Page 45 of Mended Hearts

“Okay, what did I miss?” Paxton asked, his inflatable head bobbing as he looked between us.

“Nothing, Pax. Let’s get out of here.” She glared at his tail. “How the fuck did you drive here in that?”

“Dally drove. I rode in the back.”

“Dallas is here?” she gasped, whirling for the hallway.

Of course.

My jaw tensed.

Dallas Miller was one of our best receivers and a local media darling. And maybe—maybe—if he weren’t plastered across every billboard in a twenty-mile radius, I wouldn’t want to punt his ass to another city.

Note to self: if there’s a trade option for Dallas, make it happen.

As Leighton dragged the oversized turkey through the door, I threw up my hands and barked, “At least take your breakfast with you!”

* * *

I wasn’t soself-absorbed that I took for granted how blessed my life was. There had never been a time I couldn’t put food on my table or keep the lights on. I’d never felt that kind of stress. But with a life of privilege came a bit of a god complex—something that sure as hell wasn’t helped by the paparazzi following my every move, gossip columns foaming at the mouth for an inside scoop, or the ability to auction off photos with my kids in the name of charity.

The allure of the spotlight wore off sometime during adolescence, before dad started scandalizing our name in the media, but after I’d had my heart broken one too many times by girls who wanted the bank account, not the boyfriend.

So, in some bizarre way, I could admire what Leighton was doing—if only for the selfish reason that she was so determined not to make this about money. Not about my resources. Not about the name.

I wasn’t used to that. And if I’m being honest, it irritated the absolute shit out of me.

She’d made her point. So why the hell wouldn’t she take the help?

Much to my disappointment, I didn’t see her for the entire fundraiser. She and the giant turkey had vanished back into Pax’s truck, and I watched her peel out of the parking lot with the windows down, Dallas Miller riding shotgun and AC/DC blaring loud enough to wake the neighbors.

I wasn’t particularly accustomed to problems I couldn’t fix. Not with time. Not with effort. Not with money. And certainly not with the resources at my disposal.

Problems like my brother endangering our family by bankrolling mercenaries to fight monsters most people didn’t even know existed.

Problems like the woman who held my heart in her hands refusing to let me help—even when she so clearly needed it.

Or problems like my goddamn ex-wife stepping into her red Porsche just as I pulled into the driveway, tossing her black-and-white hair over her shoulder with a flirtatious finger wave like she hadn’t just declared emotional war by showing up uninvited on Thanksgiving morning.

Fuck. My. Life.

That smug little smile of hers could only mean one thing: I was in for a world of pain when I went inside.

Sure enough, I opened the front door to find Oaklyn—our nanny—standing in the entryway with her duffel in one hand, eyes red, and makeup smudged.

She was wiping at her face as she made for the door.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Hart. I quit.”

“What?Why?” It came out as more of a growl. All anger. No confusion. I already knew the answer. But still—I asked. I had to.

As she tried to sidestep me, I gently caught her elbow, lowering my voice. “Oaklyn, you’ve been doing a great job. What did she say to you?”

“N-nothing,” she stammered, voice cracking on the word. “I’m just not a good fit for this. Thank you.”

“You can’t just leave us hanging—at least give me time to find someone else.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hart.” And with that, she slipped out of my grasp and marched straight to her sedan without another word.

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