Page 105 of Dial F for Finance

My mother stops crying for half a second. She knows that tone.

“They’re coming Thursday,” she says. “Her parents, the program director, maybe Hannah’s case manager. They want to discuss boundaries. Transportation privileges. Whether Dustin and Hannah should have separate activity schedules for a while.”

“That’s not happening.”

“I hope not. Dustin heard the word ‘separate,’ and now he’s upstairs and he won’t come down, and your father is—Esteban, stop yelling at the oven⁠—”

In the background, my father shouts, “I am not yelling at the oven. I am yelling near the oven.”

Excellent. Everyone is thriving.

I close my eyes and release a steady breath.

“I’m on my way,” I say.

My mother exhales like I’ve offered to hold up the roof.

“Thank you, mijo.”

“Tell Dad I’ll be there in”—I look at my watch—“about five hours. Is Dustin staying with you tonight?”

“Yes. He’s very upset.”

“OK. Tell him I’m coming.”

We disconnect and I toss the phone onto the mattress, dragging a heavy hand down my face.

“I have to go to Greenwich,” I say, the words tasting like ash after the promise of the evening we just had. “Right now.”

Jenna is already moving. The seductive, relaxed woman from two minutes ago vanishes, replaced instantly by the hyper-efficient executive I married. She slides off the bed, adjusting my shirt around her thighs, and heads straight for the closet.

“OK. Family emergency,” she says, pulling my leather duffel from the top shelf before smoothly retrieving her own weekender bag. “Let’s get moving. I caught a little from the phone call, but you can fill me in on the details on the way.”

I blink, my brain stalling as she immediately starts transferring underwear and socks from her newly claimed drawer into her bag. “Whoa, hold on. Jenna, you don’t have to come.”

She doesn’t even pause her packing. “Do you need a suit, or will casual wear suffice for middle-of-the-night crisis management?”

“Jenna.” I step into the closet, catching her wrist before she can turn back to the drawers. “Seriously. It’s Dustin. He’s OK, but he took my dad’s vintage Mercedes for a joyride, the cops got involved, and now Hannah’s parents are threatening to separate them. My dad is currently yelling at kitchen appliances, and my mother is practically speaking in tongues.”

She processes this for a fraction of a second. “Understood. Casual wear, then.”

“No, you’re not listening,” I say, my chest tightening with that familiar, heavy instinct to shield her. “I’m going to be doing nonstop damage control. Managing my father’s blood pressure, talking Hannah’s parents off a ledge, and putting Dustin back together. It’s going to be a disaster. I don’t want you having to deal with my family mess.”

She turns fully to face me and crosses her arms, my oversized shirt riding up her thighs, as she pins me with a stare that brooks absolutely no opposition.

“Dominic,” she says, her tone crisp. “Isn’t this exactly what married people do? Your mess is my mess. You’re going to Connecticut to support everyone else. I’m going to Connecticut to support you. Didn’t you fly to New York and sit in an apartment for six hours just in case I called? You’ve been there for me every single time, before I even knew how to want you there. Let me be there for you. Now, let go of my wrist so I can finish packing for us.”

I drop her wrist, but only so I can slide both of my hands around her waist, hauling her flush against my chest. She lets out a soft, surprised breath as I bury my face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of bergamot and the lingering heat of my own bed.

I’ve spent my entire life being the fixer—the guy who absorbs the impact so no one else has to. The idea of someone willingly stepping into a Cruz family meltdown just to make sure I don’t face it alone completely wrecks me.

“You’re going to severely regret this,” I murmur against her collarbone. “By hour three, when my father is aggressively explaining the intricacies of 1960s German engineering to you while my mother tries to force-feed you her fourth batch of stress-empanadas, you’re going to wish you stayed in Chicago.”

She loops her arms around my neck, her fingers threading into the short hair at my nape. “I regularly negotiate with venture capitalists who throw tantrums over decimal points, Dominic. I can survive your parents.”

I pull back just enough to look into those fiercely determined eyes. A slow, helpless smile spreads across my face. “God, I love you,” I say, knowing she gets awkward whenever I say it, but unable to keep it in. “You terrifying, magnificent menace.”

“I know,” she says primly, though her lips curve into a devastating smile. “Now grab your boots. We have a flight to catch, and I need to let Bennett know I’m working remotely for a couple of days.”