“Hmm.” She studied him, gaze direct and assessing. “You look different here.”
“Different how?”
“I don’t know. Tighter, maybe? Like you’re performing.” Her head tilted. “Is that what this dinner was supposed to be? A performance?”
The question hit closer than he’d expected. The honest answer was yes—he’d chosen this restaurant specifically because it was impressive, because it was a place designed to demonstrate worth through purchasing power and social access.
A gesture his father would have made.
The realization sat like lead in his stomach.
The wine arrived, saving him from having to answer. She took a sip. Her face twisted.
“Thoughts?” Leo asked.
“It tastes like someone set a blackberry on fire and then apologized to it.” She took another sip, brow furrowed. “There’s definitely a smoke element. And maybe… dirt? Is dirt a flavor note? Should I be tasting dirt?”
“Some wines have an earthy quality?—”
“Earthy. That’s the word. This wine tastes like the earth. Specifically, like someone buried it in the earth and then dug it up and forgot to wash it.”
Leo pressed his napkin to his mouth. His shoulders were shaking.
“I’m serious,” Junie continued, encouraged by his reaction. “There’s layers happening here. Smoke, dirt, probably some regret. Maybe a hint of existential crisis.” She held the glass up to the candlelight. “This wine has been through things, Leo. This wine has seen some shit.”
He was laughing.
Actually laughing—not the sound he deployed at business dinners, but real laughter that cracked his chest open and spilled out before he could stop it. When had he last laughed at anything? He couldn’t remember. The sound felt foreign in his own throat.
The tables around them went silent. The sommelier froze mid-decanting at a nearby table. Somewhere in the kitchen, a pot probably clattered.
Leo didn’t care.
He was laughing at the absurdity of it all. At the wine that tasted like apologetic dirt and the restaurant where he’d spent years performing sophistication and the woman across from him who refused to play any game she hadn’t designed herself.
At the years he’d spent building a life that looked exactly like this room—pristine, expensive, hollow at its core.
The appetizers arrived. Tiny sculptures of food arranged on plates three times their size. Junie stared at her portion—a delicate construction of mousse topped with microgreens and edible flowers.
“Leo.”
“Yes?”
“What is this?”
“Foie gras terrine with?—”
“I know what foie gras is. I’m asking why it’s the size of my thumbnail.” She poked it with her fork. The entire structure wobbled precariously. “This is the appetizer. The beginning of the meal. If this is the beginning, what’s the main course? A single molecule of protein arranged artfully on a slate?”
“The portions are designed to?—”
“Starve people. The portions are designed to starve people.” She ate the entire thing in one bite, chewing with profound disappointment. “That was not worth four hours of driving.”
Leo looked at her. At this woman in her sale-rack dress and borrowed confidence, sitting in one of the most exclusive restaurants on the West Coast, utterly unimpressed by everything it represented.
His lion was silent. Waiting. Watching Leo make a choice.
“You hate it,” he said quietly.
