The day Dean received the invitation to Émile’s and Andrew’s wedding, it felt like his chest had been torn open all over again.

Human feelings were a strange, laughable thing. He hadn’t been in love with Émile—not after the annulment over a cold phone call and certainly not when Ma told him Émile was now engaged to his own cousin.

No, he wasn’t pinning over his ex-fiancé.

He was furious. Out of all the people in Cloverhill, Émile just had to pick his cousin.

And so Dean Ford did something utterly out of character—something reckless even by his own standards. He blackmailed his secretary.

The office whispers were true. Secretary was a notorious playboy. A heartbreaker. Reckless. Everything Dean was not. While Dean guarded his heart with all his might, secretary laid his own bare in plain view, unafraid and unapologetic.

He would have fired the sly heartbreaker months ago if not for HR reminding him of the revolving door of secretaries who’d lasted less than a week under his roof. Secretary was the only one who’d stuck around. Efficient, competent and persistent despite Dean's well-known temper.

And, begrudgingly, Dean had to admit it—he was impressed. Still, he held the upper hand here. After all, he was secretary’s boss.

Maybe it was also because, last year, in a rare moment of impulsiveness, he’d told his parents he was dating secretary. The only person who’d even crossed his mind at the time.

It hadn’t taken much to persuade secretary to go along with his plan. A week in Cloverhill for Émile’s wedding—after that, they’d return to the city and this foolishness would be over.

Dean had expected a small, quiet welcome when he returned to his parents’ home. Nothing grand, just the usual warmth he’d grown up with.

Instead, he walked in to find all of them. Parents, extended family—and the source of his rage, Émile and Andrew.

"Welcome home, Dean!" the chorus rang out. His father held out a small cake to him and secretary, while colorful confetti rained down around them.

Surprise was an understatement for how he felt when he saw their faces.

"Seriously, Ma?" he asked, helping his mother cut a watermelon in the kitchen. "I don’t need a surprise party. I’m thirty-two now."

Martha chuckled, pouring fresh orange juice into mismatched glasses. "I know, I know! But you’re bringing your lover home—me and Pa couldn’t help ourselves. How long has it been? A year?"

Two, actually.

She carried the tray into the living room, where the extended family mingled, laughing and chasing the children darting between them. Secretary stood near the center, chatting with Émile.

"Oh, Deanie," Martha sighed, setting down the tray. Some relatives snatched the glasses greedily. "He looks so handsome, that boy."

Dean felt a pang of guilt—dragging secretary into his mess—and yet, seeing Martha smile so warmly, all the self-loathing faded just enough. "He is," Dean admitted quietly, a small corner of his lips betraying him.

Martha guided him to the center of the room. Before Dean could react, all eyes were on them—the so-called happy couple.

"So, Dean, tell us—how did you two meet?" Émile asked, smiling as though nothing had ever happened between them.

Martha wrapped an arm around Harlan’s waist. "That’s right, Deanie-Weenie. Why don’t you tell everyone how you two met?"

Dean’s eyes went wide. Half in disbelief that everyone’s attention was suddenly on him—he hated this kind of attention—and half because Martha had just revealed his childhood nickname to his secretary.

It’s fine. We went over this days ago, he tried to steady himself. How exactly does it go again?

His gaze flicked to secretary, silently pleading for help.