I bite on my lip, trying to hold my surprise in check. This isn’t the way I expected Nicholas to look—soft, gentle. He looks like someone’s loving grandfather. The way he talks so softly—with the slow cadence, the dry humor—he reminds me of my own loving grandfather.

“My wife bought those pillars from a monastery in France and had them shipped here in two pieces. A local artisan put them back together, returning them to their original presentation. They’re plenty sturdy.”

“They’re also beautiful,” I say.

“They are beautiful, aren’t they?” he says. “My wife had a real flair for design. She picked everything that went into this house. Every last thing.”

He looks pained, even speaking of his wife.

“I don’t make it a habit of talking about the workmanship of my home, but I thought you’d appreciate a little history…” he says.

This stops me. Is Nicholas trying to suggest he knows what I do for a living? Could he know? Could there be a leak already? Or maybe I’m the leak. Maybe I said something to Charlie without realizing it. Something that has given us all away.

Either way, Nicholas is in charge now. Ten hours ago, that might not have been the case. But I changed all of that when I arrived in Austin. And now it’s Nicholas’s world. Austin is Nicholas’s world, and I’ve walked us back into it. As if cementing the point, two bodyguards walk outside—Ned and another guy. Both of them are large and unsmiling. Both of them stand right behind Nicholas.

Nicholas doesn’t acknowledge them. Instead he reaches out his hands to take mine. Like we are old friends. What choice do I have? I put my hand out, let him wrap his palms around mine.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you…” he says.

“Hannah,” I say. “You can call me Hannah.”

“Hannah,” he says.

He smiles—genuine and generous. And suddenly I’m more disturbed by that than I am by the idea of him presenting as the opposite. At what point was Owen standing in front of him thinking, Nicholas has to be good? How could he have a smile like that if he wasn’t? How could he have raised the woman who Owen loved?

It’s hard to look at him so I look down, toward the ground, toward the dogs.

Nicholas follows my eyes. Then he bends down, pets his dogs on the back of their heads.

“This is Casper and this is Leon,” he says.

“They’re gorgeous dogs.”

“They certainly are. Thank you. I brought them here from Germany. We are in the middle of their Schutzhund training.”

“Meaning what?” I say.

“The official translation is ‘protection dog.’ They’re supposed to keep their owners safe. I just think they’re good company.” He pauses. “Did you want to pet them?”