Page 43 of Orphan Girl's Mountain Men

Except Lennon. He's the only one I'll permit to have a relationship with her.

Permit? Listen to yourself! You're not her father. What right do you have to permit her to do anything?

Yet the urge remains—along with an unwelcome thought: perhaps she should move to the main house after all.

Once the introductions are done, we head into the kitchen. I start pulling things together for supper, and she insists on helping. As she does, she chatters about her day, and I listen, amused.

For a second, it strikes me—what we're doing almost feels domestic. Almost like we're a family.

Hah. If we're a family, it's a goddamn dysfunctional one.

CHAPTER 15

Hailey

Cooking with Dean turns out to be better than expected.

I offer to help because it seems like the right thing to do. Since I am here for dinner anyway, I might as well lend a hand. I half expect him to turn my offer down, but in the end he doesn’t. Once we're in the kitchen, I start chattering, expecting little in return and bracing myself for awkward silences.

It ends up not being awkward at all.

Surprisingly, Dean turns out to be a good conversationalist—not because he says much, but because what he does say is pertinent and insightful. He's an active listener, remembering key details even from my most off-hand comments.

For example, when I mention we should probably get a different disinfectant, like the one my aunt used for her weekly deep clean, he says, "Your aunt deep cleans every week?"

"Yup," I answer. "Would've been every day if we'd let her."

He snorts.

I talk about my past—growing up with my aunt and uncle, going to school, then college, and my short time as a junior accountant before I left to go traveling. Once again, he doesn'tsay much, just offers quiet nods and grunts at all the right moments.

When I tell him my one and only amusing anecdote from my time at the accountancy firm—the time we had a 'Secret Santa' where everyone brought a pre-wrapped gift and added it to a big sack. Then everyone took a turn to randomly pick out a gift from the sack and unwrap it to ee what they had got from 'Santa'. Someone from Sales had ended up with a highly inappropriate gift that some wag had decided to anonymously contribute, and the Head of HR had announced at an "all hands" meeting that it wasn't corporate policy to gift vibrating dildos as Christmas presents, and she then had to red-facedly try to explain to our oldest Senior Partner what a vibrator is used for—he shakes his head and chuckles. Even that small chuckle transforms his face, making him look almost boyish.

I can tell he's a man who doesn't smile much—not because of open grief like Lennon carries, but because there simply isn't much to smile about. His entire life seems focused on work and duty. Not tragic, but still a little sad.

"If you hated accounting so much, why did you do it?" he asks quietly, opening the oven door to check on the roasting meat. The rich, umami scent teases my nostrils, making my stomach rumble.

In retrospect, I'm glad he talked me into a large breakfast this morning, even though I only managed half of it. It had sustained me through the long, exhausting day—he'd been right that there was no time to stop for lunch, not with Buggy and everything.

Breakfast feels like a distant memory now, and the steaks smell fantastic. I've never had butter-roasted potatoes before, but they smell decadently good.

Dean glances across at me expectantly, and only then do I remember he's asked me a question. I shrug.

"I didn't exactly 'hate' it, and it seemed like the right thing to do at the time," I admit. "I was good at math and aced pretty much all the tests. It was always expected—get a steady job, move out, have a family and kids. That was what a responsible adult does." I shrug. "I just went along with it. Honestly, I don't think I even realized I had a choice."

I pause for a moment, recalling it clearly. "One day, I was sitting in my office, preparing for a department meeting, and it hit me. I didn't want this life. I hated it. And I realized that if I didn't change course, I'd be stuck in it forever. Once I'd thought about that and accepted it as the truth, everything became much clearer. So obvious, in fact, that I couldn't believe I hadn't seen it before."

He flashes me that crooked smile of his, understanding flaring in his gaze. I can't help but think he might have been a charmer back in the day. Not in the obvious, showy way Reed is, but something quieter—in those secret smiles, those simmering, hidden looks.

For a few seconds, we hold each other's gaze, a quiet recognition passing between us. Time seems to stand still. Then the front door bangs open, and Reed's off-key whistling echoes down the hall.

We both snap our gazes apart like guilty teenagers.

"What's going on here?" Reed asks, glancing between us.

"Dinner," Dean says gruffly, turning back to the stove.

When Reed turns to me as if questioning why I'm helping, and what’s really been happening, I shrug. "I offered. It didn't feel right to leave him to it all alone."

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