"Did you invite him?" he asked, cold and sharp. The voice of a man who felt ambushed. He dropped his hand to his side and took a step back. “Just because I agreed, doesn’t give you the right?—”
“I didn’t ask him to come this morning.” She kept her own voice careful, neutral.
“I don’t like pushy.”
“It can’t hurt to hear him out.”
“Not this fucking early.”
The SUV pulled to a stop on the other side of the moat. One of the gators made itself known, mouth open and ready to strike. Through the windshield, she could see her uncle sitting behind the wheel, waiting. Giving them space—or maybe sizing up the gator. It was the smart play. Slade had always been good at reading rooms, even rooms he wasn't in yet.
“I’m not in the mood for this. Dawson will be here shortly, and I want to prepare for that town meeting in a few days.”
“Uncle Aaron is a good man, and he knows Dutton, who’s backing that company, and?—”
"I mean it. I don’t have the capacity to deal with his guilt this morning.” He turned, slamming the screen door behind him before she could respond.
Dove stood on the porch, caught between the man inside and the man in the SUV, wondering how the hell she'd ended up in the middle of this.
She didn't go after Trent. Didn't signal her uncle to leave or come in. Just stood there, watching the gators drift through the moat, waiting for something to break.
The screen door opened, and Trent stepped back onto the porch. "I'm sorry," he said. "For being a jerk, you didn’t deserve that.”
“I’d be upset, too.” She palmed his cheek. “I don’t know why my uncle thought it would be okay to show up here unannounced at this hour.”
He looked past her, toward the SUV where her uncle waited. “I suppose it must be important to him.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Tell him to come on up.”
“Thank you.”
She started down the porch steps. Behind her, she heard Trent go back inside. She didn't know what he was doing in there. Bracing himself, maybe. Preparing for a conversation he didn't want to have.
Or maybe—just maybe—finally moving his mother's sweater.
Chapter Seven
The kitchen had always been one of Trent’s favorite spots in the house. He used to catch his dad sneaking up on his mom while she did the dishes. They’d laugh. They’d dance, right there in front of the window, while the gators made music. Back then, when he’d been all of ten or twelve, Trent dreamed of having a life like his parents filled with love, laughter, and family.
He ran his fingers across the table his father had built thirty years ago—solid oak, hand-sanded, the corners worn smooth by decades of elbows and coffee mugs and family dinners that would never happen again. His mother had loved this table. Said it was the heart of the house. Said you could tell everything about a family by how they gathered around their kitchen table. His mom had moved out, in part because Fallon had moved in, and because she’d wanted him to have his own space. His own life. He was the next generation.
His mom had always wanted to see him settle down, get married, have children. It pained him that he wouldn’t—couldn’t—ever give that to her. That she’d never had grandchildren sitting around this table in the kitchen she so loved.
Right now, the table held three mugs of coffee that no one was drinking, yesterday's unopened newspaper because even though he’d been born in the digital age, he still preferred to hold a paper in his hands, and enough tension to choke on.
In the back of Trent’s mind, his mother’s voice echoed in that sweet tone she had, reminding him to be nice. Be a gentleman. To stop being such an ass and grow up. He nearly smiled at the last one. He’d been trying to do that for the last five years.
Slade sat across from him, hands wrapped around his mug, posture relaxed in a way that only made Trent more aware of how strained everything else was. The morning light cut through the window above the sink, painting stripes across the worn linoleum, catching the steam rising in lazy spirals from the coffee.
Dove stood at the counter with her back against the cabinets, arms crossed, positioned like a referee at a boxing match. Ready to intervene if someone threw a punch.
Trent wasn't going to throw a punch.
Probably.
Maybe.
Regardless, he was grateful for her presence. She had a way of grounding him. Of settling his emotions without even trying.
The silence stretched. Outside, a gator bellowed—probably Dolly, doing her morning rounds, and somewhere in the distance, a boat motor coughed to life on the river. Normal sounds. Familiar sounds. Sounds that belonged to a world where Trent wasn't sitting across from the man who'd failed to protect his father, pretending to be civil.
