Page 36 of Trusting Blake
“I only want a quick chat,” he says, less amicable now, staring back at LeAnne through the gap in the door. “And I’m not leaving until you open up.”
LeAnne huffs at his assumption of authority and reluctantly releases the latch, but she stands firm in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest in a threatening stance. I don’t know whose side I’m on, but I do know it feels good to see someone else glare at Ruben the same way I do.
“So, you do remember me. Good,” Ruben says, clearing his throat. He steps back from the door to give LeAnne some space, probably because she looks as though she’s going to deck him any second.
“How could I forget? You’re the class act who sent me that non-disclosure agreement ten years ago.”
“Which you didn’t sign,” Ruben reminds her with a bitter smile. “Even so, it’s very relevant right now, isn’t it? Your history with Everett.”
LeAnne looks at me, almost – and that’s a very bigalmost –sympathetically. At this point, these conversations about Dad’s affairs feel like they’ve become part of my daily life. I don’t flinch anymore. I don’t want to throw up. Instead I listen, soaking up as much information as I can.
“And?” LeAnne pressures him with a hard stare. “You’re worried that now would be a good time for me to cash in? Mr. Fisher, you’re mistaken. I have more self-respect than that.”
“Naturally.” Ruben almost grimaces. “I’m here simply to clarify that we’re all on the same page,” he adds, appearing physically relieved that the Mayor of Nashville isn’t about to fire off that specific grenade. “I understand you and Everett got caught up at church last week.”
LeAnne laughs, like she can’t believe that, after all this time, she has Dad’s manager on her porch wanting to discuss something that happened twenty years ago. I don’t get the feeling that LeAnne is exactly over it, but if she hasn’t told the gossip press by now all about how Everett Harding once cheated on her, then why would she do it now? LeAnne is a piece of work, sure, but she has proven that she’s capable of keeping her word.
“You should leave, Mr. Fisher,” she says. It’s an order. “I have business to attend to, and dinner to prepare.”
“Of course,” Ruben demurs. “But before I go, if I could just remind you that Everett’s financial. . . gift. . . is still very much on the table, subject to your signature. If you’re amenable, our lawyers can get the paperwork over to you before the end of the day.” Self-assured again, he inclines his head slightly to the side and subtly looks LeAnne up and down, like the Mayor of Nashville is no match for him. I can read the frustration in his eyes, but Ruben is a pro at acting fake to get what he wants. “I’m sure you’d appreciate the contribution toward your next mayoral campaign. I believe the election is next summer? If I’m not mistaken, now would be the perfect time to receive a generous funding boost.”
Now LeAnne is really pissed. She swings the door wide open and steps outside, eyes darting to me. “Mila, if you could kindly remove this despicable man off my porch.”
“Me?” I raise my eyebrows at her, relishing this peculiar power play. “Why would you think I can make Ruben do anything?” I ask. Instead, I hand her back the soggy towel, then prod my finger rudely into Ruben’s bicep. “The mayor wants you to leave. And she wants me to leave too. So, let’s go.”
But still, no one moves and then I hear Blake call from inside the house. “Mom?” My ears prick up. “Mila, you’re still here?”
LeAnne steps to the side and I see him as he hovers in the hall, fresh out of the shower, wearing basketball shorts and a T-shirt. He’s towel-drying his hair while studying Ruben suspiciously. Despite the tense situation, I can’t help but appreciate how hot he looks all damp and tousled – and then Lacey pops up behind him. She subtly places her hand on his forearm and peeks around, very obviously being nosy. I’m holding my breath, expecting Blake to move away from her, to shake off her touch, but he. . . doesn’t. Her perfect hand with its cute manicure just stays there, almost stroking him.
What the hell?
“Andyoumust be Blake!” Ruben says, sidestepping LeAnne to face him. “I’d very much like to talk to you too.”
My gaze flashes to Ruben. “What are you doing?” I hiss, panicked, but he blanks me.
Blake moves forward to stop at the threshold, clearly untrusting of the stranger in front of him. And I think how he’s right to have that hunch. But at least Lacey’s not touching him anymore.
“I’m Ruben Fisher, Everett Harding’s personal manager.” Ruben introduces himself in a tone so smug that it gives me a serious case of embarrassment-by-association. I cringe.
“Ruben,” Blake says flatly. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” We exchange a look. All I’ve done this summer is complain about Ruben, so I bite my lip and try not to crack a smile.
“And I’ve been hearing a lot aboutyou,” Ruben counters.
“It’s really time for you to leave,” LeAnne tries, but Ruben actually holds up his hand to silence her, never taking his eyes off Blake.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” he announces, any pretense of camaraderie gone. “It’s very simple. I’m here to tell you that you are not to see Mila again.”
LeAnne, unsurprisingly, can’t help but look rather pleased with this command of Ruben’s. It may be the one thing she and him would ever agree on, but I’m sick of hearing what this man thinks I should do with my life. And so is Blake.
“You guys are funny,” he says, glancing back and forth between his mom and Ruben. “We aren’t going to stop seeing each other, so why don’t you both stop wasting your breath?”
“Listen to me,” Ruben almost growls. “You will not come near that ranch again, is that clear? Everett Harding does not want you in his family’s lives. Which means that, no matter how much Mila here begs you, you do not, under any circumstances, go near her.”
“Like I said, you’re one funny guy.” Blake narrows his eyes, folds his arms over his chest. “And, unfortunately, I’m not making any promises to you.”
He steps forward into Ruben’s face at the exact same moment Ruben does the same to him.
“Stop!” I gasp as they almost bump chests and stare each other out like a pair of trash-talking boxers.
