Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The restaurant glows with soft amber light, candles flickering between us. I drag my fork through the last smear of lemon sauce on my plate, savoring the quiet intimacy of it all.
"In my dream life," Julian says, leaning back with that half-smile that makes my stomach flip, "I've got three kids."
"Three?" I laugh. "That's ambitious."
"What's wrong with three?"
"Two." I hold up two fingers. "Two is manageable. Three is chaos."
"Two, then." He pretends to consider it seriously. "But I'm getting the white picket fence. And a country house big enough for my grand piano."
"Of course you are." I grin. "And I'm getting my German Shepherd."
"Still on that?"
"Always."
He shakes his head, amused, and reaches for the dessert menu. I lean in to study it with him, our heads close together. The crème br?lée catches my eye immediately—caramelized sugar, vanilla bean, fresh berries.
But my gaze drifts to the price. Fifteen dollars. For dessert.
I glance at the wine glasses, the empty plates that once held filet mignon and seared scallops. The total's climbing in my head, making my chest tight.
I know he's paying for the entire meal—he always insists, won't even entertain the idea of splitting the check. And he's been adamant about covering rent too, refusing every single time I try to contribute even a small amount.
My mind keeps circling back to the question I can't quite answer: how does he manage to pay for all of this? The expensive dinners, the rent on his brownstone, everything—especially now, when his broken hand means he hasn't been able to work his piano gigs in weeks.
"The crème br?lée looks good," Julian says, pointing.
"It does." I close the menu. "But I'm actually pretty full."
He studies me, sees right through me. "Liza."
"What?"
"You've been eyeing that dessert in the window since we sat down."
"I'm just—" I wave a hand. "This meal's already expensive. And you won't even let me chip in."
"We've been over this."
"Julian, you're not working right now. Your hand—" I gesture at the cast, guilt crawling up my throat. "You shouldn't be spending money on fancy dinners when you can't even play."
"I have savings."
"That you're burning through because of me." My voice drops. "Because Daniel broke your hand. And you won't let me help with rent, and now you're buying me fancy dinners I don't deserve—"
"Stop it.” He reaches across the table, catching my hand. "You deserve everything. The dinners, the dessert, all of it. And my hand's healing. I'll be back at work soon."
"You don't know that."
"I do." His thumb traces circles on my palm. "The doctor said eight weeks. I'm already halfway there."
I bite my lip, unconvinced.
"Order the crème br?lée," he says softly. "Let me do this."
He takes my hand, and I can tell he wants to say something else.
He inhales a long, measured breath, his shoulders rising and falling as if he's bracing himself for something.
"My father," he begins, his voice careful, measured, "owned a paper recycling company.
A successful one. Not glamorous, but profitable.
" He pauses, his thumb still tracing those slow circles on my palm.
"He sold it six years ago for a lot of money.
Then he died a year later." His eyes meet mine, dark and serious.
"He left me everything. A very large sum. "
I watch him, flabbergasted, waiting, sensing there's more.
"I don't pay rent or a mortgage on my brownstone… just maintenance fees. I own it, free and clear. And I don’t need to work to pay my bills, Liza.
I haven't for a while now." His jaw tightens slightly.
"I work because I love it. Because sitting at a piano is the only thing that's ever made sense to me. The money just... sits there."
The words land between us like a confession.
"Wait." I pull my hand back, processing. “But I thought your dad was out of the picture. He left you money? Like, a lot of money?"
"Yeah."
"Julian, that's—" I can't even finish the sentence. My brain's spinning, recalculating everything I thought I knew about him. "You've been letting me stress about rent and dinner prices when you're sitting on a fortune?"
"It's not like that."
"Then what is it like?"
He runs his good hand through his hair, looking uncomfortable.
"I don't think about it that way. The money doesn't feel real to me.
I grew up eating ramen three nights a week, watching my mom work herself to the bone.
Then suddenly I've got this massive bank account because some man I barely remember decided to ease his guilt with a check. My mom was livid."
"Your mom was livid?"
"Furious. She said he owed us that money thirty years ago, when we actually needed it. When she was cleaning other people's houses and waitressing double shifts just to keep me fed." His voice roughens. "I tried to buy her a house. Small place, nothing crazy. She won't take a dime."
"Because it's his money."
"Yeah."
I lean back, studying him. The leather jacket, the silver rings, the brownstone—it all makes sense now. But also doesn't.
"He must've felt guilty," Julian says quietly, staring at his water glass. "For abandoning us. For leaving when I was a baby and never looking back. Not a birthday card, not a phone call. Nothing."
His voice stays level, controlled, but I catch the edge underneath it—the hurt he's buried so deep it's calcified into something harder.
"Then suddenly I'm twenty-five and some lawyer's calling me, telling me my father's dead and I'm inheriting millions. Like money could fix it. Like it could replace all those years he wasn't there."
I reach for his hand again, threading our fingers together. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He shakes his head. "I've made my peace with it. Mostly. I use the money for things that matter—my mom, even if she won't accept it. My sister, when she needs it. My nephew's college fund. And yeah, taking my girlfriend to nice dinners."
"Your girlfriend, who's been worrying about your finances for weeks."
"My girlfriend, who shouldn't have to worry about anything." He squeezes my hand. "I didn't tell you because... I don't know. People get weird about money. They see you differently. Treat you differently."
I think about Daniel and his three rental buildings, how he'd flaunt his wealth while simultaneously making me feel small for not having enough. How he'd offer to buy me clothes but only if I'd stop thrifting, stop being myself.
Julian's never done that. Never made me feel less-than.
"I don't care about the money," I tell him truthfully. "I care that you've been carrying this alone. That you've been worried about me worrying."
"So we're both idiots."
"Apparently."
A smile tugs at his lips. "Order the crème br?lée."
"Fine." I pick up the menu again, feeling lighter somehow. "But only because you're forcing me."
"Such a hardship."
When the waiter appears, Julian orders two crème br?lées: the blueberry vanilla and the chocolate raspberry; he knows I'll want to taste both.
As the waiter walks away, I study Julian across the candlelight—this beautiful, complicated man who hides a fortune but shares his heart so freely.
"Thank you," I say softly.
"For dessert?"
"For trusting me with this."
His expression softens, and he lifts my hand to his lips. "Always."
The cue ball spins smoothly down the table, knocking into a stripe and sending it swirling toward the pocket. Almost—almost, but not quite. I cluck my tongue in mock sympathy, leaning on my cue.
"You're getting better," I tell Jenna, trying to stifle a smirk.
Jenna huffs, looking down at her belly affectionately. "Maybe if I didn’t have this little one in the way, I’d clear the table."
Her baby bump has her balancing precariously as she lines up her shots, and it’s both endearing and hilarious. She laughs at herself more than I do, which makes it all the more fun.
I sink a solid, adjusting my stance as Jenna saunters over to the bar for a quick sip of her ginger ale. We’ve always been careful about playing during work hours, but the hall is quiet today—just the clatter of our pool balls and Jenna’s occasional quips drift through the space.
“I'm just glad you and Reeves are managing well,” I say, taking my turn. “Liam adores both of you.”
"We wouldn’t have it any other way," Jenna replies, grinning. "Co-parenting might not be easy, but we’re a good team."
The overhead lights glint off her engagement ring as she takes another shot. "And you," she goes on, her voice dropping in faux seriousness as she leans on her cue, "look like you’re finally in a good place. Madly in love with a brilliant musician, I hear?"
“Madly,” I admit, unable to fight my grin. “Julian’s everything I hoped for—and Daniel hasn’t bothered us for over six weeks," I tell her. "Knock on wood,” I add with a quick tap on the table rail.
Jenna’s brow arches, barely able to mask her skepticism. "That's a good thing, yeah?"
I nod, leaning casually against the pool table.
I pause mid-shot, the cue hovering above the green felt as I consider Daniel's twisted logic.
"I think he may have felt some kind of sick satisfaction—like he'd gotten his revenge when they broke Julian's hand that night," I say slowly, the memory still making my stomach turn.
"Maybe in his warped mind, that was enough.
He probably figured it wasn't worth whatever legal trouble Julian could've brought down on him if we'd pushed harder with the police. "
“Too bad they couldn’t arrest him.”
“I don’t care. Not anymore,” I confess. “As long as he's out of our lives... I just want peace.”
"Peace sounds nice," Jenna muses, settling beside me, her gaze warm and understanding. "You deserve every bit of it."
Her words strike me deeply as I watch my friend and remember everything we’ve weathered alongside each other. My heart swells, realizing the weight of chaos is lifting, leaving room for love to breathe and settle in.
“Your turn,” Jenna nudges, playfully insistent, her eyes twinkling with an unspoken bond.