“Start with the truth.”
“The truth?” She stops, hands on her hips. “The truth is I’m freaking terrified, okay? This wedding has to be perfect. It has to be. And I’m—”
She stops. Shakes her head.
“You’re what?”
“Tired.” She looks away. “I’m tired.”
When she moves past me, I catch her arm—just enough to stop her. The warmth of her skin hits me first, then the tremor beneath it.
“That’s not what you were going to say.”
“Let it go, Dean.”
“No.”
Her voice lowers. “Why do you care?”
Because you make the house feel less empty. Because I see too much of myself in your exhaustion. Because I don’t know how to stop.
“Because you’re about to burn out on my property,” I say instead, “and I don’t want the liability.”
That earns me a real laugh—soft, genuine. “There he is. Mr. Practical.”
“Someone has to be.”
We’re standing too close now. Her arm’s still in my hand, her pulse quick beneath my fingers.
“There’s a leaf,” I say, because my brain short-circuits.
“What?”
“In your hair. From the pergola.”
“Oh.”
I reach up, pluck it free. I should step back. I don’t. The space between us feels thinner than air.
“Dean?”
“Mm?”
“You’re still holding the leaf.”
I look down. She’s right—a dead leaf between my fingers, my hand inches from her face.
“You have pasta sauce,” I say. “On your… just—”
I brush my thumb across the corner of her mouth. Warm skin. Soft breath.
She freezes. So do I.
The kitchen hums—refrigerator, maybe our heartbeats.
“This is complicated,” she whispers.
“Everything with you is complicated.”
