“Do you love him?”
The question was simple, direct, and absolutely terrifying. “Yes,” Ollie whispered. “I love him. Both parts of him, apparently.”
“Then maybe that’s your answer.” Jules stood, moving to the window. “You don’t have to make any grand gestures or decisions. But maybe you can separate the business from the personal, just for now. Save your event. Let the rest sort itself out later.”
Ollie considered this. It made sense, in a practical way. The showcase needed a headliner, and Rhett Wilder’s first public appearance would generate more buzz than he could have dreamed of.
“What if seeing him up there, being Rhett Wilder, changes how I feel about him?” The fear escaped before he could stop it. “What if Ican’tseparate the author from the man?”
Jules turned from the window, their expression gentle. “Then at least you’ll know. But, Ollie? I don’t think that’s going to happen. You fell for Finn before you knew he was Rhett. That has to count for something.”
Ollie’s apartmentwas quiet when he finally made it home, the familiar clutter of books somehow comforting after the day’s revelations. He made a simple dinner, eating mechanically while his mind continued to churn.
On impulse, he pulled one of Finn’s books from his shelf—an older release, one he’d been saving to reread.Small Town Hearts.The cover showed two men silhouetted against a sunset, their hands almost touching.
Now, knowing Finn had probably had input on the design, it felt different. More personal.
He flipped to the acknowledgments page, something he rarely bothered to read.To my daughter, who inspires me to be brave even when I’m terrified. To my family, who loves me despite my secrets. And to the readers who find themselves in these pages—you are seen, you are valued, you are loved.
The words blurred as Ollie read them again. Finn’s voice, speaking directly to his readers with a vulnerability that took his breath away. This was the man he’d fallen for—not just thesteady contractor or the devoted father, but this writer who poured his heart onto the page for strangers to find comfort in.
He thought about the books he’d read, the characters Finn had created. Men struggling with identity, with acceptance, with the courage to love openly. Stories that had resonated with Ollie on a level he’d never fully examined because they felt true in a way that went beyond craft or technique.
Because they were true. Finn’s truth, translated into fiction.
His phone buzzed with a text, and his heart jumped, hoping it was Finn. Instead, it was Brooklyn.
Dad’s stress-eating ice cream and watching documentaries about the Civil War. Just thought you should know.
Despite everything, Ollie smiled. Even in the middle of their crisis, Brooklyn was looking out for both of them.
Tell him I said thank you. For today. For the offer.
The response came quickly.
Tell him yourself. He misses you.
Ollie stared at the message for a long time before setting his phone aside. Tomorrow, he would have to make decisions—about the event, about Finn, about what came next. But tonight, he could sit with the truth of what he’d learned, let it settle into the spaces between his hurt and his hope.
TWENTY-TWO
The hollow ache in Finn’s chest had settled into something permanent overnight, a constant reminder of every word, every expression that had crossed Ollie’s face during their conversation. Three hours of actual sleep—maybe—the rest spent replaying the moment when understanding had dawned in Ollie’s eyes, followed by something that looked dangerously close to betrayal.
The smell of coffee and something burning drifted up from the kitchen. Brooklyn was up early, which meant she was either stressed about school or worried about him. Given yesterday’s revelations, he suspected the latter.
He pulled on yesterday’s jeans and a clean shirt, running a hand through his disheveled hair as he padded downstairs. Brooklyn stood at the stove, poking suspiciously at what appeared to be scrambled eggs that had seen better days.
“Morning,” he said, his voice rougher than usual.
She glanced up, taking in his appearance with the practiced assessment of someone who’d learned to read his moods early. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks. That’s exactly what every father wants to hear from his daughter.”
“You told him?” The question was direct, no preamble.
Finn poured a cup of coffee from the pot she’d already made, buying time. “Yeah. I told him.”
“And?” She worried her bottom lip between her teeth. She started to say something, then stopped.
