Page 51 of The Reaper
“I’m neither.”
Finn cleared his throat softly, like he was giving me space but still listening. Always listening.
Dean ran his thumb along the rim of his mug. “You know it wasn’t your fault.”
The words landed like lead.
I looked at him then, really looked. His face had aged well—lines from laughter, sun-darkened skin, a salt-and-pepper beardthat made him look more roguish than wise. But his eyes had the same weight they always did when he talked about the past. Like he could shoulder mine if I’d just let him.
“You don’t know that,” I said.
Dean leaned forward. “You think I haven’t done the math? Haven’t gone over every variation of what you think you did or didn’t do? Those years were a goddamn nightmare, Meg. But it wasn’t your doing.”
I swallowed hard, my voice small. “I don’t know.”
Dean exhaled. “You were just a kid.”
Finn looked away then, like he was giving me dignity. I loved him a little for that.
But I still couldn’t let go of everything. Not fully.
I stood up, suddenly restless. “Why are you really here, Dean?”
He raised both hands. “I told you. Checking in. Saying hi. Giving my favorite niece a hard time.”
I arched a brow. “Try again.”
He smirked. “Fine. I’m considering buying out a partner at a place up in Bluffton. I was scouting locations and figured—why not swing through Charleston? Get a good meal. See your pretty face. Maybe remind you not to work yourself to death.”
Finn grunted. “You’ve got a real subtle touch.”
“Thank you,” Dean said, unbothered. “I’m thinking of taking on a more active role in the industry again. Consulting, maybe. Hell, maybe I’ll open another place of my own if I get bored enough.”
“Savannah’s not enough anymore?” I asked.
He shrugged.
My eyes narrowed.
Dean winked. “Besides, you’ve got good whiskey and terrible boundaries. Makes for entertaining mornings.”
I smiled despite myself. “And how’s Aunt Trish?”
“Still better than I deserve.” His voice softened, just for a second. “She’s hosting a charity gala next week. Wants you to come.”
“You know I don’t do galas.”
“You do if I ask nice.”
“She’ll text me,” I said.
“She already did. You didn’t respond.”
I rolled my eyes and wandered to the window. Outside, the garden was alive with late-summer green, thick and unruly, like nature had decided to ignore all the neat architectural lines of my house and do what it wanted.
Maybe I envied that a little.
Dean’s voice followed me.
