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“Do you?”

“I was coming to tell you everything.”

“When?” I moved to the sofa because if I didn’t sit, I might throw something.

Paul followed me, but wisely sat in the chair across from me, his back ramrod straight, not touching the back of the chair. “Now.”

“No. When did you decide to tell me?”

He looked out the sliding glass doors, where the reflection of the room made him look less solid than he was.

“Last night.”

“After your father finally told you how bad it was?”

His gaze came back to mine as he flinched. I waited for the rush of triumph, the satisfaction of catching him before he could arrange the truth to his liking, but it didn’t come, and all I felt was tired and sick.

“Did you know about my trust?” I asked. “The trust my own parents haven’t even told me about?”

Paul didn’t look away. “Yes.”

The word was quiet, and yet it seemed to fill up the whole room.

“How long have you known?”

He swallowed. “Since spring when my father mentioned it.”

“Casually?”

He frowned.

“Yes.”

I sat on my hands trying to sit still. “How fortunate for everyone that a trust for me came up in casual conversation.”

“Lorrie—”

“No. I need you to answer me before you make it sound better than it is.” My knee bounced up and down as I remained seated, for now. “Are you marrying me because your father needs access to my family money?”

“No.” He answered too quickly.

I hated that too. “I don’t believe you.”

“No,” he said, slower now. “I’m not marrying you because my father needs money.”

“Is your father counting on my trust fund after we get engaged?”

Paul’s jaw clenched. “He wants a bit of breathing room.”

“Breathing room.”

“I told him no.”

“After he explained it plainly? Or before?”

He flinched, and his face gave me enough of an answer.

Unable to stay seated, I walked to the kitchen and grabbed a wine cooler from the fridge, and because manners were a part of my DNA, I handed him a bottle of the imported beer he liked, and that my mother kept stocked for him.