“Mr. Clausen, what’s up?” I ask.
He holds up a navy blue bank bag. “Found this just sitting out on a table near the admission booth. I looked for Amy Jenkins and that other young gal who was working with her, but they were both gone.” I suspect he means Erin. Which could explain the excessive crying I witnessed earlier. That bag looks stuffed within an inch of its life.
“I know where this needs to go,” I tell Mr. Clausen.
“Oh good. I don’t want to be responsible for it.” He hands the bag off, like he’s happy to be rid of a ticking bomb. “There’s a lot of money in there.”
“I’ll take care of it,” I reassure him.
“Thanks, Jasper.”
“Taking that to yourgirlfriend?” Annie prods.
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Sure, whatever.”
I glance down at the bank bag, wondering if this is my chance to fix that. My chance to convince her to give us a real shot. North Haven. Houston. I don’t care anymore. I’m done tiptoeing around this.
Wherever we end up, I’m determined to make Vanessa Steele my girlfriend.
Then my wife.
13
VANESSA
“Erin, what’s wrong?”I ask my faithful assistant, gathering her into my arms as she sobs.
“It’s so bad, Vanessa.” She sniffles. In a mere whisper, she adds, “Sobad.”
“Whatever it is, we can fix it.”
She shakes her head against my shoulder vigorously. A pang of guilt stabs me square in the chest. Though Erin is very capable, I knew better than to let her take on the responsibility of an entire town festival by herself. Instead, I allowed Dad’sgood intentionsto give me the excuse I wanted to spend time with Jasper.
Even when I was still pissed at the man, I wanted to be near him.
Damn the man and his very talented tongue.
“Erin, talk to me,” I say, holding onto her shoulders and pushing her back so she’ll look at me.
“The admission money ismissing.”
“How much?”
“Allof it.”
A pit forms instantly in my stomach, but I force my expression to remain neutral for Erin’s sake. Thisisbad. Really fucking bad. If we don’t have the money to turn over to the town council, it won’t only be my reputation on the line, but Dad’s as well. Not the note I want to go out on in my event planning career. “Tell me what happened.”
Erin sits on the edge of her bed, and I hand her a box of tissues. “I called Amy,” she says of the woman who was responsible for manning the admission booth today. “She said she left them money withme.” Erin explains, through a fit of sobs, that she walked away from the table for five minutes because she didn’t expect there to be any money just sitting out for anyone to take. She expected her counterpart to keep an eye on it until she returned. “When I came back, Amy was gone. The money was gone, too.”
“You don’t think she stole it, do you?”
“No, definitely not. She was just in a hurry to leave. Something about a sick kid at home.”
“Tell me, step by step?—”
A knock at the door has both our heads snapping toward it. Is it possible someone already knows the money is missing? Did someone tell Dad it was stolen? Are the cops here to question us? This is so much worse than admitting to Dad that my time as an event planner has come to an end. It’s quite possibly going out on a sinking ship that’s been set of fucking fire.
