"I asked."
"Most people ask to be polite. They don't actually want the real answer."
Callum holds my gaze across the length of the sofa. "I don't do polite questions, Nadia. If I ask something, I want the truth."
There's weight behind the words. A seriousness that makes me feel seen in a way I'm not entirely comfortable with.
"Fine. The truth is my father left my mother for a younger woman and I've spent the last eighteen years pretending I'm over it when I'm clearly not." I drain the rest of my whiskey. "Your turn. Tell me something real about your family."
"My parents died when I was twenty two. Car accident. Black ice on the highway." He says it matter of factly, but I catch the tightness around his eyes. "I raised my three younger brothersafter that. Took over the family business. Built this house because we needed something solid after everything fell apart."
"God, Callum. I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It was a long time ago."
"That doesn't mean it stopped hurting."
His expression shifts, something raw flickering through before he locks it down again. "No. It doesn't."
The fire crackles. Outside, the wind continues its assault. I'm suddenly very aware of how intimate this is. Two strangers trading wounds in the middle of the night, wrapped in firelight and whiskey and the strange cocoon of a snowstorm.
"Declan is the second oldest," Callum continues. "He handles field operations for the company. Flynn is third, does our books and client relations. Ronan is the youngest, environmental surveys and forestry management."
"All working in the family business?"
"All living on family land too. Declan has a cabin about a mile east. Flynn and Ronan share a place closer to town." He pauses. "We're close. Probably too close by some standards. But when you lose your parents young, you hold onto what's left."
I think about Yasmine. About the way we drifted apart after our parents' divorce, each of us orbiting different households and processing the same trauma in opposite ways. She leaned into perfection, curating a life that looked flawless from the outside. I leaned into ambition, building a career to prove I didn't need anyone.
Neither strategy worked particularly well.
"What else do I need to know?" I ask, steering us back to practical territory before I start crying in front of a man I barely know. "For the act. What's your middle name? Birthday? Favorite food?"
"James. April fifteenth. And anything I don't have to cook myself." He tilts his head. "What's your middle name?"
"Michelle. After my grandmother."
"Nadia Michelle Smith." He says my full name like he's testing how it feels in his mouth. "It suits you."
"Thanks, I picked it out myself."
His almost smile makes another appearance. I'm starting to keep count.
"What else?" I prompt.
"I don't dance. I don't do small talk. And I leave events early without apologizing for it." He sets down his empty glass. "Fair warning, I'm not the easiest person to fake date."
"I'm getting that impression."
"And you?" He turns that assessing gaze on me. "What should I know about you?"
"I talk too much when I'm nervous. I hate being condescended to. And I have a tendency to say exactly what I'm thinking at the worst possible moments." I shrug. "My last boyfriend called it being abrasive. I call it being honest."
"Sounds like he couldn't handle you."
"No one can handle me, apparently. That's the problem."
The words come out more vulnerable than I intended. Callum studies me for a long moment, and I brace for the platitudes. You just haven't met the right person. You need to soften your edges. Men are intimidated by successful women.
