If I hadn’t been so certain of Willow’s love, I would have lost it right then. Instead, I focused on the warmth in my chest that grew every time I thought about her.

“You’re wrong, but it’s not my place to talk about Willow’s feelings. I can only speak to what she’s told me and how I feel about your daughter. I’m not here to argue about Sullivan. I loved him more than you ever could have and will carry his loss with me every day for the rest of my life.”

“At least he deserved her,” he threw in my face, his voice rising. “He never got her hurt. Never got into fistfights. Never covered his body in tattoos or set fire to a damned building! And he sure as hell asked my permission when he wanted to date Willow. He came to me like a man, his intentions clear and his heart honest, because he knew she was the kind of girl who respected that tradition!” He jabbed his finger in my direction.

I shifted, bracing my hands on the counter and squeezing the top. “I’m not even sure where to start with that. I guess at the beginning. I have never hurt Willow intentionally, and the only wounds I’ve inflicted on her were emotional and due to my supreme idiocy when I was nineteen.”

His eyes flared in surprise for a millisecond, but it was there.

“I got into my share of fistfights, and I’d say probably half of them were defending Willow. Scott Malone was an asshole, and when he got tired of bullying her, Oscar stepped in. This”—I pointed to the tattoo of the hot springs on my arm—“is a sketch Willow did the summer before I left for basic training. I had it done the week before I reported, and yes, it hurt like a bitch until it healed.

“As for the fire? Accidents happen, and you have no idea how terrified I was when I heard she was still inside. I’ll never forgive myself for how long it took me to get to her.” It always came back to that fucking fire.

“What, you’re not going to throw in that you carried her out then, too?” he challenged.

“You already knew that.” I shrugged. “As for the last part? I’m not Sullivan. He was a better boy than I was, and he never got to grow into manhood, but I bet if he hadn’t died that day?” I paused, taking a second to swallow the memories. “He would have been a far better man than I am. There’s no doubt.”

“At least we agree on that,” he snapped. “Now, are you done?”

“No. Because here’s the thing—Sullivan was wrong. He never should have asked your permission.”

A collective murmur in the background reminded me that we had an audience.