you were surprised to see me here.”

“Should I be worried that my husband set up a trust and didn’t tell me about it?”

“I’m sure he set it up because hedidn’twant you to worry,” I say, not at all sure but wanting to put her mind at ease anyway. When Josh asked me to be the executor, I’d assumed Lauren was involved in that decision. It never occurred to me to ask, mostly because I’d spent the previous four years, since they got engaged and she left Boston, intentionallynotasking about her.

She takes another deep breath, then lets out a little smile. “I’m being ridiculous. Setting up a trust to make sure the girls and I were taken care of is such a classic Josh move. Of course he had one. So what is it that I need to know, then?” she asks.

“It’s all in here,” I say, taking the binder out of my bag and sliding it along the counter until it rests in front of her.

I’m starting to feel that sense of panic I sometimes get when other people’s emotions are out of my control, and sitting here knowing there’s nothing I can do to take away her pain is killing me. I should never have introduced them in the first place—something I knew the instant the introduction left my mouth.

“You should take some time to read it,” I tell her. “Then call me and we can discuss any questions you have, or any next steps.”

I move my foot from the rung of the stool to the floor and shift my weight as I stand, torn between wanting to be near her and wanting to get as far away as possible.

“Wait!”

Her tongue glides across her lower lip, and I can’t tear my eyes away from the sight until she turns away and looks out the kitchen window again.

I’m spending so much energy trying not to think about how it feels to be back in her presence—the unmistakable scent of vanilla that clings to her skin, the way her eyes change like the color of the ocean does in different lights and depth, how she always bites her lower lip when she’s thinking—that my voice comes out almost strangled as I ask, “Yeah?”

She shakes her head like she’s trying to clear something out of there. “Never mind.”

“Okay.” I lift my bag off the stool and look down at her. As much as I try to reassure myself that she’s going to be okay, that Josh did the right thing here, I can’t help but worry that there’s something that doesn’t add up.

“So, what are the next steps?” she asks.

“Now you’ll become the sole owner of all assets, so there will be a shit-ton of paperwork. You’ll need to see an estate lawyer about putting all the assets into a new trust, so that everything that now belongs solely to you is left to the girls, and you’ll want to name a guardian in case anything were to ever happen to you. I’ll help make sure that everything is set up correctly for the future. After that, you can choose a new executor for your new trust.”

She opens her mouth to respond, but the doorbell rings right then, and her head snaps over to look at a video monitor I didn’t notice sitting on the counter. It looks almost exactly like the one we had for Graham when he was a baby. And it appears that both little girls are still sleeping.

“I’ve got to get the door,” she says. But before she’s even out of her seat, her sister is walking into the kitchen.

“Door’s unlocked,” Paige says airily as she walks in, wheeling a suitcase behind her, then stops when she notices me sitting there. “Oh, hi, Jameson. I didn’t know you’d be here.” She sets a bag that appears to be from a local bagel shop on the counter.

Lauren’s narrowed eyes glance back and forth between us. “You two know each other?”

“We met yesterday at the luncheon after the funeral,” I tell her. I don’t mention that her sister was flirting with me until she realized I wasn’t flirting back.

“Hmm,” Lauren replies, and I wish I could figure out what she means when she rolls that sound around in the back of her throat. I’d also love to know why it still has the same effect on me—like someone dragging their fingertips lightly over my bare skin—that it always has.

Actually, I know why: I’m an asshole. And I’m still coveting the person I can’t have, even five years later.

“Jameson was just telling me about Josh’s trust,” Lauren tells Paige. “Which I didn’t know existed until a few minutes ago.”

“Oh.” The sound is a breathy whoosh of air leaving Paige’s mouth.

“Yeah,” Lauren says, and the two share a look that, again, I can’t interpret.

“I thought I smelled food,” another voice says from the doorway. I turn and catch a glimpse of a woman whose strawberry-blond hair is in a ponytail, and she’s wearing a cropped sweatshirt and a baggy pair of flannel pajama pants. “Oh,” she says when we lock eyes. “I didn’t realize we had company.”

There are so many looks passing between the three of them, and so much estrogen in the room, that I’m ready to get the hell out of here. Plus, I need to catch a flight to St. Louis because while I was asleep last night, one of my hockey players decided to go and get himself a DUI—luckily no one else was hurt—and now I have a mess to clean up.

“This is Jameson,” Lauren tells her. “He was Josh’s agent.” Again, those blue eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and I wonder how long it will be until she can say his name without tearing up. How longshouldit be?

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