Chapter 11 Perry
PERRY
Olivia swears this is a good idea.
“It’s low stakes,” she says while helping me zip up a dress I haven’t worn since before I was pregnant. “You won’t get attached.”
“I don’t get attached,” I mutter.
She gives me a look in the mirror.
“Fine,” I amend. “I get selectively attached.”
“That’s worse.”
His name is Wesley Tisdale, the Third. The Third.
The Tisdales are Snow Valley royalty without the land. Old banking money. Country club board members. The kind of family that has a crest but pretends they don’t.
“He’s safe,” Olivia insists. “He’s handsome, wealthy, deeply boring. The perfect palate cleanser.”
“I have twins,” I remind her.
“And?”
“And why the hell is a Tisdale interested in going out with me?”
It gives her pause. I see the line in the middle of her brow form, then vanish. “Maybe because you’re pretty.”
“I don’t feel pretty.” I feel stitched. Tired. Slightly leaky. My body is still recovering from eviction-level trauma. When I think about sex, parts of me ache in an extremely unsexy way.
But dinner? Dinner, I can do.
Olivia huffs, her hands on her hips. “You are pretty, you idiot.”
I roll my eyes, and the doorbell rings. Wesley. He is, unfortunately, very handsome. Tall. Clean-cut. Navy coat tailored to perfection. Hair styled like he’s never experienced humidity.
“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.
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.”
“Oh, it is. I’m sure you and your boys would adore it as much as the rest of my family.”
That is dangerously close to a “we” statement on a first date. What the hell did Olivia tell this guy about me?
Dessert arrives looking like it needs its own publicist. Something with caramelized pears and a delicate lattice of spun sugar that feels aggressively unnecessary.
Wesley looks pleased. “This place does subtlety well.”
Subtlety?
“So,” he says, folding his hands together like we’re about to negotiate a merger, “what are you looking for right now?”
Hell of a question. But all I can think of is the guy who makes my stomach flip.
“I’m…recalibrating,” I say carefully.
Wesley nods like that’s an acceptable corporate answer. “After a life change.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
He studies me in that polite, assessing way wealthy men do. Not invasive. Just curious enough to determine viability. “I’m not opposed to complexity.”
I almost laugh. “You say that like it’s a line item.”
“Everything is.” He gestures lightly with his fork. “You’re intelligent. Composed. Attractive. The situation doesn’t bother me.”
The situation. The twins. The single mother thing. The implied baggage.
Calling my sons a situation makes me grind my teeth. I know he means it positively, and that only pisses me off more.
But at his echelon, dating a single mom is taboo, unless she’s a wealthy divorcee.
Then it’s iffy, but not verboten. But me?
He’s letting me know he’s stepping down a station just to be here with me.
It’s his polite way of telling me I’m lucky he’d even consider coming here with me, because I am social poison.
So as to not offend him, and thus upset whatever balance Olivia has with the Tisdale family, I choose my words carefully. “I think you deserve someone who’s excited to be here.”
His brow lifts slightly. “And you’re not.”
“You’re a lovely man, Wesley, but I’m not sure we would see eye to eye about things.”
He nods once, absorbing it like information rather than an insult. “How do I change your mind about that?”
His determination makes me smile. “I’m not sure you can.”
We sit in a brief, polite silence while the waiter hovers discreetly nearby. The spun sugar wilts slightly under the lights.
This is the kind of night I used to chase. But now I can’t even fake wanting it, and that realization feels terrifyingly permanent.
He leans toward me, just enough to be noticeable. Then he smirks. “I handle business mergers every day, Temperance. You have no idea how good I am at changing minds. Give me an hour, and I’ll change yours.”
Maybe there’s more to Wesley Tisdale the Third than I thought.
But I’ll never know. “Let’s finish dessert and see where the night takes us.”
He smiles handsomely and returns to his dessert, unaware of the fact that my night is going to end with a hot shower and my cozy bed.