Dean didn’t answer at first, but his eyes lifted to mine in a way that told me I was right on the mark.
“Dean,” I pressed. “Please just tell me.”
He let out a slow breath. “My grandfather’s talking about selling when he retires,” he said. “He’s trying his hardest to get rid of everything he’s spent his entire life building.”
I sank onto the edge of the bed, my legs suddenly weak. “Selling the firm? But… Why would he do that? It’s—it’s your family.”
Dean ran his hand through his hair, then let out a short breath through his nose. “He thinks he knows what’s best for us.”
I frowned. “By selling?”
His mouth tipped, not quite a smile. “By making sure everyone’s taken care of.”
The words settled strangely in my chest. “Taken care of how?”
His jaw shifted.
For a moment he didn’t speak. He turned toward the window that overlooked the lake and took a deep breath. “He thinks I’ll make the same mistake he did,” he confessed. His words were heavy, as though he’d had this conversation on too many occasions to count. “That I’ll work too hard. Miss out on family. On kids. On?—”
His voice caught.
“On love,” I finished for him.
He looked at me then, and I saw something vulnerable in his eyes.
I let this new information settle between us—seeing the worry in his eyes—the weight he was carrying.
“He thinks selling the firm will prevent you from making the same mistakes he did?”
Dean’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t deny it.
And suddenly, I understood.
“You needed proof,” I said quietly. “You needed to show him?—”
His shoulders eased, just barely. Enough to tell me I was right.
Everything clicked into place. This wasn’t a scheme or a joke—it was a pause. A way to buy time. A way for him to hold on to something that mattered more than he was letting on.
Before I could second-guess myself, I stood and closed the distance between us, threading my fingers through his and holding on.
“Then we’d better get ready,” I said, nodding once.
His mouth twitched, like he was about to smile but stopped himself. “For what?”
“The cookout,” I said. “We’ve got some convincing to do.”
He went still. Like the weight of what I’d just suggested landed too heavy. “You don’t have to do this,” he said.
For a split second, something sharp and unexpected flickered through me—rejection, maybe. Or the fear of it.
I pushed it aside. “This is what you’re paying me for, right?”
Something shifted in his expression––not anger, not surprise. Just a subtle tightening, like I’d said the wrong thing out loud. His jaw set, his eyes dropped for half a second before lifting again.
“Yes,” he said after a beat.
The word settled between us. Heavier than it should have been.
