Page 82 of Married to Number 22
Ah.
A pair of cameras point at an older man in a suit—and it only takes me a couple of seconds for me to recognize him as Jean-Michel Dubois, the owner of the Eagles, Oak Ridge Vineyards, and Titan Capital—a local firm that has invested in many Bay Area companies…including several charities.
I make a mental not to tell Luna that—if I remember correctly, he funds several animal rescue foundations that focus on saving and rehoming dogs and cats—but I’ve also heard that he has a soft spot for the women in his life, including his daughter, Chrissy, and his woman, Tiff.
Maybe Luna could approach him for a donation to help fund the second location for the shelter.
He scowls at me as I slip by, intent on the locker room’s door.
Ormaybeshe should wait a few days, like when the win and my goal aren’t being shown on the highlight reels.
Smothering my smile—because, yeah, I like to make a play, a pass, rack up those assists, but that goal—especially knowing that Luns was watching at home—feels good as hell.
“Black?” I hear as I start to push into the Grizzlies’ locker room.
I pause, glance back over my shoulder.
Jean-Michel’s gaze hits mine…and his lips curve into the barest hint of a smile. “Nice goal.”
“Thanks,” I say, turning away again, losing my fight on my smile.
Then freeze again.
Because I hear, “But you only get one.”
Chuckling, I shake my head and then—probably imprudently—I toss back, “We’ll see.”
Thirty-Two
Luna
I’m running late,heading out of my office, an itchy feeling between my shoulder blades.
Because I’ve haven’t heard a peep from my father and my brother.
And it’s been nearly two weeks since they appeared at Kathy and Matt’s place, shouting and angry…and then leaving after Aiden confronted them.
My family doesn’t just leave—absolutely not.
They dig their heels in, stay in place, unmovable by even the most intense of mother nature’s forces.
And then they dig in a little further.
But not that day.
They just…left.
And haven’t come back—leaving me with the sinking feeling that they’re going to show up sooner rather than later, and most likely, at the most inopportune time.
Sighing, I rub my temple, hoping to ease the ache there, knowing that it’s no use to try to make sense of their actions. I’m not going to be able to figure them out, and anyway, I know their motives, know their end goals, know they won’t give up until they get what they want?—
So, yeah. They’ll be around again.
Mostly likely at the worst possible moment.
Sighing again, I grab my purse from the bottom drawer of my desk then turn and start down the hall.
Only to be stopped by Marissa, one of the shelter’s volunteers.
