So, I have to make it all official. Hence, I’m in my truck with Blythe by my side, heading toward my childhood home, where Ledger and Galeana are currently living while their home is being built. Almost a year ago, the old Doherty mansion was set on fire by the Hollow Syndicate. See, that’s something I don’t understand. Why not just leave town and start somewhere new?

Why keep his wife in danger? They could’ve just sold the Old Birchwood Timber company and gotten the fuck out of here. And maybe that’s what I should be doing with Blythe. Forget about the parlor and get her to safety. No, I already went through that scenario, and we can’t be on the run.

Is that why Ledger and Galeana stayed? Fuck, I don’t want to know. I could ask, but if I do, I have to share my part. I’m not sure how much I should keep from them.

I’m in the middle of running through every possible scenario in my head when Blythe’s voice pulls me back.

“If you didn’t want to go, you should’ve just said so,” Blythe mutters beside me, arms crossed, staring out the window. “You didn’t have to organize a family dinner to avoid my cooking.”

I huff out a laugh, shaking my head. “It wasn’t that bad . . . I think.” I turn to wink at her. Yesterday’s meal was great, and I would prefer to eat at home with her than have to deal with my brothers but . . . this has to happen. People know I’m supposed to be with them and they’ll know if I skip the family dinner.

“Are you nervous?”

I scoff. “No. I just hate family dinners,” I mutter, instead of saying, I just hate my family and the feeling is mutual.

“Would it help if I embarrassed you in front of them? You know, really sell the loving wife act?”

I smirk, side-eyeing her. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

She shrugs. “Maybe I tell them you’re obsessed with those cheesy holiday romance movies. That you cry during the big gesture. All. The. Time.”

I, deadpan, say, “That’s defamation.”

Her grin widens. “Or I could say you’re weirdly good at . . . what could be weirdly funny?”

“I will leave you on the side of this road.”

She hums, tapping her chin. “Or—oh—maybe I tell them you proposed to me after knowing me for a week and cried when I said yes.”

I give her a look. “You really think they’d believe that?”

She arches a brow. “Are you saying you didn’t cry?”

I groan, scrubbing a hand down my face. “I should let them think you were a mail-order bride.”

She snorts, shaking her head. “I don’t think they have those in New York. I couldn’t sell that idea.”

“What can you sell?” I ask.