“Perry,” he says warmly, leaning in for a cheek kiss. He smells expensive. “You look stunning.”
I smile politely. “Thank you.”
“You kids have a good time,” Olivia says, almost teasingly.
Wesley leads me to his very expensive BMW, and we’re off. The drive is short, so thankfully, the small talk is brief. The restaurant looks like it charges extra for oxygen. Tall glass windows. Dim lighting. Host in a suit that costs more than my car payment.
A year ago, I would’ve been thrilled. A Tisdale asking me out. Snow Valley’s most eligible bachelor lineage choosing me. I would’ve leaned into it. Flirted harder. Calculated the perks. Paris. Nice car. Networking. I know how to play that game.
This? I have no idea what this is.
We’re seated at a table with linen so white it’s intimidating. The menu reads like a dissertation. Prices are not listed. Wesley orders a bottle of wine. “Have you ever been to Tuscany?”
“Not yet.”
“Our family has an estate there,” he says casually. “It’s rustic, but comfortable.”
Rustic. In Tuscany. Sure. I nod, interested enough to pass.
He launches into a story about olive harvest season, generational stewardship, and the importance of preserving heritage.
I listen. I try to care. It’s not my strong suit.
All I can think about is Damian telling me he likes good barbecue. Brisket that falls apart if you look at it wrong. Sauce that stains your fingers. No linen required. He would hate this place. He would tolerate it politely, then make a dry comment about portion sizes and leave a generous tip anyway.
Wesley is mid-sentence about vineyard soil when I realize I haven’t heard a word he’s said for the last thirty seconds.
I blink.
He’s smiling at me expectantly.
I have no idea what the question was. This is not a good sign. “Sorry,” I say smoothly. “What was that?”
Wesley smiles indulgently. “I was saying the irrigation system took years to perfect. The land’s been in our family since the late 1800s.”
I’m not sure how to make myself care about that.
The wine arrives. He tastes it like someone who’s practiced tasting wine in front of other people. Nods approvingly. I accept my glass and take a sip.
It’s good. But I still want ribs.
He asks about the twins eventually, in the careful, socially appropriate way wealthy men ask about inconvenient realities. “And how are you adjusting to motherhood?”
“I’m sleep deprived. Emotionally unstable. Slightly feral,” I reply.
He chuckles politely, clearly unsure whether I’m joking. “They’re lucky to have you.”
That’s nice. It’s honestly very nice. I should feel the compliment. But I don’t.
Because when Damian said, “You did good,” it felt different. Not complimentary. Confirming. Like he had assessed the situation and reached a conclusion.
Wesley’s compliment feels rehearsed.
He launches into another story—this time about skiing in Switzerland with his cousins. Something about chalet ownership. Something about legacy.
I somehow manage to nod in all the right places.
This is exactly the kind of man I used to date. Handsome. Predictable. Wealth-adjacent. Easy to maneuver. I knew how to lean into their expectations. How to make them feel clever while steering outcomes in my direction.
