Luke kept his expression neutral. “Probably just some kids throwing rocks.”
His mother sniffed. “It’s always something with that family.”
He looked up sharply.
“I’m just saying,” she continued, unfazed. “You can dress things up all you want, but trouble has a way of finding people who invite it. That name’s been tied to one mess after another since before you were born.”
His dad snorted.
Luke pushed a piece of carrot around his plate. “Grace Hart’s a teacher. She’s lived on that street for years without incident.”
His mother paused mid-bite, eyes flicking up. “You sound awfully…informed about Grace Hart’s life.”
He shrugged. “It’s a small town.”
“Mm,” she said, unconvinced. “Well, I just hope you’re keeping your distance. You’ve worked too hard to get where you are to let someone else’s baggage weigh you down.”
The same justification he’d been feeding himself all day, now coming from someone else’s mouth. It should have felt validating.
It didn’t.
His dad folded his napkin. “People notice who you associate with, Luke. Always have. Especially in a town like this. You’re a Bennett. The name means something. Your grandfather sat on the town council for twenty years. You have a legacy to protect. You don't throw that away.”
Luke swallowed. He knew that. Had grown up knowing it. Every expectation, every unspoken rule etched into him from the start.
He thought of Grace, calm and resolute, shutting her door in his face.
“She didn’t ask for any of it,” he said before he could stop himself.
His mother frowned. “Ask for what?”
“The reputation,” he said. “The assumptions.”
His dad studied him for a moment. “Son,” he said carefully, “you don’t build a life on exceptions. You build it on expectations.”
Luke looked down at his plate, appetite gone.
Expectations. He’d believed in them his whole life. Trusted them. Built everything he had around staying inside the lines they drew.
Now those expectations felt less like a promise and more like a cage.
His mother reached across the table and patted his hand. “We just want what’s best for you.”
Luke nodded, because that was what he’d always done.
But as he sat there, surrounded by certainty and quiet judgment, one thought pressed insistently at the back of his mind:
The Hart’s name came with baggage.
But so did Luke’s.
And tonight he wasn’t sure which one weighed more.
CHAPTER 17
Grace
The sedan was parked halfwaydown Maple Street, dark paint swallowing the last of the evening light. It hadn’t been there when she’d walked to Morton’s. She was sure of that. She had a habit of noticing cars now—where they sat, how long they stayed, whether they belonged.
