“Everyone’s heard of it,” I say, blinking at the sleek glass front and the line of luxury cars pulling up to the curb. “It just opened like a month ago. I heard they’re booked out for months already. I didn’t even bother trying to get a reservation.”
He smiles like that was exactly the point. “Told you I’d take care of you.”
The valet opens my door, and Grant’s hand is back at my waist as he helps me out, lingering just long enough to make my pulse jump. Inside, the restaurant is buzzing, low music playing, candlelight everywhere, the kind of place where everyone looks important and the menus definitely don’t have prices.
The hostess looks up, her expression shifting the second she sees him. “Mr. Whitaker, right this way.”
We’re led to a quiet table near the window, city lights spilling in behind us like something out of a movie. Grant pulls out my chair, and I sit, smoothing my dress over my thighs while trying to calm the flutter in my chest. “This is beautiful,” I say honestly.
“Only the best,” he replies, settling into his seat across from me.
The server appears almost instantly with water and wine before we even ask, and before I can open my mouth, Grant is already ordering. “I’ll have the cabernet,” he says smoothly, then glances at me. “She’ll have the same, and we’ll do the filet, medium rare, with the truffle risotto.”
I blink. “Oh, I was,”
“It’s their best dish,” he says, already handing the menus back to the server like the decision is final.
The server nods and walks off, and I’m left staring at him, a tight little knot forming in my stomach. I force a small smile. “I usually like choosing my own food,” I say carefully, trying to keep my tone light.
He tilts his head, clearly not loving that answer. “Relax, Brooke. I’m just trying to make the night easy for you.”
Right. Easy. The wine arrives, and he lifts his glass. “To new beginnings.”
I clink mine with his, trying to push the weird feeling down. “To new beginnings.”
And then the conversation becomes… all about him. His job. His investments. His properties. His cars. His travel schedule. How busy he is. How many people want his time. He talks like he’s pitching himself as a brand instead of just being a guy on a date, and I find myself nodding and smiling and waiting for him to ask something about me. He doesn’t.
Finally, I cut in. “So what made you decide to move here?”
“I like quiet towns,” he says. “Good investments. And attractive people.” His eyes sweep over me in a way that makes my skin prickle instead of tingle.
“Did you always want to be a real estate agent?” he asks suddenly.
I blink at the shift. “No, actually. I was in college for something totally different.”
“Oh yeah?” He takes a sip of wine. “What happened?”
“My parents died,” I say, because I’m not about to dance around that. “I dropped out to take care of my sisters.”
There it is. The moment where people usually pause, soften, say they’re sorry, maybe even look at me like I’m not just a pretty girl in a black dress anymore.
Grant doesn’t. He just nods once and says, “That must’ve been inconvenient.” Inconvenient.
I stare at him, heat crawling up my spine. “It was… life-changing.”
“Sure,” he says, waving a hand like he’s brushing off something minor. “But it worked out. You’ve got a good career now.”
Something in me goes very still. So that’s it. No empathy. No curiosity. Just… moving on.
He launches right back into talking about work, about money, about deals, and the uncomfortable realization settles heavy in my chest.
He doesn’t care about me. He cares about having me. My phone buzzes in my purse. I ignore it. Then it buzzes again. I pull it out just enough to check the screen.
Bella: u good??
I start to type back, just a quick I’m fine, when Grant’s eyes drop to my phone and his jaw tightens. “Am I boring you?” he asks, and the tone is sharper than before.
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s my sister. She worries.”
