Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
The path curved around the far side of the lodge, narrowing as it went.
Lanterns marked the way with a yellow glow, swinging gently from the branches of trees so tall they disappeared into the dark above us.
The light felt comforting and disorienting all at once, like it was guiding us somewhere I wasn’t entirely ready to go.
I tucked my hand into the crook of Dean’s arm, my steps slowing without my meaning them to. Somewhere behind the trees, voices and laughter drifted through the woods—easy, familiar, already intertwined in ways I wasn’t sure I knew how to fit into.
When we reached the clearing, the cookout was already in full swing.
A fire roared at the center, flames snapping skyward, heat pushing back against the sudden chill that hinted at an approaching storm.
People clustered along benches and fallen logs, wrapped in blankets with plates balanced on knees.
I hesitated at the edge of it all, aware of the way my pulse had picked up, and how suddenly out of place I felt stepping into something so established.
Dean’s hand settled over mine on his arm, casual but steady, and then he moved forward like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I followed, letting him guide me, hoping I’d find my confidence before anyone noticed I’d left it back at the cabin.
Off to one side, a chef manned a massive grill, where smoke curled up into the sky. Hot dogs sizzled beside skewers of vegetables, and the scent of them tangled with roasted marshmallows and spiced cider by the fire.
We’d chosen to arrive late on purpose, but the second we stepped into the clearing, every head turned—and I instantly regretted it.
Dean’s arm slid around my waist as we moved through the crowd, his thumb skimming the skin at my side like it belonged there.
He didn’t rush or explain. He just kept us close, steady, like we had nothing to prove.
And somehow, it worked. Eyes followed us.
Conversations dipped, and we gave them exactly what they were looking for.
We grabbed plates, paper sagging under food I barely noticed. My nerves were humming too loudly for me to actually be hungry, but I pretended to be enthusiastic anyway.
At the end of the line, Dean nudged a piece of cornbread onto my plate with his fork.
“You’ll want that,” he said quietly. “Trust me.”
I glanced at it, then back at him. “Why? Is it that good?”
His mouth curved. “The best you’ve ever had.”
Something flickered across his face then—a blink of awareness—followed by the faintest and most adorable blush. “The cornbread I mean,” he clarified too quickly.
I held back a laugh, catching my lower lip between my teeth.
His head dipped, but not before I caught it—the shy, almost boyish smile he didn’t quite manage to hide before he looked back at me.
“Carbs help,” he said once he’d found his composure again. “They settle the nerves. Which is why I need donuts before every court appearance.”
The image of him—sharp suit, serious expression, secretly braced by a donut—made me smile. And then it hit me.
He wasn’t joking just to be charming. He was trying to steady me the same way he steadied himself.
Something in my chest loosened, a tension I hadn’t even realized I’d been carrying.
We headed toward the fire before I could think too hard about what that meant, and Dean guided us without hesitation straight toward his grandparents. Trisha and Mason were already there, along with a couple of aunts and cousins whose names slipped my mind in the moment.
Mr. McHenry perked up the second we drew close, his mouth curving into a soft, pleased smile as he waved us toward the empty bench across from him.
“There she is,” he said brightly. “Our resident artist. I heard about our little misunderstanding in the woods earlier.” He chuckled.
I’d almost forgotten about the man on the log, but the reminder sent heat crawling right back up my neck. A couple of people grinned openly now, clearly enjoying the callback, while Trisha lifted her brows, like more had happened in that field after I left.
“Careful, Vivienne—” Dean leaned in close to my ear before I could respond. “Word travels fast in this family. You so much as sneeze, and everyone will know about it.”
Laughter broke out around the fire. Mr. McHenry slapped his knee, eyes crinkling as he leaned back, clearly pleased with himself—and with the reaction.
“I’m afraid it’s true, Vivienne,” he said, pointing a finger in mock warning before winking. “But only because we care.”
Dean smiled, defusing the situation farther, then held my plate until I sat down.
For a while, conversation drifted in and out. We talked about weather, the upcoming rugby match, and the storm brewing over the mountains. I focused on my plate, nodded when something caught my attention, but for the most part, let the rhythm of the night flow on without my input.
But then I felt it.
Mr. McHenry’s eyes on me from across the fire.
He’d leaned in close, his attention fixed and curious, like he was trying to figure me out.
The back of my neck instantly prickled. Had we met before? At another party? With another client?
“Tell me about yourself, Vivienne,” he said when we made eye contact.
I cleared my throat, set my plate to the side, and took a long sip of cider before speaking. “What do you want to know?”
The second the words left my mouth, my stomach dipped.
His thumb brushed his chin, and suddenly it didn’t feel like small talk anymore. It felt more like a deposition.
“Let’s start with your family,” he said. “You can always tell a lot about a person by their roots.”
My chest tightened.
Roots.
Got it.
I lifted my chin. “I have a brother,” I said as calmly as I could manage. “John.” Then before I could stop myself, I said the line I’d been using since I was a teenager. “My parents aren’t around any longer.”
Normally people heard those words and retreated. Thinking they’d died, or that it wasn’t a conversation they were willing to walk into. But not Mr. McHenry.
He actually leaned in farther, and his tone became a little more gentle. “I’m sorry to hear that, dear. What happened to them?”
I hesitated. Just long enough to cover my surprise. I should have expected the response—given Dean’s own situation, and their backstory, it made sense—but I hadn’t thought about that soon enough.
The fire popped beside us, sparks jumping high in the air, but I barely noticed them.
“My mom left me at a hospital when I was five and never came back,” I said softly. “My father, I never knew, but from my understanding, he was a real peach.”
I hadn’t planned on saying any of it, but there was something about Mr. McHenry that made me feel like I couldn’t lie to him.
Beside me, Dean’s hand found my knee and squeezed.
His grandfather stayed quiet for a moment, his expression softening just a little. “Has your brother met our Dean?” he asked.
I nodded, thankful for the change in subject. “He has.”
“And?”
I glanced over at Dean, thinking about the day he’d met John at Jake’s barbecue.
“John’s protective,” I said honestly, choosing my words with care. “It takes him a while to warm up to people.”
Mr. McHenry chuckled, low and knowing. “Sounds like my Dean.”
“Only fools give their trust away easily. It’s the one thing you can’t get back once it’s broken.”
I drew in a quiet breath. For just a second, I wondered if he could see more than he was letting on—past the act, past the title of fiancée and the careful stories we’d built. I forced a small smile, though it felt thinner than before.
“Alright,” Trisha cut in suddenly, waving her fork between us. “I think that’s enough interrogation for one evening. We don’t want to scare her off.”
A few laughs followed, and the moment eased as someone passed a platter full of desserts around the fire.
Mr. McHenry huffed, unbothered, as he jabbed a poker into the flames. Sparks burst upward, swirling briefly before fading.
He leaned back, the lines around his eyes softening.
“Now then,” he said, his tone lighter. “Your turn. What would you like to know about us?”
I smiled, buying myself a second. There was a long list of questions I could’ve asked—too many, really—but none that felt safe enough to say out loud. Instead, my gaze slid to Dean, the easy target.
“You don’t happen to have any stories about him, do you?”
Mr. McHenry’s face split into a grin that made him look years younger. “Do I ever?” He leaned forward, firelight flickering across his features. “Would you like the sweet ones—or the slightly embarrassing ones?”
“Now, Grandpa…” Dean muttered, shifting in his seat, half warning, half resigned.
Mr. McHenry only chuckled, mischief dancing in his eyes. He made a low, thoughtful sound, then tipped his head back, studying the stars as if sorting through a lifetime of memories.
“Ah,” he said at last, leaning forward again, firelight catching the curve of his smile. “I’ve got the perfect one.”
The air seemed to quiet. Conversations dimmed, bodies leaned in, and before I knew it, the entire circle was listening—just as eager as I was to hear what came next.
“You see, like your brother John, Dean has always been protective of Blair.
When she was small, he never let her walk to school alone, cross a street, and if she so much as scraped a knee, he carried her home as if she'd broken her leg. And Blair—well, she had a way of finding trouble in every nook and cranny of our home.”
Blair, who’d been lounging off to the side, lifted her head with a groan. “Oh, please don’t bring me into this.”
Mr. McHenry chuckled, clearly pleased she was paying attention, and carried on as though she hadn’t spoken at all.
“One day—I believe it was a Sunday—she decided to give her goldfish a little treat. An entire can of whipped cream, at that. By morning, those poor fish were floating belly-up in water that looked more milkshake than aquarium.”
The circle broke into laughter, but Mr. McHenry’s voice only softened as he went on.
“Dean found the carnage first. He’d just gotten his license—sixteen years old, working afternoons filing papers at the firm—and instead of letting Blair wake up to the sight, he drove all the way into town, bought two new fish that matched the old ones, and was back before she ever knew. ”
“That’s not the whole story,” Dean’s grandmother added gently, her voice laced with both warmth and a touch of sadness in her eyes. “Blair did notice—as women often do. She knew those fish weren’t hers the second she saw them. Eventually he was forced to confess.”
Blair dropped her gaze, a small, rueful smile curving her lips. “I cried and cried.”
“And do you know what Dean did?” Mr. McHenry said, not waiting for a response before he went on. “He went out to the backyard, dug two tiny graves, and held an entire funeral himself.”
“He dressed in a suit and everything,” his grandmother added softly.
The fire crackled and popped, sparks lifting into the night, and for a moment the whole circle seemed held by it—the warmth of the story settling around us.
I glanced over at Dean. He was turned slightly away from me now, his profile caught in the firelight—the faintest crease between his eyes as he listened. Emma had wandered up beside him at some point, a half-melted s’more clutched in her small, sticky fingers.
Dean paused, took it carefully from her hand, and thanked her softly.
Watching him like that—patient, attentive, instinctively gentle—I felt something shift.
I could see the parallels
Sixteen-year-old Dean, digging small graves in the backyard so his sister wouldn’t have to carry the weight of grief alone.
And the man beside me now—older, broader, but driven by that same quiet instinct to shield, to absorb the hurt before anyone else ever had to feel it.
Only this time, it wasn't the goldfish he was burying. It was pieces of himself.
A borrowed future. A carefully worn lie. A steady face meant to convince his grandfather that love wouldn’t be the thing he sacrificed if handed the reins.
The pattern was the same. The cost, too.
As I watched him sit there, firelight cutting his profile into shadow and gold, I understood something I couldn’t unsee.
Dean Weston had never stopped being that boy.
He’d just learned how to hide what it cost him.