14. Jenny
Chapter 14
Jenny
“Wait,” I say, quickening my steps to catch up with Trent, “we’re actually taking a boat?” He’s nearly at the tree line, his silhouette outlined against the darkening sky, when I finally fall in beside him.
“Of course,” he says, glancing at me over his shoulder. “We don’t have time to drive—we’d be late, and Mom would hate that.”
“Right. You couldn’t have told me that sooner?” I scold, trying to keep the breathlessness out of my voice.
He stops abruptly and turns to face me. “Why? Is there something wrong with taking the boat? You can swim, right?”
“Nothing’s wrong with taking the boat,” I say, crossing my arms against the cool evening air. “It’s just a little chilly, and I didn’t grab a jacket before we left. And, yes, I can swim, but I don’t plan on falling in the lake.”
Trent smirks and resumes his trek down the path to his house, his steps crunching softly on the gravel. “It’s fine,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ve got a jacket you can borrow.”
I falter slightly, my mind catching on his words. He’s going to give me his jacket? The thought makes my heart flutter in a way I’d rather ignore. After we kissed, the idea of being wrapped up in his scent again has been all I can think about.
By the time we reach the dock a few minutes later, I’m cocooned in one of Trent’s spare jackets. It’s way too big on me, the sleeves hanging over my hands and the hem brushing my thighs, but the warmth—and the subtle hint of his cologne—more than make up for it. It’s almost too much to handle.
Standing at the edge of the dock, I watch as Trent moves with practiced ease, checking the boat to make sure everything is in order. The sun has almost completely set, the horizon painted with the last streaks of burnt orange and dusky purple. Overhead, a waning gibbous moon rises, casting a silver glow across the rippling lake.
“Don’t worry about it getting dark,” Trent says. “I could boat across this lake blindfolded.” He holds out a hand to me. “You ready to come aboard?”
I nod, taking his hand carefully as I step onto the boat. His grip is steady and reassuring, and I feel a flicker of warmth in my chest as I settle into the seat.
Once I’m securely seated, Trent unties the boat and pushes us off the dock. The engine hums to life, a low and steady thrum that vibrates beneath my feet as we glide across the water.
The wind is brisk, and I huddle deeper into Trent’s jacket, pulling the zipper up to my chin. Despite the chill, there’s something calming about the open water at night. The gentle rocking of the boat, the rhythmic lapping of waves against the hull, and the quiet authority with which Trent steers—all of it works together to soothe my nerves. I could get used to this.
Growing up, I spent some time on the lake. My granddad would occasionally take me fishing with one of his buddies, but I’ve never done this—speeding across the water with the wind whipping through our hair as we navigate from one house to another.
“Boating must be incredible in the summer,” I say, breaking the silence. “I can just imagine it—a warm breeze, water splashing up to cool you off, finding the perfect spot to jump in for a swim or tubing.”
Trent glances at me, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You ever go tubing?”
“A few times,” I admit. “But not like I’m imagining now.”
“Oh, you’d love it,” he says, his voice tinged with fondness. “We usually take out a pontoon and a speedboat at least once a month in the summer. It’s a full day—tubing, swimming, and grilling out at the marina or my place afterward. It’s always a good time.”
“That sounds amazing,” I say, already picturing the scene.
“We’re almost there,” he says, nodding toward a light glimmering in the distance. “See that? That’s Mom and Dad’s dock. We’re actually a little early, which should make Mom happy.”
He chuckles softly as he slows the boat, maneuvering it skillfully alongside the dock. Once we’re secured, he offers his hand again to help me out of the boat.
If I was impressed by Trent’s house, his parents’ place is on a completely different level. The sprawling mini-Mansion looms in the distance, its windows glowing warmly against the darkening sky. It’s elegant yet somehow inviting—a perfect reflection of Mrs. Hughes herself. She dresses like she just walked out of fashion week in Paris and talks as though she is well-to-do, but she is the sweetest person. I’m so lucky to have her as a mother-in-law soon. And I feel proud knowing I am filling some of the same roles at the marina that she did when she ran the place.
Before we make it to the front door, Mrs. Hughes comes bustling out, her arms outstretched. She wraps us both in a hug that’s as effervescent as she is. “Oh, look at you two!” she exclaims. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come by boat, but I had a feeling. How did you like the ride, dear?”
“I loved it,” I say honestly. “It made me imagine what it’d be like when the weather turns warmer.”
“Oh, you’re going to adore it in the summer!” she gushes. “Trent, you have to take her out as soon as it warms up.”
“I already planned on it, Mom,” Trent says, pulling her into a hug.
She swats him playfully on the arm. “Come on inside. I’ve got a wonderful meal planned for you two—and we have a guest tonight.”
“You didn’t mention any guests, Mom,” Trent says, his tone careful.
“Well, they’re not really guests,” she replies, her voice turning evasive. “It’s just one person, and he’s family, so I didn’t think you’d mind.”
Trent stops walking, his expression hardening. “Mom, who is it?”
Mrs. Hughes hesitates, wringing her hands. “Now, don’t be upset . . .”
“You’re not making it easy not to be upset,” Trent says. “Just tell me, please—for Jenny’s sake.”
She sighs, looking genuinely apologetic. “It’s your grandfather.”
The air seems to thicken around us. Trent freezes, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he clenches his fist.
“I’ll give you two a moment,” Mom says, turning into the house.
Reaching out, I gently take his fist in both of my hands, prying his fingers open and lacing mine through his. “Trent,” I say softly, trying to meet his eyes, “why are you upset your grandfather is here?”
He exhales sharply, his tension easing slightly under my touch. “It’s not that,” he says. “I love spending time with my grandfather. It’s just that this is the grandfather—the one with the marriage stipulation. I’d be devastated if he somehow found out that I created a kind of loophole to get the marina by arranging a marriage with you. I wish Mom would’ve let us know he were coming, and then we wouldn’t have to walk in here unprepared.”
“She doesn’t know about our agreement,” I remind him. “And this isn’t the first time you and I have had to reassure people about our marriage.”
“You’re right,” Trent says. “It’s just that he’s one of the people I love and respect the most.”
“We can handle anything he asks about our relationship. I promise.”
Trent studies me for a long moment before nodding. “We can do this.”
Smiling, I squeeze his hand. “I know we can.”
Together, we head toward the house, the glow from the windows casting long shadows across the manicured lawn. I steel myself for whatever awaits inside.
When Trent and I enter the dining room, an older man is sitting at the head of the table. For a moment, I could swear I am looking at an older version of Trent—same strong jawline, same air of quiet confidence. His white-blond hair, softened to the color of sun-bleached straw, frames a face carved with the lines of a life well-lived. A neatly trimmed beard of the same pale shade hugs his jaw, and when his gaze lifts to meet mine, his gray-blue eyes—clear and sharp despite their age—hold me steady. There is a warmth in that look, a kindness that softens the firm set of his shoulders and the roughness of his weathered hands resting on the table’s edge. “Samson,” Mrs. Hughes says to him warmly, “this is Jenny, Trent’s fiancée—the lady I was telling you about. Jenny, this is Trent’s grandfather Samson.”
Samson’s bright eyes sweep over me, his expression warm. “Fiancée, huh?” he says. “Who would’ve thought Trent would finally find someone. And not a moment too soon either.” He gestures toward me, “Come here, then. Let me get a good look at you.”
I let go of Trent’s hand and step forward, my heartbeat quickening. Samson stands and extends his hand for a formal shake. I wave it off with a smile and pull him into a hug instead. “It’s so nice to meet you,” I say, keeping my voice light and sincere. “Trent has said only wonderful things about you.”
He stiffens in surprise, clearly not expecting the hug. But when we pull back, he has a soft smile on his face. “I like her,” he says to everyone in the room. “But I can’t help but wonder how this engagement came about a little . . . suddenly.”
“Samson,” Mrs. Hughes interjects gently, but Samson waves her off with a slight shake of his head.
“It’s not every day a man like Trent, not interested in dating, goes from single to engaged in the blink of an eye,” Samson continues, his gaze settling back on me. “And call me old-fashioned, but I’ve seen my fair share of impulsive decisions fall apart under careful scrutiny. I hope the timing of this engagement doesn’t have anything to do with the marina.”
Trent steps beside me and grabs my hand. “It doesn’t,” he says. “I know our relationship came about suddenly, but we’re happy together.”
“When you meet the right person,” I say sweetly, squeezing Trent’s hand, “you don’t second-guess it.”
“Of course,” Samson says, “if you two are happy, then I’m happy. But how you managed to rein him in in such a short time is perplexing to me.”
I glance up at Trent with a soft smile. “Trent didn’t need any reining in. He’s such a sweet and loving person. And he shows that to me. He has such passion for your marina, too. And I have to say—it’s gorgeous. You couldn’t have picked a better spot on the lake for the lodge and marina. The views are breathtaking, and the whole place feels so thoughtfully designed. You must have had such a wonderful vision for it. I’d love to pick your brain later—I’m an artist, and I love learning how others see the world.”
Samson’s brows lift slightly in surprise and we all take our seats at the table.
The meal Mrs. Hughes prepared is as exquisite as it is abundant—each bite more flavorful than the last. The conversation remains polite, but I can feel Samson’s watchful gaze on Trent and me, his unspoken questions hanging in the air.
Leaning back slightly, I listen as Mrs. Hughes speaks. “Edmund and I are so excited for Trent to fully take ownership of the marina soon,” she says, her voice brimming with pride.
“I can’t wait to pass the marina on to Trent either,” Samson says, “but he’s not married yet. We still have a few days before that happens, right?” Samson laughs.
Beside me, I feel Trent tense, no doubt worrying about the stunt we’re pulling with this wedding. Without thinking, I rest a hand lightly on his leg, giving it a gentle squeeze. He glances at me, his shoulders easing ever so slightly.
“The marriage does seem sudden,” Trent says, “but I assure you that this engagement isn’t some quick decision.”
“When Trent and I met,” I add, addressing Samson directly, “things seemed to click for us in a way I can’t quite explain. Trent is an incredible person, and I’m lucky to have him in my life.”
Samson studies us for a moment. “Those are wonderful sentiments, you two,” he says, his voice soft. “But words are easy. It’s the actions that prove if something is real. A marriage is more than an engagement and a wedding.”
“That’s very true,” Mr. Hughes says.
“Winifred,” Samson continues, “my wife of fifty-two years, was the love of my life, the other half of my soul. We built the marina together from the ground up, and she poured more spirit into that place than I ever could. I want to honor her and our legacy by making sure the marina is passed down to a couple who shares the same love we had.” Samson gestures to Mr. and Mrs. Hughes. “These two managed the place and brought a love to it for years. Trent, you’ve done wonderfully too, but it does need a woman’s touch. That’s something a man can’t bring. That marina needs a true partnership to keep it alive. Do you two have that?”
“Did anyone tell you,” I say, “about the day Trent and I met?”
All four sets of eyes turn to me. Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Hughes look curious, Samson seems intrigued, and Trent—his gaze steady—looks at me with quiet calmness.
“I actually don’t think anyone has,” Mrs. Hughes says. “Why don’t you tell us, dear?”
I smile and take a deep breath, organizing my thoughts. “Well,” I begin, “I’d been having one of the worst days. I’d just gotten some not-so-great news, and the stress of other things going on in my life had consumed me to the point where I wasn’t paying attention to the world around me. And I’m not exaggerating—Trent quite literally saved me. I was so distracted that I nearly stepped out into traffic, but Trent pulled me back just before I got hit. He took the brunt of the fall himself when I lost my balance. It was such a small moment in the grand scheme of things, but for me, it changed everything, like I was given a second chance at life.”
The dining room remains silent for several seconds, the weight of my words settling over the table.
“I mentioned before that I’m an artist,” I say, looking at Samson. “At the time, I’d lost all desire to paint. With the pain of losing my grandmother earlier in the year, and the stress of everything else going on during that time, life had just . . . dulled for me. But after Trent saved me, he made sure I was okay and even took me to For the Love of Sugar for a treat. Wouldn’t you know it, while I sat there smelling the savory scent of baked goods, I found myself sketching again. It wasn’t much—just a simple sketch—but it reignited something in me. Ever since then, I’ve had my vision back, my passion for creating.”
I pause, letting the memory wash over me before continuing. “So that was the day we met—the day my life took a turn for the better. And since then, I’ve seen firsthand how much Trent cares about the things and people he loves. He’s dedicated, compassionate, and driven. He has a passion for life and cares with all his being about succeeding and making his family proud. If there’s anyone who can make the marina thrive, it’s him.”
A sniffle breaks the silence, and I turn to see Mrs. Hughes dabbing at her eyes with a napkin. “That was so lovely,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “I knew my Trent was a good man.”
Mr. Hughes reaches for her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “We did a good job raising him,” he says softly.
Trent, for his part, remains silent beside me. I’m too nervous to look at him directly, afraid he’ll see what I’m trying to keep buried—the fact that I might be falling for him, agreement or no agreement.
Samson remains silent, his soft expression thoughtful as he studies me. After a long pause, he clears his throat and says, “What I want to know is what you sketched that day.”
“Oh,” I say, waving my hand dismissively, “you don’t really want to know.”
“I really do,” Samson says, with a warm smile.
I hesitate, but the gentle encouragement and approval in his eyes remind me of my own grandpa. Taking a deep breath, I glance at Trent and finally confess, “It was a sketch of Trent.”