Chapter 20 #2
Trisha slowed her pace, her steps crunching softly over pine needles. Her voice dipped into something more thoughtful. “For Dean, it’s never really been a job. He cares about this work—probably more than is healthy.” She smiled faintly. “I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
I didn’t answer, but she didn’t need me to.
“Between custody cases, reunifications, and adoptions,” she continued easily, “you stop seeing families as paperwork. You see the waiting. The fear. The hope.” She glanced ahead, then back at me. “Dean’s been around it his whole life.”
Her steps slowed, and she hesitated—just long enough for the weight of it to settle. “I’m sure every case reminds him of his own journey. He’s the only one in the firm who’s truly lived it.”
Before I could respond, the trees thinned and sunlight spilled across the path, forcing me to blink. Voices rose somewhere ahead—laughter, movement—but my thoughts lagged behind, snagged on a single word she’d said so casually.
Adoption.
It echoed in my head, sharp and familiar, settling somewhere deep in my chest as if it had been waiting there all along.
It felt intentional somehow. Like the universe had nudged me here on purpose—walked me straight into a history I’d spent years carefully stepping around.
“Surprise!”
My heart leapt straight into my throat, and I stopped short, blinking against the sudden wash of sunlight. Then my vision finally came back into focus, revealing a semicircle of women standing behind wooden easels, brushes already poised like they’d been caught mid-secret.
Heat rushed to my cheeks as every pair of eyes swung in my direction.
I managed a smile—a little late, a little crooked—my hands coming together in an awkward clap against my thighs, like that might somehow convince them I’d been expecting this. That I belonged here.
Front and center stood Dean’s grandmother.
She wore a green apron splattered with color and a simple black barrette holding back her silver hair. Her eyes sparkled with unmistakable delight, her smile bright and proud, as if this moment—this reveal—had been in the making for weeks.
I forced my own smile wider, but inside my brain was scrambling. Because Dean’s carefully constructed backstory had included one very unfortunate detail—
I was supposed to be an artist.
The trees leaned in all around me, and I thought I was going to lose my breakfast.
Before I could make up some mystery illness or fake emergency, someone nudged me forward.
“Vivienne, we saved you the best spot up front for you.”
What?!
“No, no, I—”
“Yes, you’ll have the best view.” Dean’s grandmother beamed, practically steering me into place and plopping me onto a stool. “You won’t want to miss this.”
Miss what?
Someone nearby gave a loud, exaggerated stage whistle. “Okay—send him in ladies.”
A beat.
Then the bushes rustled.
And out of the trees stepped a man in a robe.
Barefoot.
Oh.
Oh, no.
The women erupted into giggles, someone clapped too soon, others whispered excitedly. Dean’s grandmother? She beamed at me, absolutely delighted.
My palms went clammy, and sweat broke out across my forehead. The man sat down on a log, casually propping one leg up, before letting the robe slip.
Oh, God.
Before I knew it, he was nude. Completely nude, save for the careful angle of his leg keeping one thing… obscured.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed dear,” Dean’s grandmother urged, motioning toward the blank canvas in front of me. “Dean told us everything. Don’t be shy. There’s no judgment from us.”
What?! What in the world had he told them?
My vision blurred, panic clawing its way up my throat.
The canvas loomed in front of me, empty and accusing, while my hand hovered uselessly over the brushes.
I heard the chatter of the women behind me fade into a hum, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter.
I shifted my weight, trying to calm the nervous energy buzzing in my veins.
Minutes passed—or maybe seconds, it was impossible to tell.
Then—there was rustling from the trees to my right. A figure pushed through, stumbling into the clearing. Dean. Wild and winded, as though he’d just sprinted across the entire property.
His grandmother slapped a hand over her mouth, a girlish giggle escaping. “Dean! What are you doing here?” she scolded lightly. “Aren’t you supposed to be in a meeting?”
He straightened, dusting a leaf from his shoulder, but his eyes cut straight to me—searching, steady—as though he needed to make sure I was okay. That he hadn’t come too late. That he’d gotten here in time to save me.
Something in my chest cracked open, relief surging before he’d even said a word.
Then his voice came low, even, deliberate. “I was,” he grinned, “until I heard about my grandmother’s plan to corrupt my fiancée.”
Laughter rippled through the circle, whispers chasing after it—but for me, the sound barely registered. Relief rushed through me so hard my knees nearly gave out, my body swaying under the force of it.
“Now, now,” Trisha teased, all innocence. “It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before.”
Dean arched a brow as he came to a stop beside his grandmother’s easel. “I said she does still life, Grandma,” he said gently. “Bowls of fruit. Flowers in vases.”
Helen frowned, glancing at the man on the log. “Well, I told him he’d need to hold very still,” she said, as if that explained everything.
Dean’s mouth curved. “That’s… not quite what it means.”
“Oh.” She looked back at the man, then at Dean again. “Does he need a bowl of fruit?”
A ripple of laughter moved through the clearing.
Dean dipped his head closer to her. “That would be life drawing,” he murmured.
Helen brightened, as though suddenly realizing her mistake.
“This is much more exciting anyway!” Frances hollered from the back.
“Easy mistake!” someone else said from the trees.
The whole clearing broke out into fits of giggles, but Dean’s attention was back on me, his head slightly tilted, his gaze fixed.
He started toward me with slow, deliberate strides.
“I heard about what was going on,” he said, his voice steady, edged with something that made my stomach flip.
“And I have to admit…I got a little jealous.”
I knew he was putting on a show for everyone else, but something about the way he said it—casual, certain—made my heart stutter anyway.
“So you ran through the forest to save me?” I asked.
“Did you get a look at that guy?” Dean said lightly, flicking a glance toward the man on the log.
The man straightened, clearing his throat like he’d just been insulted.
Dean only smirked. “He may be built like a brickhouse,” his voice dropping low, just for me, “But If you’re going to be corrupted, I want to be the one doing it.”
I took a breath, so caught in his spell, I almost forgot we had an audience. The air between us felt charged, like it was waiting for something neither of us had the courage to start.
Dean shifted closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him, his thumb brushing my wrist as if by accident.
“Just kiss her already!” someone shouted.
The words struck like a spark to gasoline, igniting the tension already simmering in my chest. My stomach flipped, heat racing under my skin.
Dean’s gaze darkened, and I wanted to turn away, but how could I with all these people watching? Then—slowly—ever so slowly, he moved even closer. Each inch collapsed the space between us, the air thinning, tightening, until he was right in front of me. His presence swallowed the world whole.
“Dean—” I whispered, almost like a warning. Except the word got caught in my throat.
His hand slid around my waist, and my eyes dropped to his mouth.
His grip was firm and unyielding, claiming me without apology.
And then—without hesitation—he lifted me off the stool, pulling me flush against his chest. My breath caught, my fingers clutching instinctively at his shirt as if he were the only thing keeping me upright.
His head bent low, closing the last sliver of space between us, and his mouth found mine.
The world fell away when our lips touched. His mouth stealing every last breath from my lungs.
The kiss wasn’t rushed or greedy—it was slow and coaxing me open with the faintest tease until my lips parted.
He made a low sound deep in his throat that vibrated through me and pulled me closer, steadying me with his hand at my back.
He tasted faintly of coffee and something sharper—clean, undeniably him—and it unraveled me. I forgot who I was, where we were, or that anyone else existed.
All that mattered was him, and the steady, grounding warmth that lifted me up onto my toes.
I’d been kissed before. A thousand times before. But never like this. Never with this kind of fire. This kind of heat. His lips moved against mine with a rhythm that felt both patient and desperate, as if he’d been waiting years instead of seconds for this moment.
I was falling. Melting. My knees were so weak that if he hadn’t been holding me, I was sure I would have fallen.
Someone made a noise, a low whistle, and he finally pulled back, though it wasn’t far. Just enough to leave me dizzy.
His forehead rested against mine as our breaths came out uneven, mingling with one another because we were so close. Then his thumb brushed the curve of my bottom lip—slow, as if to memorize me.
Someone’s giggle broke through the silence, and I suddenly remembered we weren’t alone. But Dean didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look away.
“Well,” he murmured, voice low and husky, “if you ladies don’t mind,” he cleared his throat, “I’m going to borrow my fiancée for the rest of the afternoon.”
He turned without waiting for them to answer and threaded his fingers through mine, tugging me with him as he strode toward the trees he’d come barreling out of.
My pulse tripped as I scrambled to keep up, my heart somewhere in my throat. Part of me wanted to dig in my heels. The rest of me—still buzzing and alive from that kiss—went willingly.
“The cabins are that way!” someone called after us.
Dean didn’t even break stride. “I’m not going to the cabin,” he hollered back.
“Where then?” another voice teased.
“To the lake!” he shouted over his shoulder. Then, lower—meant only for me—his voice a ragged growl, “So I can cool the fuck off.”