Page 25 of Held-

“She’s… generous with her praise,” Brayden answers, choosing his words carefully.

“She mentioned you’ve been helping her with Harold’s medical expenses. The bills from his surgery.”

My chest tightens. I had no idea. Jillian never said a word about money, but that’s her—she’d give away her last dollar before admitting she needed help.

“Family takes care of each other.” Brayden lifts a shoulder in a small shrug, as if it’s no big deal, though the tension in his stance tells me this topic isn’t easy for him. “She and Harold gave me a home when no one else would. Helping with the bills is the least I can do.”

My father studies him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he opens his desk drawer and pulls out a set of keys.

“The van needs gas,” he says, tossing the keys to Brayden, who catches them with one hand. “And the passenger door sticks sometimes. You have to pull up while you open it.”

Mrs. Whitaker makes a strangled sound beside me. “Reverend Montgomery, I must protest! The board will?—”

“The board,” my father interrupts, “can take up their concerns with me at the meeting this afternoon. In the meantime, there are families counting on us.” He turns to Brayden. “I expect the van back by five. We have youth group tonight.”

I'm too stunned to speak. My father, the man who lectured me for three days about the company I keep, is handing over church property to a leather-clad biker without so much as a background check.

“Yes, sir,” Brayden says, pocketing the keys. “We'll have it back before then.”

“And Cecelia,” Dad adds, his gaze shifting to me, “remember who you're representing.”

And there it is—the reminder that he’s still pissed at me, and that I’ve backed him into a corner. Well, at least tonight at dinner, he’ll speak more than one word to me. There’s that to look forward to later.

“Like you’d ever let me forget, Dad,” I manage.

Mrs. Whitaker looks like she's swallowed something sour. “I'll be documenting this conversation for the board meeting,” she announces, clutching her clipboard tighter.

“You do that,” Brayden says cheerfully. “Make sure you spell my name right. B-R-A-Y-D-E-N. One 'i,' no 'e' at the end.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Mrs. Whitaker's face turns an impressive shade of purple.

“We should get going,” I say quickly, before she can spontaneously combust. “Thank you, Dad.”

He nods, already turning back to his paperwork in that way that signals the conversation is over. “Drive safely.”

I follow Brayden out of the office, acutely aware of Mrs. Whitaker’s disapproving stare burning between my shoulder blades with pinpoint precision. The hallway suddenly feels endless, every step echoing off the walls with the sharpness of gunfire in a cathedral.

“That went better than expected,” Brayden says once we're out of earshot, his voice carrying that hint of amusement that seems to be his default setting.

“Better than expected?” I stare at him. “Mrs. Whitaker looked ready to start an exorcism, and my father just handed you the keys to church property after lecturing me for three days about my poor judgment.”

“Yeah, but he handed me the keys.” He dangles them from his finger, “That's what matters.”

I shake my head, still processing what just happened.

“You going to stand there all day or….?”

“No, I'm coming,” I say, still a bit dazed as I follow him down the hallway.

The bright morning sun hits my eyes as we step outside, and I squint against the glare. For a moment, I just stand there, watching Brayden stride toward the church van, moving with an ease that feels almost unreal in this setting. Seeing him here—his cut, his boots—against the pristine church grounds sends a strange jolt through me.

“You coming, princess?” he calls over his shoulder, already at the driver’s side door.

“You’re driving?” I ask, hurrying to catch up.

“Unless you want to.” He holds the keys out, already knowing my decision.

“No, go ahead.” I reach for the passenger door, remembering too late my father’s warning. It sticks, exactly as Dad said it would. I tug, but it doesn’t budge.