The weather had warmed up from their date night, but there was still a chill in the air as they walked to his mom’s five-story townhouse right across the street from the eastern edge of St. George’s Park. Bristol and Macon kept up a running commentary about everything from the gyro stand at the corner (killer food after a long day), the flock of geese that roamed the park (mean as their cousin Dixon when he lost at anything), and how to spot a tourist from ten stories up (the slow walking). Meanwhile, Nash held both dog leashes in his left hand so he could hold hers in his right, tucking them into his coat pocket to ward off the chill, while he just indulgently watched his brother and sister interact as if he was their proud dad instead of their older brother.

The difference in how their families interacted was stark. His obviously loved and supported one another. Meanwhile, she had an appointment with a judge coming up to prove that this temporary marriage fulfilled the draconian requirements of her dad’s will and save the family foundation from Uncle Buckley. It was enough to make her whole body tense up with a mix of fury and nerves as her lungs tightened.

Nash shot her a questioning glance, but she forced a reassuring smile and breathed out the tension. She didn’t want to ruin the easy companionship of the moment, and quite frankly, it wasn’t like talking about her problems was going to do anything to change them. She just had to trust the judge would buy into her marriage that was starting to feel a little less temporary every time she looked at Nash.

By the time they got to the house where they’d grown up, Chelle’s cheeks hurt from smiling so much at the by-play between Bristol and Macon. When they stopped, though, she had to do a double take at the Beckett townhouse. The stairs leading up to the front door spanned the width of the pale-yellow building ending at a grand landing with brown stones laid out to look like a parquet floor decorated with humongous pots of joyously red poinsettias.

They were halfway up and doing their best to keep the dogs from devouring the poisonous plants when the front door opened and a man who looked like a combo assistant/bodyguard walked out. Tall, with short, platinum-blond hair and the kind of leathery perma-tan skin that spoke of decades in the sun—probably with baby oil, if she was guessing his age right—he watched them with amusement.

“Dudley will be thrilled,” the man said as he squatted down and gave Mary Puppins and Groucho Barks the kind of level-ten scratches behind the ear that guaranteed they’d adore him for life.

“How’s she doing?” Nash asked as they walked inside.