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She rotated her head and lifted one lid to look at him. “You counted?”
“Hell, yeah,” he tightened his grip on her slightly. “Gotta figure out the fastest route in case I need to kick some frat boy’s ass.”
Jillian laughed lightly and some of the stormy emotions inside settled. No matter what he’d be her best friend and that was what mattered the most.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dean
Present Day
He may be twenty-seven, a partner in a successful business, and—as far as everyone on the outside of their marriage was concerned—son-in-law to the great and powerful Monroe family, but he still hated standing outside of the imposing monstrosity Jillian called home.
An involuntary smile pulled at his lips. Not anymore. Home was his house, with him. And he’d do anything to keep it that way. But first…
The door swung wide in front of him and Henry’s stoic veneer cracked for a fleeting moment when he saw Dean standing on the other side. All too soon the older man composed his features into the same cold, professional expression he always wore. He bent slightly at the waist. “Good morning, Mr. Carlisle. May I ask why you’re calling?”
Over their twenty years of friendship, it never failed to amuse him how different their lives were. And the fact that Jillian basically grew up in the kind of home that he once thought only lived on in movies or books. “Hey there, Henry. Is Mr. Monroe available?”
Henry merely nodded and stood to the side, holding an arm out for Dean to come in.
Dutifully, Dean followed the older man down the hallway, and every memory of his brief and infrequent visits here played through his mind. He knew the massive house well enough to know they were heading exactly where he expected, to Edward Monroe’s study.
Henry knocked twice, and at the grunted “come in” that filtered through the door, he opened the thick oak plank and gestured for Dean to enter.
Edward held his forehead in one hand, his elbow propped on the ornate wooden desk. “Henry, I need to speak with—Dean? What are you doing here?” The older man stood. “Is something wrong with Jillian?”
Dean immediately shook his head. “Not…not like that. May I sit, sir?” Although she may have had four rowdy boys to corral, and probably let them get away with more than they deserved far too often, manners were one thing Tracy Carlisle insisted upon. And he knew better than to allow them to slip in this household.
There were probably ghosts of genteel ladies and refined men waiting in the wings to pounce if he dared step out of line. A shiver ran down his spine. He really did hate this place.
Edward nodded and then lowered himself back into the leather chair. “Then why are you here?”
Dean glanced over his shoulder as he took a seat on the opposite side of the desk, making sure they were alone. “First, I want you to understand that I say this with all due respect, but I am also here because of Jilly.” The tight band around his heart constricted at the mere mention of her name. Damn, he was hopeless.
Jillian’s father frowned at him, his thick, bushy, gray brows drawn tightly together. “So far I don’t like where this conversation is going.”
A war of emotions raged inside of him from contempt for the man who created a situation that caused Jillian even a moment of stress, to empathy and understanding, to a rather overwhelming urge to deck the guy.
Instead he cleared his throat. “Sir, Jillian told me everything. I knew about the will before the wedding, but she also explained why it was so important.” He left out the tiny detail that she was completely shit-faced when she made the confession.
Edward’s face turned an ugly shade of red. “So, that’s what this is about? You’re married to my daughter for two days and you think you have the dirt and the power to bring the hundreds of years of our family’s legacy to its knees by exposing us or forcing us to give you part of the trust?”
Anger and distrust and projection were all reactions he was used to, but the difference this time was they carried with them the implication that Dean would even entertain the idea of doing something to hurt Jillian.
Hell to the no on that one.
He took a deep breath and pushed down the frustration and irritation inside. He held up both hands, palms out. “That isn’t what I said at all. In fact, I am completely in favor of keeping this quiet because Jillian doesn’t need any more stress than what you’ve already given her.”
Her father’s once mottled face drained of all its color. He dropped his head. “Then what the hell do you want? My gratitude?”
“I want to help you.” It was partially true. He wanted to help the other man—but not for him, for Jillian. Despite her family’s total lack of support for her career and life choices, he knew she carried the weight of obligation and loyalty. She was devoted to the people and the legacy, not only because of them, but because of her grandfather.
Edward turned in his seat, grabbed a decanter from the shelves lining the wall behind him, and filled the crystal glass on his desk with the rich amber liquid. “Exactly what kind of help are you offering, young man?”
Dean shifted slightly in his seat. He probably should have talked to Jillian before this, and he definitely should have clued her in to all the things he did on the ranch, but he was nearly certain she’d brush him off. And he knew deep down that this would be the best option for the entire family. “Do you know what I do? As a career, I mean.”
The older man took a long drink, nearly draining the glass in one gulp. He set the nearly empty crystal down on the desk softly and gave a sharp shake of his head. “No, can’t say I do.”
