“Uh, definitely not. There were women’s clothes in the bedroom that wouldn’t fit Gwendolyn.” He gives me an imploring look. “I don’t even know if it was one woman or more than one. You’d tell me if you knew anything about this, wouldn’t you?”

I want to comfort him, but I’m not sure how. “If I knew and you wanted to know, I would tell you, Lincoln. Your parents’ relationship always seemed more like a business relationship than one built on love, but I don’t know anything else.” I cover his hand with mine. “I promise I’d tell you if I knew anything important. And if you want me to look into it, I can.”

Lincoln runs his free hands through his freshly styled hair, sending it into disarray. “It was different when I just suspected, but actually seeing it … I don’t even know who my father was. He had a whole different life, Wren, and he was into some pretty weird stuff that might explain why my parents haven’t slept in the same room since I was a kid.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was a room with a lot of props and costumes.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t think I understand.”

He shakes his head. “He had a fetish room.”

“Oh.” I have no idea what I’m supposed to say to that. Sorry doesn’t seem right. How exactly does someone deal with finding that out about their deceased parent?

I feel awful for putting him through a tux fitting and a haircut after the afternoon he’s had. I know exactly what it’s like to be disappointed by a parent in a way that crushes the soul and shakes the foundation of trust. Lincoln is almost better off for not having had any trust to break in the first place.

“I don’t even know who I am. I don’t want these people to be my family. How is this the legacy I’m supposed to uphold?”

My hand is still covering his. Lincoln flips his so we’re palm to palm and threads our fingers together. “You’re the only person I feel like I can trust. I don’t think even my grandmother will be straight with me. Please, be someone I can count on, Wren. I need you to be that for me.” His thumb brushes along my knuckles, and his voice drops to a whisper. “Just please.”

I fight the flutter in my chest, because he doesn’t mean that the way my stupid body is interpreting his declaration. “You can trust me.” I squeeze his hand. “I’ll always be straight with you, and I’m sorry you have questions about your father that I can’t answer, and if you want help finding answers to them, I can do that.”

He nods, gaze shifting back to his laptop. “How am I going to get up in front of all of those people and give that speech with conviction? They’ll see right through me, and I’ll be a total fraud. That’s not who I am.”

I move closer and cup his cheek in my palm, trying to get him to look at me. His skin is warm and rough with a day’s worth of stubble. For the most part, I avoid making prolonged eye contact with Lincoln because my panties feel like they’re going to explode when I do.

It’s no different now, which borders on inappropriate because Lincoln is vulnerable and distressed, and no parts of my body should feel excited about our current closeness. But that’s the thing about physical responses; they don’t always take into consideration what’s going on in the brain when they happen.

“Listen to me. You’re a good man, who genuinely wants to do good things. I know this is hard for you, and I wish I could tell you something that will make it better, but your family’s choices aren’t yours to own. You don’t have to uphold a legacy you don’t feel good about, Lincoln. You can create your own.”

“This whole thing is such a mess.”

“I know. But I’m here to help you figure out how to manage it, whatever that looks like.” I’m still touching his face. I should move my hand. But I’m having a hard time getting the command in my head to make its way down my arm.

Lincoln shifts, his knee knocking against mine, creating another point of physical contact. “I don’t think I can do this without you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Because it’s one of your duties as assigned.” Something like hurt colors the statement.

I shake my head. “This is me, offering to be here for you, however you need me. Not because it’s my job, but because I care and I understand better than you know what it’s like to be in your shoes.”

I drop my hand, but he catches my wrist. “However I need you?”

The attraction we’ve been flirting with flares with his gritty tone. Somewhere in my head I acknowledge that this could be a very complicated situation, considering my role. Unfortunately or not, my body doesn’t really seem to care that giving in to this chemistry would be a bad idea.