Later that evening, after the dinner plates had been washed and cleared away and the kitchen grew quiet once more, Dylan stood near the front entryway with his winter coat draped over his arm. He looked down for a long moment at the heavy black velvet box resting quietly on the hallway table, then looked back up at me.
“I’m staying at a hotel near the highway for a few days,” he said, hesitating awkwardly. “I have to meet with the corporate legal team on Thursday morning to finalize the remaining asset paperwork.”
“You are not staying at a highway hotel,” I said immediately, my tone leaving no room for argument. “The guest bedroom upstairs is exactly where you left it. Well, except I finally got rid of all those dusty old golf magazines Richard insisted on hoarding.”
Dylan let out a short, watery laugh, the last vestiges of tension evaporating from his shoulders. “Are you entirely sure? I don’t want to intrude on your peace.”
