Chapter 3
THREE
brOOKE
I check my reflection in the hallway mirror for the fifth time and immediately regret it, because now I’m second-guessing everything instead of just walking out the door like a normal, confident woman who absolutely did not spend twenty minutes debating between two nearly identical shades of lipstick.
Not that I look bad. I look… really good, actually. Hair smooth and loose over my shoulders, makeup soft but polished, black dress that hugs my waist and skims my hips just right, and heels that absolutely mean business. The kind that makes my legs look great.
Grant told me to wear the heels. I hate that I liked that.
My phone buzzes on the counter, and my stomach does that stupid little flip I told myself I was done with years ago.
Grant: Outside.
Okay. Showtime. I grab my purse, double-check that I’ve got my phone, my keys, and the tiny can of pepper spray and taser I never leave home without, then do a quick scan of the house like I’m leaving for a week instead of a few hours.
Old habit. When you’ve spent years being responsible for other people, you don’t shake that instinct easily.
I lock the door behind me and step onto the porch.
His car is pulled up beside my Mercedes, black and sleek and expensive.
Grant steps out the second he sees me, and yeah…
he looks unfairly good in a tailored suit, crisp white shirt, jacket open, broad shoulders filling it out like it was custom-made for him.
When his eyes land on me, his smile turns slow and appreciative, and heat creeps up my neck in a way that’s annoying and flattering all at once.
“Wow,” he says, and he doesn’t even try to hide the way he looks me over. “You look incredible.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly very aware of how exposed I feel standing on my own front porch. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Whitaker.”
He laughs, low and confident, and opens the door for me.
When I slide into the passenger seat, his hand settles at my lower back, steady and warm, and just a little too intimate for a first date.
It lingers for a second before he closes the door, and I tell myself I’m overthinking it. I always overthink everything.
“Seatbelt,” he says softly when he leans in to make sure I’m settled, close enough that I can smell his cologne, something expensive and sharp and very him. I buckle up, and he shuts the door, walks around the front of the car, and pulls out into the street.
“So,” he says as we merge into traffic, one hand resting easy on the wheel, the other on the console between us. “Nervous?”
“Should I be?” I tease, trying to keep it light even though my heart is very much not taking this as casually as I am.
He smirks. “Only if you’re worried about having a good time.”
Okay. Confident. Flirty. I can work with that.
We head toward the city, streetlights flashing past the windows, and at first the conversation stays easy enough.
Work, how insane the housing market is right now, how busy he’s been lately.
He talks a lot, but I tell myself that’s probably just nerves.
Everyone gets a little talkative on first dates, right?
He tells me about closing deals, about development projects, about investors calling him at all hours of the day.
“I don’t really sleep,” he says, like it’s a brag. “But that’s the price you pay when you’re building something big.”
“That sounds… exhausting,” I say carefully.
He chuckles. “It’s worth it.”
Then he turns onto a street lined with valet stands and glowing restaurant signs, and my nerves spike all over again. When I catch the name on the building, my breath actually stutters.
No way.
“Oh,” I say quietly, peering out the window. “Is this… Aurelia?”
He glances at me, clearly pleased. “You’ve heard of it.”
“Everyone’s heard of it,” I say, blinking at the sleek glass front and the line of luxury cars pulling up to the curb. “It just opened like a month ago. I heard they’re booked out for months already. I didn’t even bother trying to get a reservation.”
He smiles like that was exactly the point. “Told you I’d take care of you.”
The valet opens my door, and Grant’s hand is back at my waist as he helps me out, lingering just long enough to make my pulse jump.
Inside, the restaurant is buzzing, low music playing, candlelight everywhere, the kind of place where everyone looks important and the menus definitely don’t have prices.
The hostess looks up, her expression shifting the second she sees him. “Mr. Whitaker, right this way.”
We’re led to a quiet table near the window, city lights spilling in behind us like something out of a movie. Grant pulls out my chair, and I sit, smoothing my dress over my thighs while trying to calm the flutter in my chest. “This is beautiful,” I say honestly.
“Only the best,” he replies, settling into his seat across from me.
The server appears almost instantly with water and wine before we even ask, and before I can open my mouth, Grant is already ordering. “I’ll have the cabernet,” he says smoothly, then glances at me. “She’ll have the same, and we’ll do the filet, medium rare, with the truffle risotto.”
I blink. “Oh, I was,”
“It’s their best dish,” he says, already handing the menus back to the server like the decision is final.
The server nods and walks off, and I’m left staring at him, a tight little knot forming in my stomach. I force a small smile. “I usually like choosing my own food,” I say carefully, trying to keep my tone light.
He tilts his head, clearly not loving that answer. “Relax, Brooke. I’m just trying to make the night easy for you.”
Right. Easy. The wine arrives, and he lifts his glass. “To new beginnings.”
I clink mine with his, trying to push the weird feeling down. “To new beginnings.”
And then the conversation becomes… all about him.
His job. His investments. His properties.
His cars. His travel schedule. How busy he is.
How many people want his time. He talks like he’s pitching himself as a brand instead of just being a guy on a date, and I find myself nodding and smiling and waiting for him to ask something about me. He doesn’t.
Finally, I cut in. “So what made you decide to move here?”
“I like quiet towns,” he says. “Good investments. And attractive people.” His eyes sweep over me in a way that makes my skin prickle instead of tingle.
“Did you always want to be a real estate agent?” he asks suddenly.
I blink at the shift. “No, actually. I was in college for something totally different.”
“Oh yeah?” He takes a sip of wine. “What happened?”
“My parents died,” I say, because I’m not about to dance around that. “I dropped out to take care of my sisters.”
There it is. The moment where people usually pause, soften, say they’re sorry, maybe even look at me like I’m not just a pretty girl in a black dress anymore.
Grant doesn’t. He just nods once and says, “That must’ve been inconvenient.” Inconvenient.
I stare at him, heat crawling up my spine. “It was… life-changing.”
“Sure,” he says, waving a hand like he’s brushing off something minor. “But it worked out. You’ve got a good career now.”
Something in me goes very still. So that’s it. No empathy. No curiosity. Just… moving on.
He launches right back into talking about work, about money, about deals, and the uncomfortable realization settles heavy in my chest.
He doesn’t care about me. He cares about having me. My phone buzzes in my purse. I ignore it. Then it buzzes again. I pull it out just enough to check the screen.
Bella: u good??
I start to type back, just a quick I’m fine, when Grant’s eyes drop to my phone and his jaw tightens. “Am I boring you?” he asks, and the tone is sharper than before.
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s my sister. She worries.”
He exhales, clearly annoyed. “We’re on a date.”
“I know, I just wanted to,”
“Can you put that away?” he says, not smiling now.
My chest tightens. “Okay.” I slip my phone back into my purse, and unease creeps up my spine in a way I can’t ignore anymore.
The food arrives, and it looks incredible.
Perfectly plated, steam still rising, everything exactly the way Grant promised it would be.
I cut into the steak, take a bite, and nod because that feels like the polite thing to do, but I’m not really tasting it.
I’m too busy listening to him talk about a car he just bought and a deal he’s negotiating and how his time is too valuable to waste on anything that doesn’t move him forward.
I push my risotto around my plate, take another small bite, and realize I’m more focused on watching the candle flicker between us than I am on what I’m eating. My wine glass is empty before I even notice I’ve finished it.
Grant doesn’t. He’s still talking, still confident, still filling every quiet space with his voice, and I’m sitting here wondering when this stopped feeling like a date and started feeling like a presentation I didn’t ask to attend.
When the server comes back and sets dessert menus on the table, I don’t even pick mine up.
I just stare at it for a second, then at the city lights outside the window, and I know.
I’m done. Not tired from work. Not overwhelmed by the noise.
Just done trying to convince myself this is going somewhere I actually want to be.
“I’m pretty tired,” I say gently. “I should probably head home.”
Grant’s mouth tightens, just a fraction. “Already?”
“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep my voice light even though my chest feels heavy. “It’s been a long week.”
He studies me for a beat, like he’s deciding whether to argue, then his expression smooths into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Fine. Let’s go.” He signals the server before I can even reach for my purse, and when she comes over, he hands her his card without a word.
She glances between us, probably clocking the weird energy, then nods and walks off to run it.