Page 9 of Red, White, and You

The worst part? I don’t even need the money.

I was one of the highest-paid wide receivers in the league before I retired. Between my contracts and endorsement deals, I could coast comfortably for the rest of my life. When Catherine Hart offered me a bonus to helpease Gigi into a conversationabout rejoining the family brand, I didn’t do it for the cash.

I did it for the challenge.

It sounded easy. A short detour. Win over the bakery rebel, convince her to hear them out, and walk away with a tidy bonus and a nod of appreciation from the Harts.

But nothing about this feels easy anymore.

I follow her gaze, taking in the festival around us—the booths, the volunteers, the little kids in flag shirts, the parents juggling lemonade and lawn chairs.

“You know everyone, don’t you?”

A tiny smile dances on her lips. “It’s a small town. Of course, I know everyone.”

But it’s more than that, and we both know it.

Gigi isn’t just part of the community—sheisthe community. She belongs here in a way I don’t think I’ve ever belonged anywhere.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. It buzzes again. Then again.

“You should probably get that,” Gigi says, nodding toward my pocket. “Might be important.”

I glance at the screen: three missed texts from Catharine Hart.

How’s it going with Georgina?

Remember, we need her to at least hear us out.

Let me know if you need any additional incentive to close this deal.

I shove the phone back into my pocket, jaw tight.

I thought this would be a professional favor—a clean assist in a family negotiation. But now it feels like a setup. One I walked straight into.

Gigi catches the change in my expression.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

“Yeah. Just… work stuff.”The lie sticks in my throat like a dry protein bar.

I try to shake it off. “Your parents have no idea what you do, do they?”

She stills, hands frozen over a tray of flag-themed sugar cookies. For a second, I think she’s going to make a joke—deflect, like always.

Instead, she looks up at me, eyes guarded.

“No,” she says softly. “They really don’t.”

We stand there for a beat. Quiet. The kind of silence that says too much.

Then a group of teenagers descends on the booth like seagulls on a dropped funnel cake, and the moment passes.

But as I watch Gigi laughing with them, making each person feel like they’re the most important customer she’s ever had, I realize something that should’ve been obvious the second I walked into her bakery.

I’m not here to convince her to take her parents’ offer.

I’m here because I can’t seem to stay away from her.

---