Page 125 of Test the Ice
My jaw flexes with frustration.
I stand up abruptly and walk over to the glass separating us from the conference room. I pray Benedict isn’t in there, because if he is, I'll have to tap into any remaining energy I have not to end up behind bars.
An older woman perks up when she sees me.
I walk over to the door and open it without restraint.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“Were you the mediator present with the woman out there?” I ask.
She looks me up and down once before locking onto my face. “Mr. Young.”
Surprise lifts my eyebrow. “I’m guessing you don’t know me from being a huge Blue Devils fan, and you know me because of Benedict Whitney.”
That’s right. Benedict Alexander Whitney.
While Reese has been filling her time researching custody cases, I’ve been filling mine with all things Benedict.
I know more about him than he thinks I do.
“I’m more of a football gal.” She smiles cheekily.
Without asking, I take a seat across the table.
She eyes me incredulously. “If you’re here to bribe me, it won’t work.”
Bribe her?
I turn on the charm, knowing it’ll get me more information in the long run.
“Bribing isn’t my style,” I say, winking at her.
Her amused sigh floats across the table, ruffling the papers spread out in front of her. “I will tell you the same thing I told Mr. Whitney: I’m simply here to act as a neutral third party between two conflicting parties to help them reach a mutual agreement. I don’t make the decisions. I only explore options to resolve disputes.”
I want to be a smartass and thank her for the lesson on what mediators do, but again, that’s no way to get information.
I force a casual smile onto my lips. “I completely understand. I’m only in this room because my fiancée is clearly upset, and I’d really like to know why.” I inch my chin toward where Reese is sitting.
The woman follows my line of sight.
She glances away, not divulging anything, which is never a good sign.
“I’m not above begging,” I add.
Her light laugh fills the room, but then she sobers. “The mediation was unsuccessful.”
Great.
My teeth grind back and forth. “What did he ask for?”
She begins gathering the papers quickly. “I recommend a custody hearing,” she adds, clearly unwilling to answer my question.
I glance over my shoulder at Reese, who remains in the same spot on the bench, unmoving. With quiet irritation, I head for the door. I glance at the woman before leaving, and she’s staring at the back of Reese’s head with her eyebrows drawn together, a frown pulling at her lips.
Apparently, the answer I’m looking for is right on her face. I don’t have to look any further to know that Benedict is to blame.
The media may have me painted out as the golden retriever of the Blue Devils, but I don’t think Benedict realizes that when he messes with my girls, he’s messing with me.
