Chapter 6 #2
I exhale a dry laugh. “Nana Peg is old-school to the bone. Corporate alliances, maintaining ‘standing’—all of it matters more to her than comfort, maybe even happiness. Marrying Wade would consolidate two big private-equity blocks and—according to her—fortify the Lane brand against hostile acquisitions.”
His brows lift. “A human merger.”
“Exactly. And because Wade plays the part so well, she thinks he’s sincere.” I shrug, feeling the weight of expectation tug at my shoulders again. “She trusts pedigree. She sees an Ivy MBA and a trust fund, not the red flags under the bow tie.”
Our drinks arrive. The cabernet is velvety dark.
I take a slow sip, letting berry and oak calm my nerves, then cradle the glass between both palms. “I’ve known him forever.
Our parents have been friends since I was in pigtails.
Family beach rentals, Fourth-of-July cookouts, Christmas brunch.
Wade and I used to hide in the pantry and steal gingerbread icing.
” I smile at the childhood memory, then glance at Asher.
“Back then he was harmless. We were matched before we understood what matching was. At sixteen he asked me to the winter formal because both moms practically choreographed the invitation.”
He tilts his soda water, the slice of lime bobbing against the rim. “Sounds… suffocating.”
“It is.” I swirl my wine, watching the deep red run slow legs down the glass.
“I grew up thinking my life was penciled into a planner I didn’t get to read.
Prep school, university, charity boards, then marriage to a man who knows the difference between black-tie and white-tie and how to shake hands with senators. ” I peek at him over the rim.
“And your parents? They’re not pushing the proposal? Why not?”
I smile, my eyes radiating the warmth I feel when I think of my parents. “My mother actually loves me and wants me to be happy. She asked me a few months back how I truly felt about Wade, and I told her.” I hold up a hand as if that explains everything.
“But Nana Peg isn’t budging, huh? Sounds like a gilded cage.”
I nod, taking another sip. “It is. I’d love a little freedom.”
“And what feels like freedom?” he asks.
The question drifts between us, the jazz trio sliding into a lazy blues.
I close my eyes for half a second, picture it clearly: “A ranch in the mountains. Acres of open pasture, rescued horses galloping instead of being auctioned off for slaughter. Kennels for senior dogs who never got a home. A clinic on-site with visiting vets. Morning coffee on a porch that overlooks sunrise over rolling hills.” My chest loosens just describing it.
“I’d trade vintage galas for muddy boots in a heartbeat. ”
When I open my eyes, Asher’s studying me in that still, thoughtful way of his. “I can see it,” he says softly, like he’s already imagining fence lines and barn rafters. “You’d make a damn good rescue director.”
A shy heat creeps into my cheeks. “You think?”
“Yeah.” He sips his soda. “You care. That’s rarer than you’d think in rooms like tonight.”
I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “So, what about you? What does your planner look like?”
He huffs a faint laugh. “No planner. I built a career on preventing bad things from happening to good people. That’s enough of a blueprint—for now.”
“But eventually?”
His gaze shifts to the window where lanterns flicker along the resort’s courtyard. “Eventually I’d like acreage, too. Maybe teach self-defense to local kids, offer pro-bono security to shelters.” Then he glances back, eyes earnest. “But rescue ranch? I’d volunteer to muck stalls if you hired me.”
Warmth unfurls in my chest—the sweet, terrifying warmth of possibility. The idea of Asher in faded jeans hammering fence posts beside me is intoxicating in a way no gala champagne has ever been.
He clears his throat gently. “Is marrying Wade something you want at all?”
The question’s a scalpel, slicing through any lingering illusions. I bark a laugh. “Absolutely not. I want… choice. Adventure. Love that doesn’t come with a board vote attached.”
He nods, expression unreadable yet soft. “Then we’ll make sure you have that.”
My breath catches. We. Not you. Not I. We.
Silence settles, but it’s comfortable—alive with possibilities instead of pressure. The bartender flicks the lights a tad lower as the jazz trio packs up, and suddenly the bar feels smaller, more intimate, as though the universe drew curtains around our table.
I finish my wine, set the glass down with a soft click. “Thank you. For tonight.”
“For what part?” Asher’s voice is velvet and gravel all at once.
“For questioning me like I’m more than a pawn.” I meet his gaze. “For listening. For drinking soda water instead of alcohol. And for instilling fear in Wade without even raising your voice.”
His lips curve into an almost-smile. “That was just posture.”
“It worked.” I stand, smoothing my dress. “Ready to head up?”
He rises, placing a tip under his untouched coaster. “We should tell my parents about what Wade said this afternoon. I haven’t had time to discuss it with them yet.”
Asher nods. “Affirmative.”
As we leave the bar, his hand hovers near the small of my back—not touching, just near enough that if the world tilts wrong, I won’t fall. And for the first time since childhood, the path in front of me feels like mine to choose.