Lorenzo taps the pen against the desk once, twice, then lets it go. “Sit.” He gestures toward the chair opposite him.
I don’t sit immediately. Instead, I lean my hip against the edge of the desk, folding my arms. “You were talking about Grant.”
Lorenzo’s jaw flexes once at his name. “I was.”
I push off the desk and finally slide into the chair because my legs suddenly don’t feel as sturdy.
Lorenzo watches me while I do. He then rests his forearms on the desk, fingers lacing together. “Tell me everything you remember about him,” he says quietly. He’s not ordering. He’s asking.
My brain short-circuits, completely caught off guard by the question.
My fingers curl on the chair arm. “He was careful. He didn’t say much.”
Lorenzo’s brow lifts slightly. “He was careless enough to show up and take you.”
“He didn’t technically take me,” I say automatically, then stop myself because he did.
Rafe’s mouth twitches again. “Fair.”
Lorenzo’s fingers tighten together, knuckles whitening. Then he relaxes.
“Start from the beginning.” He sighs. “Tell me everything you remember about him.”
I stare at my hands, trying to think of anything that could be relevant.
“Grant came into my life when I was young,” I say, forcing the words out. “He was just there. Polished. Approved by my parents.” I roll my eyes. “My parents liked that he was the kind of man you could take to a charity dinner without him setting something on fire.”
Lorenzo’s mouth quirks. “I’d like to point out I’ve never set anything on fire at a charity dinner.”
“Not physically,” I quip. “But you would have loved to.”
“I would have.”
Rafe shrugs. “You still have time. I believe in you.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“Victoria . . .” Lorenzo starts, making me shake my head, trying to drag my brain back into the room. “He . . . he kept proposing.” I swallow. “Claimed I was his.”
Lorenzo’s eyes darken.
“And he liked,” I continue, voice tightening, “that I didn’t have any real say in my own life.”
Lorenzo doesn’t move.
But the air around him changes. It tightens. If Grant were here, he’d no doubt be dead.
I look down at my lap, fingers twisting together. “He has that cottage. But he also has more places. Not all in his name, though.”
Lorenzo tilts his head. “How do you know?”
I lift my shoulders in a slight shrug that feels pathetic. “He was talking about it to someone, and I overheard. Something to do with not paying taxes.”
Lorenzo’s gaze never leaves my face. “What else?”
I think.
Hard.
