“Willow, we know your heart is in the right place.” Genevieve’s voice dripped with sympathy. “After all, Camden is Sullivan’s brother, and I know you must feel obligated to help him on Sully’s behalf. But, honey, how on earth are you going to be a restoration expert? Don’t you draw things on the computer? That’s hardly historical, dear.”

My resolve hardened from steel to titanium.

“This isn’t about Sullivan. This is about Cam. More than that, it’s about doing the right thing. Cam has a right, and you’re trying to deny it out of sheer pettiness.” I shook my head in disgust. “I graduated last year from Rutgers, which is one of the top five art schools in the country,” I said, turning my focus to Walter. As foreman, he’d have the power to approve me.

“In graphic design,” Dad interjected. “Not the same thing.”

I thought of that little onyx rook on my desk. The knight I kept in my nightstand drawer. The other pieces I’d tucked away, all memories from the boy who stood next to me in a man’s body.

“I double majored.” I addressed Dad, who blanched. “Yes, I have a degree in graphic design, but I also hold one in Art Restoration and Conservation, specializing in the American West.” Because I’d known this day would come, eventually, where I’d have to step into Genevieve’s shoes if I wanted to ensure our town could survive.

I just figured that would happen in another twenty years, not twenty minutes. Genevieve clutched the arms of her chair like I might hop up there and unseat her from a throne I had zero interest in.

“And you’re just now telling me?” Dad seethed, despite the calm, collected tone of his voice. It wasn’t at the degree itself. He would have crowed his satisfaction had he been the one to introduce me into the role. He was pissed at the loss of control and my support of Cam.

Cam, who moved a few inches toward me, his arm brushing my shoulder and sending little currents of electricity through my veins.

“Dad, they said it as I walked across the stage at graduation. It was hardly a secret. Mom filmed it and everything.” Because he hadn’t been there, still holding a grudge because I’d had the nerve to deter from his plan.

The crowd murmured, but I kept my attention on Dad.

“I’m assuming you won’t have a problem with your own daughter lending her services to the Historical Society. It would hardly be charitable if I kept my mouth shut and let the town suffer for it.” Good thing I’d bought my house this year, or I’d probably be sleeping on Charity’s couch tonight. How quickly I disposed of all the goodwill I’d earned since coming home.