“I’m not worried, lass. I’m more than capable of defending meself.”

“You should be. Bud is a very convincing liar.” I shook my head. “I didn’t tell you, but he served me with papers.”

Matt’s face twisted into disgust. “He’s suing ye again?”

“Yes.” I nodded and then felt sick over my next words. “And apparently, he’s now suing you too.”

“Hi, Tiffany, come on in.” Victoria Steele opened the door to the Steely Knight Agency at the end of Lighthouse Lane on Freedom Lake. It wasn’t too far down from Smith’s Funeral Home.

“Thanks, Victoria.” I took a seat at a table with plush chairs around it and a wall of windows that overlooked the lake. The sky was an ominous gray with high winds that made the lake choppy. It looked like rain at any moment.

It was a fitting day that matched my mood.

Alexandra Knight walked in with a folder. “Hi, ladies. Sorry I’m late. I was printing these images.”

“What images?” I asked.

“The ones from the security camera from your salon,” Alex replied.

“That’s why we called you here,” Vicky added.

Both women were in their fifties. Fit, fabulous and dressed to kill in power suits, with ruthless reputations. Alex had short jet-black hair that was slicked back, and deep red lipstick in sharp contrast to her pale skin. While Vicky had buzzed platinum-blonde hair and white lipstick that stood out against her caramel skin. You could see the crafty, cunning determination blazing in both their eyes. No wonder Grammy liked them so much.

They played to win.

Alex opened the manila folder and spread the images on the table before us. Matt’s back was to the camera, and he was so much bigger than Bud, it was hard to tell what had actually happened when Bud fell backwards off the porch.

Vicky hit play on her laptop, and the footage showed Matt take a quick step toward Bud, and then Bud tumbling off the porch. You couldn’t see Matt’s hands to tell if he pushed Bud or not, but the quick movement forward implied he did.

I squinted at the footage. “Wow, that doesn’t look good.”

“It’s not the best look for Mr. McGinnis.” Alex pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. “It’s also not absolute proof that he actually laid hands on Mr. Grant.”

“We need to find a way to prove he’s lying about his neck injury,” Vicky said.

“Easier said than done. He’s good. Lying is second nature to him. He’s been lying about his bad back for years. He claims I had more than enough money to support us when we were married, but I forced him to work. Since he didn’t have an education, he could only get construction work, which led to a back injury.”

“Is that true?” Vicky typed something into her notes.

“The back injury, yes, but not the permanent disability,” I said. “When I met him, he was already a construction worker. He helped build my grandmother’s house, and she knew his parents. I was blinded by his charm, but all he wanted from the start was my money. He wanted a sugar mama. He’s lazy. Shortly into our marriage, he quit his job.”

“How did the back injury come into play?” Alex looked up from her tablet.

“When I found out he quit his job, I threatened to leave him if he didn’t go back to work. He agreed but never forgave me. His resentment turned into him downright despising me over time, and our marriage fell apart. He started cheating on me. I can handle a lot of things, but someone not wanting me is not one of them.”

“What happened?” Vicky’s gaze was sharp and serious.

“I served him with divorce papers, and suddenly he had an accident, rendering him permanently disabled.” I shook my head in disgust. “He knew what he was doing. He wanted to set himself up even after our divorce so he would never have to work again. I regret the day I ever laid eyes on him.”

“A judge granted him alimony?” Alex’s mouth flattened into a stern line.

I nodded. “Yes. Bud claimed he didn’t make enough from his disability checks to live the lifestyle he was accustomed to, and it was my fault he was in this position, so I should still have to help support him.”

“And he keeps suing you for more money?” Vicky’s eyes hardened.

“You got it.” I like them. They were no-nonsense and tough. “Now he’s upped his game because I have all of Grammy’s money, and he wants more.”

“Eugenia Eisenhower was one hell of a woman.” Alex’s jaw clenched. “We’ll be damned if we’ll let this scumbag take one more cent that belonged to her.”

“Grammy always spoke highly of you both and appreciated you looking out for her for so many years.” I was definitely happy to continue that legacy. I had used several different lawyers in the past without success. “I’m counting on you to do the same for me now.”

“Oh, trust me, honey,” Vicky said, with a look in her eye that meant business, “Bud Grant doesn’t know who he’s messing with.”

Chapter Fourteen

Our ranch—it felt so weird saying our anything—had an open concept floor plan. When you walked through the front door into the foyer, you could see the kitchen, living room, and morning room.

The kitchen had a whole corner with two walls of white cupboards with glass doors. Marbled white, black, and taupe quartz countertops were the perfect complement. There was a gas stove, a range hood, a double-door refrigerator, and the tiled taupe backsplash set everything off perfectly.

I was in love with the island.

It was really long and had a hook on the end. It had the same marbled quartz countertop, with black cupboards beneath as an accent. The island held five bar stools and was home to a big farmhouse sink, garbage disposal, two-bin trash drawer, and dishwasher.

I loved that I could face the living room while doing the dishes, so I would feel a part of the festivities. The living room was wide open with a stone fireplace, floating taupe mantel, and massive TV above it. Two long windows, with built-in cupboards, graced both sides of the fireplace and looked into the backyard.

My favorite room was the morning room. It was a three-walled indent off the kitchen, surrounded by windows that overlooked the backyard. So much light. I loved it. Next to it were more floating shelves above a wine bar, which wouldn’t get used for a while, and a walk-in pantry.

There was a hallway on both sides of the living room, with two bedrooms on each side and two bathrooms, as well as an unfinished basement. The floor was covered with gorgeous hardwood, and we’d place area rugs in front of the massive corner couch, facing the fireplace and TV. Matt was hanging four large canvas paintings side-by-side of our beloved town of Mayflower, Massachusetts, in all four of her glorious seasons.

It was mid-September, and I was eighteen weeks. I’d been feeling the babies move more and more. The butterflies were definitely getting stronger. Matt walked over beside me and studied his handiwork, his scent wafting to my nose, making me moan out loud.

God, he smelled amazing.

He arched a brow at me. “Was that yer stomach?”

“You know me, always hungry.” For him, at the moment.

He chuckled. “That doesn’t surprise me, given ye are growing me children.” He looked back at the wall. “What do ye think?” He dropped his big hands to his jeans-clad hips, which pulled his t-shirt tight across his muscles.

“I love it. I love this town, and these photos capture her in all phases of her beauty.” I suddenly doubled over. “Whoa!”

His face twisted with genuine concern, melting my heart. He actually did care about these babies, and for a brief moment, I wished he cared about me as much. I shook off that foolish notion. Nothing but heartache came from wishing and dreaming.

“What’s wrong?” His hands left his hips and immediately cradled both sides of my belly, sending heat radiating through me.

Speaking of phases…