Hollis

A few days later, I sit in Father’s tapestry-covered office for one of our weekly meetings, warming my hands over his fire.

“What are you smiling about?” he snaps. “Our southwestern border has been attacked.”

“By rogues.” I try to swallow my grin, but it’s impossible. It’s been impossible since my talk with Candace in the gallery and the evening that followed. Since then, I’ve seen her almost every day, and at least half the time, I don’t even ...