There’s no tension in it. No undercurrent of resentment, only the truth. Before I can say anything else, someone calls his name.
“Sam Hughes.”
I recognize the tone before I see the man, polished, professional, used to being listened to. Probably someone who works with his Dad. Sam turns after giving my cheek a kiss and a squeeze on my hip. He takes a few steps away, but I stay where I am and listen.
Not intentionally at first. Then … very intentionally.
The man—Talbot, I think I hear—launches into something about a project, margins, opportunity. I feel the old version of myself stir for half a second—the one who wonders what Sam will do. But I don’t move or let on that I can hear. While lingering, I catch something I never thought I would.
“I’d have to talk to my wife first.”
Sam’s words, so honest, ring through my ears, taking me a second to process them.
Sam glances at me then, not asking for permission, but including me in it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“We’ll take a look at it,” he adds.
We. Talbot nods, moves on, conversation over.
Sam turns back to me, one brow lifts slightly, questioning my look. “Your wife?” I ask. “Bold move.”
He beams at me before saying, “Feels right. Even in Hughes Construction, I don’t want to take on projects that create any potential risk without speaking to you first.”
I look at him, shocked at this statement. I have never been involved in his business decisions, not because I don’t have insight or expertise, but because it was his work. Now he’s bringing me in, making it closer to ours. I have to swallow and choke back some tears. Sam sees it, his hand tightens slightly at my waist, acknowledging the words I can’t say.
“Also,” I add, trying to lighten the mood, leaning in just enough that it’s only for him, “The ‘my wife’ comment?”
“Yeah?”
“Very hot.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, leaning closer, his mouth brushing near my ear. “I’m glad you approve.”
My stomach flips; my body’s reaction to Sam is as annoying as it is predictable, even in public. As I lean in, wanting to suggest we leave, someone calls my name.
“Becca.”
I turn at the sound to see Mrs. Hughes a few feet away, speaking with a couple I vaguely recognize from town. She gestures slightly for me to come over. I hesitate for half a second before moving. Sam’s hand slips from my waist, but his fingers brush mine as I step away. Not letting go, letting me lead, trusting I can handle it.
“Becca,” Mrs. Hughes says as I approach, her tone measured but not cold. “These are the Whitakers.” The couple smiles politely.
“This is my daughter-in-law,” she adds.
It’s simple, factual. Said with no hesitation or qualification, but something inside me shifts. She rarely publicly acknowledges me, rarely even introduces me.
“And she’s the one behind the tiny cabin out by the river,” Mrs. Hughes continues. “The new builds everyone’s been talking about.”
I blink—that part I wasn’t expecting.
“It’s adorable,” Mrs. Whitaker says. “We drove by last weekend.”
“Thank you,” I manage.
I glance at Mrs. Hughes. She gives a small nod. Not warm, but not distant either.
“I’ve heard you are booking up into next season,” Mr. Whitaker adds.
“Yes, faster than expected,” I acknowledge, trying to hold the surprise out of my voice.
