Page 32 of Phillip

Ashley groaned. “I know you’re already doing so much, and I—”

“Hang on.”

“I told them about the car show, and the—”

“Ashley, listen.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be. I screwed up.”

“You’re already doing so much.”

“I screwed up.They’re doing what’s right. Get it from me, get it from my insurance, get it from somewhere. That’s what insurance companies do.”

She tapped the page. “Phillip, that’s a lot of money.”

Ashley was right—that wasn’t cheap. But in the grand scheme of things, he might consider it an investment. After all, he’d crashed a golf cart and hadn’t killed anyone, and now here they were. “Thanks for looking out for me.” He closed his hand over hers. “That’s sweet. But I promise—I’m good for it.” He winked.

She laughed, her head dropping. “I know.”

Phillip rubbed his thumb over her knuckles then eased away. “Just look at it like this.”

Ashley looked up. Her watery eyes and an apologetic smile wrapped around his chest.

“What’s happening here,” he said. “It’s all for a good cause.”

His double meaning had been obvious. The charity work was obvious. But their back-and-forth, fueled by history and chemistry, would be a good thing as well.

“What else is in that notebook?” He sipped his whisky, understanding her unspoken gratefulness at the subject change.

They reviewed a list of new donors to improve the car show. A few of the names were reaches. Some would be impossible to connect with on short notice. But there was one name that Ashley quickly skipped over—Robert Paget.

Phillip knew him in a three-degrees-of-separation way. Robert had given to the car show before, but Phillip hadn’t been the one to ask. They’d never gotten on well. Phillip wasn’t everyone’s brand of whisky.

Ashley rested her pen against her cheek. “Let’s talk about Robert Paget.”

He could sense a complication. “That guy. Where to begin?”

“Oh.” Her expression clouded. “You know him?”

“In passing. We don’t get along.”

She tapped the pen against her cheek. “Why?”

Phillip shrugged. “This is a small world, and he’s a stiff corporate suit.”

“An expensive corporate suit, maybe,” she suggested. “It’d be helpful to work with him.”

Robert Paget had a history of flashy donations. He loved the attention as much as he loved the tax write-off. “The guy doesn’t like me. But to be honest, he doesn’t really know me.”

She shrugged and drew a line through his name. “You don’t like him; he doesn’t like you. We can scratch that name off our list.”

Phillip straightened, never one to back away from a challenge. “I didn’t say it’s not worth the ask.”

“But it’s probably not,” she said too quickly.

“Do you know the Pagets?” he asked.

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