“Likewise,” my dad says, his jaw tight as he takes Julian’s proffered hand in a white-knuckled handshake. “I’m glad you were finally able to make it out here.”
“Yes, so am I,” Julian says smoothly, releasing my dad’s hand. I notice red finger marks on his hand where my dad purposefully squeezed too hard, and my heart skips a beat. However, when I sneak a glance at my dad’s hand, I realize with relief that there’s no corresponding damage there.
Julian must’ve forgiven my dad this small act of aggression—or at least I’m hoping that’s the case.
As we walk toward the dining room, I steal covert looks at my husband’s handsome profile. Having my former captor in my childhood home is beyond strange. I’m used to being with him in exotic, foreign locations, not Oak Lawn, Illinois. Seeing Julian
