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Now I have to worry about keeping him happy too.

Dad gets out carrying bags of food from the seafood place we like on the water, Captain’s Catch. He’s wearing his usual uniform. Khaki pants, a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, a vest. His hair is graying at the temples but still thick, combed back from his forehead. He moves with the confidence that comes from owning everything around him.

“Hey, son,” he says, and his voice is warm. This is the good-natured version that appears when there’s an audience.

I relax slightly.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, moving down the steps. “Let me help you with that.”

He hands me the boxes and bags, and I take them. They’re heavy. He bought enough to feed an army.

Billy gets out of the driver’s side, moving around to the back to start unloading gear. He’s wearing work clothes. Jeans, a flannel shirt, boots caked with mud. He’s younger than my father by about fifteen years, maybe in his early forties, with the kind of lean build that comes from physical labor. His face is weathered, tanned from years of working outside.

“Billy,” Dad says, looking back. “Why don’t you help these boys with their bags?”

“Yes, sir,” Billy says.

I catch his eye and nod. “Hey, Billy. Thanks for picking up the guys.”

“No problem, Mr. Lucien,” he says, and there’s warmth in his voice. Familiarity. “Good to see you.”

“You too.”

I’ve known Billy my whole life. He’s family, distant enough that the connection is more theoretical than practical, but close enough that we help him out. The groundskeeper job is a kindness, a way to keep him employed and housed. He lives in a small cottage on the property, maintains the grounds, handles repairs, drives into town for supplies.

He’s good at his job, respectful. But there’s always been this awareness between us, the knowledge that our positions are different. That I’m Mr. Lucien and he’s Billy, even though we share a last name somewhere back in the family tree.

Dad walks up the stairs, and I follow him. He holds the screen door open so I can carry the food in, and I set it down on the kitchen island, shoving beer cans out of the way to make room.

“Jesus, boys,” Dad says, surveying the mess. His voice is still good-natured, but there’s an edge to it. A command. “You all made a big mess already.”

“Sorry, Mr. Ashford,” Matt says, straightening.

There’s a perceptible shift in the room. Voices are a little quieter. My father has that effect. He commands respect without even trying.

Cameron is on the couch, sitting with Liam and Alex. When he sees my father, his face changes. His eyes go dark. His lips press into a thin line.

Fuck, I think. Calm down, Cam.

But Dad doesn’t notice. He’s too busy greeting the room, shaking hands, clapping shoulders. He knows Austen, Alex, and Matt from previous trips, and he asks about their families, their studies. He’s charming when he wants to be, engaging, the kind of man people naturally gravitate toward.

“And who’s this?” he asks, turning to Cameron.

“Cameron Rhodes, sir,” Cameron says, standing and extending his hand.

Dad shakes it firmly. “Good to meet you, Cameron. Any friend of Lucien’s is welcome here.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You hunt before?”

“A little, sir. Nothing like this.”

Dad nods approvingly. “Well, we’ll get you sorted tomorrow. It’s good land. Good hunting.”

He turns to Liam next, and I watch Cameron’s shoulders relax a little.

I’m hyperaware of everything. Dad’s tone, his body language, the way he moves through the room. I’m reading him the way I learned to as a kid, monitoring his mood, staying alert for any shift.