Chapter 17 - Perry
PERRY
Damian’s truck makes me feel like I’ve made a good decision.
Which is absurd. It’s just a truck.
But it’s clean without being flashy. Dark gray.
Solid. The kind of vehicle that says I do practical things and I don’t need you to clap about it.
It’s at least ten years old, and a little beat-up.
It smells like coffee and cedar and faint leather.
Him. The dashboard is scuffed in places, not pristine.
There’s a baseball cap in the back seat. It feels lived-in.
I have a ridiculous urge to reach over and touch his arm. Instead, I buckle my seat belt.
“So, what is Dos Hermanos like?” He pulls onto the road. “I don’t think I’ve been.”
“That’s because you’re respectable.”
“And you’re not?”
“Respectability is not a priority so much as really good food is.”
He smirks at that.
We head toward the next town over. Snow Valley starts thinning—fewer manicured lawns, fewer symmetrical houses that look like they were built from the same Pinterest board. As much as it’s the perfect place for hunting millionaires, I’m always relieved when I get to escape.
“I figured,” I say casually, “that maybe we don’t need an audience.”
He nods once. “How do you mean?”
“I’ve been coming here for years,” I continue. “My hairstylist told me about it.”
“That’s a trustworthy source.”
“She said Dos Hermanos is where people go when they don’t want to be seen.”
“And you thought we need privacy?”
“Keeps the gossip to a minimum, right?”
He shrugs. “With any luck.”
The memory of him spotting me on my Wesley Disaster Date still makes me cringe. Snow Valley is small. You can’t sneeze without someone knowing what brand of tissue you used, and right now, I am not interested in being the town’s next scandal.
I have enough going on.
Dos Hermanos sits behind a grocery store and a laundromat, like it doesn’t want to be found. No flashy signage. Just a glowing red script and warm light leaking out of the windows. We park in the back lot.
“You like hiding,” he says as we walk toward the entrance.
“I like control.”
“I’m getting that.”
Inside, it smells like grilled meat, lime, and something fried and delightful. The lighting is festive but warm, not moody in a pretentious way. Just soft enough that you don’t feel examined, but bright enough to see your food.
He inhales deeply. “Now this is food.”
“And no tie required.”
We’re shown to a booth near the back wall, partially shielded by a tall fake plant and a half wall.
It’s the best seat in the house if you’re avoiding people.
I slide into the booth across from him and feel my shoulders drop.
Dos Hermanos is one of my safe places. And for a few glorious minutes, I believe we’ve actually managed to avoid the gossip of Snow Valley.
The margaritas arrive sweating and unapologetic. Not dainty glasses with salted rims arranged like art. Just thick, heavy glasses that feel like they belong in your hand.
I take a sip and sigh dramatically. “See? This is civilized.”
He watches me over the rim of his own drink. “You look pleased with yourself.”
“I am.”
“For picking the restaurant?”
“For knowing you’d like it.”
He smiles faintly at that. There’s something about the lighting in here that softens him. Or maybe it’s the lack of performance. He’s not dressed for presentation tonight. No suit. No curated look. Just jeans and a dark sweater. The only time he looks better is naked.
“I can’t believe I’ve never been here,” he says, scanning the menu.
“Wesley Tisdale took me somewhere with truffle foam. I don’t recommend it. Tastes like dirt, but worse.”
He raises a brow. “Wesley’s family is in my social circle.”
I lean back in the booth and prop my elbow on the table. “He talked about Tuscany for twenty minutes.”
“You should have left.”
“Emotionally, I did.”
He laughs, low and real. It does something to me that margaritas can’t take credit for.
We order lengua tacos and something with enough cheese to ruin a week of discipline. It feels indulgent in the right way.
“Oh,” he says lustfully once the food arrives.
“Yeah.” I completely understand.
We eat like we’re not trying to impress anyone. Sauce on fingers. Napkins discarded carelessly. It’s so different from that other restaurant that it almost feels rebellious.
“You seem lighter tonight,” he says.
“I’m in good company. Liv has the boys again. And the food is so delicious that I don’t mind if it makes me look pregnant again by the time I’m done.”
His smile widens, and his gaze lingers on me a second too long. “And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is full of small humans and existential dread.”
He studies me for a moment, like he wants to ask something else. But he doesn’t, and that restraint is becoming suspiciously attractive. Too many men say whatever comes to mind, regardless of the consequences. Not Damian.
The restaurant fills slowly around us. A couple at the bar is arguing quietly. Two teenagers share a plate of nachos. A family at the front is laughing too loudly. It’s busy enough to blend in. Busy enough to disappear.
I relax into it fully. “I love it here.”
“This was a good idea.”
“I have those on occasion.”
He smiles, then takes a big bite and nods.
Unfortunately, some women don’t just enter rooms. They assess them. It’s as if the temperature drops as they approach. If we were outside, I’d expect a flock of crows to suddenly leap skyward out of nowhere.
Amber.
She’s wearing all white, as if she isn’t standing within ten feet of eighteen stain hazards I clocked on arrival, thanks to being a new mom.
She looks like she stepped out of a lifestyle magazine spread titled “Effortless Wealth.” Her hair is perfectly smoothed, her makeup precise, her heels impractical on uneven terra-cotta tile yet somehow not slipping.
She pauses just inside the doorway and surveys the room. Not looking for anyone specific. Just taking inventory, like she’s ensuring no one she knows will rat her out for being here.
That’s the real reason my stylist knew about this place.
She said, “Society women love it. The food is greasy, fattening, nothing diet or healthy on the menu, all the things they’re supposed to avoid.
Some wear a disguise to go there, use pseudonyms, that kind of thing.
There’s an understanding among them that everyone goes to Dos Hermanos, but absolutely no one talks about it.
That’s why it’s the perfect place to bring your affair partner to—it’s an indulgence no one will admit to. ”
I still didn’t follow her logic. “How’s that?”
“If, for instance, you go there and you’re elbow-deep in the best birria on the planet, you’ll choose not to see your rival there with her boy toy, because if you saw her there, then you’d have to admit you were there, gorging yourself. And they will never, ever admit that.”
Somehow, I doubt any of that will matter right now.
Amber’s eyes land on us. There’s no dramatic reaction. No widening of the eyes. No gasp.
I swallow another sip of margarita and pretend my pulse didn’t just spike. “Don’t turn around, but Amber just walked in.”
“She saw us?”
I nod once. “She’s deciding whether to ignore it.”
“She won’t.” He gives me a look. Whether it’s anger or worry, I can’t tell.
If she approaches us, it will be deliberate. She will put on a show, because that’s all this is to her. Entertainment value. I wonder if there’s someone else in here that she knows, someone she wants to impress by dressing us down.
“Do you want to leave?” Damian asks softly.
The question surprises me. “Why would we leave? We aren’t doing anything wrong.”
He studies me. “You said you wanted to keep this private.”
“I do, but I’m also not about to run after she saw us. And I doubt she’ll say anything to anyone about seeing us here. She would have to admit to being here herself, which would embarrass the shit out of her.”
He gulps, unconvinced. “You don’t have to engage.”
I tilt my head slightly. “You think I can’t handle her?”
“I think she enjoys goading me, and I think that will annoy you.”
“I’m fine, but if you want to leave, I don’t object.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he sucks it up. “I’ve ceded enough territory to Amber over the years. She doesn’t get this place too.”
Amber reaches the halfway point of the restaurant. Stops. Speaks briefly to a man at the bar. Laughs lightly at something he says. She’s giving us time to feel her presence. Drawing it out. The bitch would be excruciating if I really cared.
The truth is, the main reason I wanted to keep things private is for Damian’s benefit. I don’t have his status in Snow Valley. As much as I don’t want to be gossip fodder, I won’t lose my nonexistent job over it either.
“She’s going to make this about herself,” Damian says.
“She’s going to make this about ownership, and whether she still has some power over you.”
He goes still at that. “I am not owned, and she has no power over me.”
“She doesn’t seem to know that. Maybe it’s time she learned.”
Amber finally turns in our direction fully. Her smile settles into place. Razor-thin, like the rest of her.
I straighten slightly in my seat but keep my expression relaxed. If this is happening, it’s happening on my terms. The booth suddenly feels smaller. The lighting less flattering. The anonymity I was so happy with twenty minutes ago evaporates completely.
Amber stops at the edge of our table. “Well,” she says as she rests her hand lightly on the back of the booth like she’s claiming territory. “This is unexpected.”
Damian’s voice is controlled. “Amber.”
I slide my glass slightly away from the edge of the table and meet her eyes directly. “Hello, Amber.”
She looks at me like I’m something she vaguely remembers stepping on once. “I didn’t realize this was a…reunion.”
“It’s dinner,” I reply. “Highly recommend the lengua tacos.”
Her gaze flicks down to the plates. Back up to him. “Damian, I know you’re aware that Temperance is Jason’s ex.”
Damian doesn’t blink. “I’m aware.”
“And your patient.”
“Former patient,” he corrects. “The distinction matters, as you well know.”
She tilts her head slightly. “Such a convenient distinction.”
I take a slow breath. “You look fantastic,” I tell her sweetly. “Very…preserved.”
Her lips press together. “I suppose the importance of age hits differently depending on one’s perspective. Wouldn’t you agree, Damian?”
“I wouldn’t know,” I say. “I’m still on the early side of that equation.”
She smiles tightly. “And what childlike wonder you must still possess.”
“Tell me, Amber,” I begin, “are there any wonders left for you in the world? Being that you were there when they were built, I have to imagine the answer is no.”
Damian shifts slightly beside me. Restraint radiates off him. He wants this over. So do I, but I’m having a tiny bit of fun at the moment, because she looks super pissed.
Amber leans in closer to the table. “The age difference is striking,” she says softly. “People will talk. Best you run along, before your mommy starts to worry.”
“People will always talk,” Damian interrupts me before I can respond. “People especially talk about others when they have nothing going on in their own lives. It’s sad, really.”
“And Meron?” she continues. “He doesn’t gossip. He fires people for violating ethics, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”
There it is. The real threat.
I set my napkin down carefully. “Your Botox must be wearing off,” I say conversationally. “I can see the jealousy lines in your forehead.”
Amber blinks. “Don’t you mean frown lines?” she asks coolly. “Not that I have any.”
“Honey,” I say, leaning forward just enough to lower my voice, “you worry so much about what Damian does with his free time that on you, frown lines and jealousy lines are the same thing. You might want to book that touch-up sooner rather than later. Or everyone will start noticing how jealous you look.”
Damian goes still beside me.
Amber’s composure fractures just a hair. Her voice is brittle. “Aren’t you the clever girl?”
“Nice of you to notice.” I smile, then dip a tortilla chip into salsa. “Are you done here? We were enjoying an amazing meal before you and last year’s outfit arrived.”
She straightens abruptly, smoothing her coat like the fabric offended her. “Enjoy your…tacos,” she says sharply to Damian. She looks at me one last time, searching for a crack. She doesn’t find one. Then she turns and walks out, heels striking the tile like punctuation marks.
The restaurant noise rushes back in. I release the breath I’ve been holding. “That was bracing.”
Damian is staring at me like I just performed open heart surgery. “Jealousy lines?”
I take another sip of my margarita. “You’re welcome.”
He starts laughing. Not polite laughter. Belly laughs. The tension dissolves completely.
But I know this isn’t over. Not even close.