“That’s our Dean,” Thomas said, grinning. “More romantic than Prince fucking Charming.”
I cleared my throat, thrown by the familiarity in the story—how it sounded like something pulled from childhood, something you’d only know if you’d been there. I glanced over my shoulder at Dean, then back at Thomas and Trisha.
“Wait. How long have you all known each other?” I asked.
Thomas looked puzzled, like the question didn’t make sense. Trisha tilted her head, eyes narrowing as she glanced past me toward Dean—but before she could answer, a low ripple of murmurs began to move across the deck.
The shift was subtle at first, like the collective intake of breath when something unexpected happens. Then heads began to turn.
I followed their gaze—just in time to see a tall woman step out of the lodge.
She wore cowboy boots, cut-off shorts, and had legs that went on forever. She looked like a supermodel, or someone who’d just walked off the set of a country music video.
She flicked her thick, brown, waist-length hair over one shoulder, and braced her legs apart like she was getting ready for the storm she knew she’d just created.
Behind me, Dean’s posture shifted. Not much—just enough to feel it.
I’d been so settled against him that when he stepped back, even slightly, the absence of his touch sent an involuntary shiver through my body.
Then Trisha’s hand closed around my arm, pulling me a little closer to her.
“Would you look at that,” she murmured. “She actually came.”
Questions formed on my tongue, but I bit them back. Whatever was unfolding was none of my business.
At least, it shouldn’t have been.
But I couldn’t stop watching. Couldn’t stop tracking every flicker of expression, every sideways glance. The way eyes darted from her… to Dean.
The realization landed in my gut like a stone.
They had history. The kind everyone here seemed to know about.
And then the rest clicked into place, sharp and certain.
She was the reason Dean hired me.
The reason he avoided certain questions.
The reason the air on this deck suddenly felt tight.
Trisha glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, then looked back to Dean. “This should be interesting.”
“Excuse me,” Dean said. He stepped away from me, set his beer on the nearest table, and crossed the deck with slow, deliberate strides.
He reached her without a word.
And then—he pulled her into a hug so tight it lifted her onto her toes.
Something twisted in my chest—deep, sharp—and I turned away before I could feel it fully.
“Excuse me,” I said to the woman behind me, my voice barely above a whisper. “Would you mind telling me where the bathroom is?”
She nodded toward a small wooden sign near the back wall, but I was already moving.
My thoughts splintered in every direction.
Of course.
