Dean smiled, defusing the situation farther, then held my plate until I sat down.
For a while, conversation drifted in and out. We talked about weather, the upcoming rugby match, and the storm brewing over the mountains. I focused on my plate, nodded when something caught my attention, but for the most part, let the rhythm of the night flow on without my input.
But then I felt it.
Mr. McHenry’s eyes on me from across the fire.
He’d leaned in close, his attention fixed and curious, like he was trying to figure me out.
The back of my neck instantly prickled. Had we met before? At another party? With another client?
“Tell me about yourself, Vivienne,” he said when we made eye contact.
I cleared my throat, set my plate to the side, and took a long sip of cider before speaking. “What do you want to know?”
The second the words left my mouth, my stomach dipped.
His thumb brushed his chin, and suddenly it didn’t feel like small talk anymore. It felt more like a deposition.
“Let’s start with your family,” he said. “You can always tell a lot about a person by their roots.”
My chest tightened.
Roots.
Got it.
I lifted my chin. “I have a brother,” I said as calmly as I could manage. “John.” Then before I could stop myself, I said the line I’d been using since I was a teenager. “My parents aren’t around any longer.”
Normally people heard those words and retreated. Thinking they’d died, or that it wasn’t a conversation they were willing to walk into. But not Mr. McHenry.
He actually leaned in farther, and his tone became a little more gentle. “I’m sorry to hear that, dear. What happened to them?”
I hesitated. Just long enough to cover my surprise. I should have expected the response—given Dean’s own situation, and their backstory, it made sense—but I hadn’t thought about that soon enough.
The fire popped beside us, sparks jumping high in the air, but I barely noticed them.
“My mom left me at a hospital when I was five and never came back,” I said softly. “My father, I never knew, but from my understanding, he was a real peach.”
I hadn’t planned on saying any of it, but there was something about Mr. McHenry that made me feel like I couldn’t lie to him.
Beside me, Dean’s hand found my knee and squeezed.
His grandfather stayed quiet for a moment, his expression softening just a little. “Has your brother met our Dean?” he asked.
I nodded, thankful for the change in subject. “He has.”
“And?”
I glanced over at Dean, thinking about the day he’d met John at Jake’s barbecue.
“John’s protective,” I said honestly, choosing my words with care. “It takes him a while to warm up to people.”
Mr. McHenry chuckled, low and knowing. “Sounds like my Dean.”
“Only fools give their trust away easily. It’s the one thing you can’t get back once it’s broken.”
I drew in a quiet breath. For just a second, I wondered if he could see more than he was letting on—past the act, past the title of fiancée and the careful stories we’d built. I forced a small smile, though it felt thinner than before.
