Page 60 of Renegade Ruin

Which only serves to piss me off more.

I turn my attention back to the stove and force myself to loosen my white-knuckle grip on the wooden spoon I’m using to push the vegetables around. I’d love nothing more than to give that damn board a piece of my mind about their partnering with the league and using the crash victims' children to raise money. It makes my blood boil that they’d even consider doing such a thing. They’re supposed to be protecting them. Not exploiting them.

The only reason I haven’t barged in there is because I know Willow agrees with me and promised to do what she could to fix it.

Not wanting to hear another word, I pop in my headphones and press play on the same playlist I started in the car, setting it just loud enough to drown out Willow’s voice. By the time I’m done with the first omelet, Willow is still in her meeting, so I eat it myself and wait to start on hers because cold omelets are the worst.

My eyes drift around the room. The kitchen decor is sparse—a few nautical themed knickknacks and a coffee pot on the counter. In the corner, there’s a pile of cardboard boxes that looks like they’ve yet to be unpacked from a move. I’m about two seconds from starting to snoop when Willow’s voice cuts through the house loud enough that I can hear her over my music.

“I understand the league will cut funding, but there has to be another way. We are not going to subject these kids to a gala full of pretentious assholes.”

My eyes go wide and I’m instantly on my feet. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her yell like that. And that’s saying something, considering there have been plenty of times over the last two weeks when I rightly deserved that tone.

Quickly and quietly, I close the distance between the kitchen and the office, standing with my back to the wall just outside the door.

“The gala is in a few weeks. We’re not saying?—”

“I know, you’re not saying anything!” Willow says, sounding exhausted. “You’re just trying to do what’s best for Renegade Hearts, I get that, but this isn’t just money we’re talking about. If that’s all we care about, then we’re no better than the league. They aren’t dollar signs, Eric. They’re children. Children who lost their parents. They are who we are fighting to protect—to help. I don’t give a shit about the money.”

Atta girl, Willow.

“But we can do more for them with this opportunity,” a deeper voice chimes in. “Think how many more classes we can offer. We can expand beyond New York and coordinate sponsorships with the league in other cities with the respective teams. This could be the partnership we need.”

“At the expense of the kids!” Willow bellows.

My shoulders slump as I process what I’m hearing. I’ve been so fucking wrong about this woman.It’s been effortless to make Willow the villain even at every turn. Easier to have someone to hate—someone to blame—and she took it all.

And the worst part is I knew better. She’s not innocent in all of it. She still played the game, but if I had looked closer, maybe I would have noticed everything she’s doing to make changes for the better.

Having heard enough, I round the corner and stand in the doorway. Willow's gaze instantly connects with mine. She winces and lets out a deep sigh, knowing I heard every word of what she just said.

“Food is just about ready,” I whisper just loud enough that she’ll hear me, but the board members won’t.

She gives me a subtle nod and I turn on my heel as she picks up right where she left off. “Find another way. I agree with you that we could use the support and the money the league gala will generate, but I will not agree to using the children.”

Her words are final, reiterated by the sound of her slamming shut the laptop in front of her.

My mind spins on the walk back to the kitchen, working double-time as I pop my headphones back in and crack the eggs to whip up her omelet.

She doesn’t deserve the shit her board is laying at her feet. Hell, she doesn’t deserve the shit I’m laying at her feet. This woman might not be perfect and has made many mistakes, but as far as I’m concerned, she’s a goddamn saint for putting upwith the way each person in her life pulls her in a different direction.

It makes me wonder what else she’s taken on since the crash that I don’t know about. And how can I make it easier?

I shake my head.

It’s not my job to care,I remind myself. We have an agreement. Live our lives. Fuck the grief away. Make each day a little easier.

That’s what I’m doing.

I’m working within the confines of our agreement.

And tonight, I’m going to make sure she’s taken care of in that regard.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

WILLOW

I should have told him to leave.

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