“Let me translate,” Kinsey said, her Southern accent as thick as honey. “His life changed for the better the day he met me, and not only because of my family cornbread recipe. Plus, he never cared about the Last Man Standing bet from the moment he saw me and got knocked out.” She snuggled up against Griff. “Did I get that right?”

Griff said something low and rumbly that only Kinsey could catch, but whatever it was, it turned her grin from bright to blinding.

The younger trio of cousins started throwing white cheddar popcorn at the happy couples and making gagging noises, but there was no sly cruelty in it, no barely concealed sarcasm, no unspoken censure. Instead, there was love, a sense of family, and the accepted knowledge that each of these people would always be there for the others. It was almost more than Chelle could process.

Knowing her family was toxic was one thing. Being part of a family—even if only for another few days—built on love as opposed to absolute obedience was something so completely opposite from what she’d experienced. The shock of it clogged her throat with a mix of bittersweet emotion—happiness for Nash even as she mourned what she’d never had. She hoped he realized how lucky he was.

Twirling one of her more gray than black strands of her hair around his finger, he snuggled in closer to her. “You okay?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been better.”

God, she wished she was lying—but she wasn’t. Being here with Nash and his family in this big Victorian lake house with an attack goose on duty…everything felt right, the way it usually only did when she was writing about satyrs and nymphs and love conquering all.

Of course, that only happened in her books.

In real life, she was a woman on borrowed time in a marriage that had been defined by an immutable sell-by date, and there was no way to revise that ending to anything close to a happily ever after.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Nash

Chelle was already pulling away, and it was gutting him.

He’d been watching her all day, the boulder of dread in his gut getting heavier and heavier as he saw it all unfold. It was all there in the faraway look she had in her eyes during dinner, the sad smile she shot him during the goose story, and the soft sigh she’d let out while they sat on the loveseat and watched the fire turn to embers after everyone else had turned in for the night. So he’d taken her hand—he couldn’t help himself, being near Chelle and not touching her was pure torture—and led her upstairs to their room, promising himself that he’d start disengaging from the fantasy that all of this was real.

But not tonight.