Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
I’d half-prepared myself for Dean to barrel in behind me, storming through the cabin with all the heat and tension we’d left back in the water. But he didn’t.
Minutes dragged into long, aching hours. Long enough for me to take a hot shower, to let the steam melt the chill of the lake from my bones. Long enough to blow dry my hair and pull on clean clothes, trying to shake the sharp edge of what had happened at the lake from my thoughts.
Long enough to realize that Dean—had been right. The tension between us was too dangerous, and we needed it to stop.
I found myself pacing the floor, the slats creaking beneath my steps, as George watched me from his bed. Every glance at the door wound my nerves tighter, like a coil straining for release.
When the door finally creaked open, relief rushed through me, and I turned to face it.
Dean stepped inside with his shoulders heavy, his jaw set like stone. His hair was still damp, curling against his forehead, and his shirt clung in places as though he’d pulled it on without caring.
But none of that mattered as much as the air he carried with him: weighted, storm-dark, as though he’d walked through something heavier than rain.
I stilled, every instinct in me sharpening. Something had shifted in him, and I felt it deep in my bones. “Dean…” My voice came soft, uncertain.
He kicked off his shoes and continued on toward the kitchen, where he braced himself on the counter, as though to keep himself upright.
He didn’t speak. Not right away.
I swallowed, my chest tight. “Did something happen?”
His eyes lifted to mine, steady but shadowed. He’d been right behind me—and then—
My thoughts scrambled, flipping back through the day like a deck of cards I couldn’t hold onto. The moment I’d stumbled into Mason at the lake—then the men from breakfast.
The pieces fit together in a jagged puzzle. Dean must have run into them, too. They must have said something to make him stay. I drew in a shaky breath, the words scraping out of me before I could stop them. “What’s going on? Who were those men with Mason?”
Dean didn’t answer at first, but his eyes lifted to mine in a way that told me I was right on the mark.
“Dean,” I pressed. “Please just tell me.”
He let out a slow breath. “My grandfather’s talking about selling when he retires,” he said. “He’s trying his hardest to get rid of everything he’s spent his entire life building.”
I sank onto the edge of the bed, my legs suddenly weak. “Selling the firm? But… Why would he do that? It’s—it’s your family.”
Dean ran his hand through his hair, then let out a short breath through his nose. “He thinks he knows what’s best for us.”
I frowned. “By selling?”
His mouth tipped, not quite a smile. “By making sure everyone’s taken care of.”
The words settled strangely in my chest. “Taken care of how?”
His jaw shifted.
For a moment he didn’t speak. He turned toward the window that overlooked the lake and took a deep breath.
“He thinks I’ll make the same mistake he did,” he confessed.
His words were heavy, as though he’d had this conversation on too many occasions to count.
“That I’ll work too hard. Miss out on family. On kids. On—”
His voice caught.
“On love,” I finished for him.
He looked at me then, and I saw something vulnerable in his eyes.
I let this new information settle between us—seeing the worry in his eyes—the weight he was carrying.
“He thinks selling the firm will prevent you from making the same mistakes he did?”
Dean’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t deny it.
And suddenly, I understood.
“You needed proof,” I said quietly. “You needed to show him—”
His shoulders eased, just barely. Enough to tell me I was right.
Everything clicked into place. This wasn’t a scheme or a joke—it was a pause. A way to buy time. A way for him to hold on to something that mattered more than he was letting on.
Before I could second-guess myself, I stood and closed the distance between us, threading my fingers through his and holding on.
“Then we’d better get ready,” I said, nodding once.
His mouth twitched, like he was about to smile but stopped himself. “For what?”
“The cookout,” I said. “We’ve got some convincing to do.”
He went still. Like the weight of what I’d just suggested landed too heavy. “You don’t have to do this,” he said.
For a split second, something sharp and unexpected flickered through me—rejection, maybe. Or the fear of it.
I pushed it aside. “This is what you’re paying me for, right?”
Something shifted in his expression––not anger, not surprise. Just a subtle tightening, like I’d said the wrong thing out loud. His jaw set, his eyes dropped for half a second before lifting again.
“Yes,” he said after a beat.
The word settled between us. Heavier than it should have been.
Something shifted in me—quiet and irreversible, but I refused to examine it too closely. “Okay then,” I said, forcing a steadiness I didn’t feel. “I guess I better go get ready.”