I used to enjoy it. The control. The game.
Now I can’t imagine touching him to get something. Not for Tuscany. Not for a car. Not for a lifestyle upgrade. The thought of pretending interest feels exhausting. Damian ruined that for me, which is deeply inconvenient.
Wesley is objectively a good catch. He’s mid-monologue about generational philanthropy when I drift again.
This time, I imagine Damian in his place instead. He’d lean back in the chair, reading the room in seconds. He’d make one dry comment about the lighting being optimized for discretion, not flavor. He’d order something simple. Steak, maybe. And he’d actually eat it.
He wouldn’t talk about Tuscany. He’d talk about the river. About Scout. About how some dogs don’t belong inside. Some dogs are simply meant to stay wild?—
“Perry?” Wesley’s hand waves gently in front of my face.
I blink again. “Sorry,” I say, forcing a smile. “Long week.”
“Of course,” he says graciously. “Motherhood.”
There it is again. The polite distance. He doesn’t ask where the twins’ father is. Doesn’t seem curious or threatened. Doesn’t care at all.
I hate that I notice. Am I a favor to Olivia? Is he truly this disinterested? Or is this how he treats everyone?
The appetizers arrive looking like architecture. Tiny. Symmetrical. Garnished within an inch of their lives. I’m afraid to touch mine in case it collapses under the weight of expectation.
Wesley gestures gracefully. “You’ll love the truffle foam.”
It tastes like…dirty, expensive air.
He watches me take a bite, clearly waiting for a reaction.
“It’s delicate.” I manage a slight smile, as if I’m enjoying the food, if it can be called food. That’s all it takes for him to turn his attention to his own food and stop watching me like I’m a science project.
We move on to the main courses, which are both art and insufficient. He discusses the chef’s training in Paris. The wine’s terroir. The importance of supporting “legacy establishments.”
I am dying of elegant boredom.
This is exactly the kind of evening I used to romanticize. Soft lighting. Expensive glassware. A man who assumes he’s stable enough to anchor you. A year ago, I would’ve leaned in. I would’ve flirted harder. Touched his wrist lightly when he made a point. Let him feel chosen.
“Perry?” The polite hand wave again.
I blink, caught. “Sorry,” I say for the third time tonight. “I’m just tired.”
“Of course,” he says smoothly. “You have a lot on your plate.”
Not the food, I almost say. Instead, I apologize by way of a smile. I should make an excuse and go home. I’m hating this, and I want to leave. “Might be too early for me to have late-night dinners?—”
“Have you thought about travel? Once the boys are older, of course.”
The boys. He says it like they’re accessories.
“I haven’t planned that far ahead,” I reply carefully.
“Our place in Tuscany would be perfect,” he says. “It’s private. Safe. Family-oriented.”
Everything I once claimed to want.
I take another sip of wine and realize I feel…nothing. No desire to angle this into something useful. I don’t want his estate. I don’t want his money. I don’t want his status.
I want a man who takes measured risks and feeds stray dogs.
“Sounds lovely.”
