17. Dean
DEAN
It’s Natalie’s birthday party, and I’m at Mom’s place—my childhood home.
At least, it was for the summers, when we weren’t away at boarding school.
The place feels more like a museum than a house people actually live in.
It’s ornate and immaculate with high ceilings, gilded mirrors, floors polished to a mirror sheen.
The kind of estate Architectural Digest would call “timeless European grandeur,” complete with a ten-page spread of silk drapes, antique chandeliers, and rooms arranged with unsettling precision.
In the foyer, a floral arrangement sits perfectly centered on the marble console.
Not a single petal out of place. Even when we were kids, with four boys tearing through the halls, the house somehow still looked like this.
The party is out in the garden. A lawn this size is rare up in the Hills, and as I step outside, I catch myself wondering what Michelle would think of it, how she’d sell it.
Most of the time, I find a reason not to come to these things. Anything to avoid another round of Mom’s advice. I don’t care what she thinks. I never have. But I haven’t seen the kids in a while, and I like them. So I’m here, keeping my head down, trying to stay out of Mom’s line of sight.
It doesn’t work. She spots me almost immediately and descends.
“Dean. I haven’t seen you in months.”
“Here I am,” I say.
She gives me a once-over, starting at my shoes and working her way up.
“Well, look at you,” she says, lifting her glass. “Still have that beard. That’s a…choice.”
I slide my free hand into my pocket. “Yeah, well. I’ve made worse.”
She smiles like she didn’t hear me and takes a long sip of champagne.
“I was at Quay last week. The tuna was lovely, but the service? Glacial. You might want to check on that.”
“Noted,” I say, sliding my hands in my pocket.
She gives me that same cool look she always does.
Owning bars and clubs was never what she pictured for me, too blue-collar, not Carter enough.
That’s probably why I picked it. Mom and I have never really seen eye to eye.
Will is her sensible first-born, Henry her prodigy, Max her baby.
And I’m the one she hasn’t figured out how to control.
“You know, at the gala last week, Grace from next door was asking about you,” she says, the tone heavy with suggestion.
“Grace Whitmore?” I say.
“She’s pretty, elegant, nothing like her mother. Carries herself well.”
I frown. Why would she be asking about me? I can picture her only vaguely. She was part of the marketing push at a few openings. She has some kind of following online. We’ve barely exchanged a word.
“You are interested in women, aren’t you?” Mom adds, eyes sharp. She’s never seen me with one. Not because I haven’t dated, but because she’s the last person I’d ever introduce a woman to.
“I am. You know, maybe I’ll hit Grace up,” I say, letting the words hang. She smiles. “Think about it, Carmen, Maverick, Finn. All the Whitmore’s, at every family event. Every holiday. Every birthday. All of us, together.”
Her smile falters, just a fraction. “Actually, now that I think of it, she’s all looks and no substance,” she says.
“Perfect,” I reply. “Just my type.” I walk away before she can reply.
I head toward the crowd and spot Will’s twins in their playpen. Smart move. At this age, containment is necessary. I slow my steps as both twins raise wooden blocks like weapons, eyes locked in a silent standoff.
Alex strikes first, swinging a blue block squarely at Ben’s head. Solid hit. Ben freezes for a second, mouth open, brain catching up, then fires back with a red block to Alex’s shoulder.
I step in and grab one under each arm. “Alright, gladiators. Cool-off time.”
I hold them for a few moments until the tension drains and they forget what started it. Once they’ve calmed, I set them down, ready to intervene again if needed. Ben spots a plastic toy phone in the corner and takes off toward it, Alex hot on his heels, the feud abandoned without a second thought.
I step out of the playpen and brush my hands off. Crisis averted. For now.
Abigail and Natalie stand by a giant cookie, chatting and laughing.
The scene pulls Michelle straight back into my mind.
They’d like her. Abigail gets along with everyone.
Natalie’s more reserved. She’s warmed up now, but I remember her at the start.
She was careful, watchful. I think she’d understand Michelle.
“Oh, I love those shoes,” Natalie’s mom says as I pass her. I forget her name. “They’re SaveMore, aren’t they? I saw the sale. Nineteen ninety-nine.”
She gives me a knowing look and walks on before I can respond, not that I had anything to say.
Across the patio, Will and Henry are sunk into armchairs. Will has baby James asleep on his chest.
“What’s SaveMore?” I ask as I join them.
“You’ve been talking to Mary,” Henry says without looking up.
“She said she saw a pair just like these for nineteen ninety-nine.” I glance down at my shoes. These are Italian leather.
“Nineteen ninety-nine feels generous,” Henry says, thinking he’s funny.
“Where’s Max?” I ask, changing the subject.
Without a word, Will places the baby into my arms. James is heavier than he looks. A solid little lump. I shift him gently, trying to figure out how to hold him without waking him up.
Will pulls out his phone, scrolls, then sets it on speaker on the side table.
“You’re missing Natalie’s party,” he says when Max answers.
“That was today? I’m at an opening. I can’t leave. Michelle would murder me.”
“When can you get here?” Will asks.
“I don’t know. I’ll come when I can. I gotta go.” The line goes dead.
Will sighs and slips his phone back into his pocket. “Don’t know why he puts up with that woman.”
My stomach knots. That woman. He says it as if Michelle is the problem. She carries a weight that would break most people. Yes, she’s direct. Sometimes harsh. But it’s a raw honesty—no filter, no sugarcoating. It’s not her fault people can’t handle the truth.
Besides, the harshness is just a shield. What it protects is gentle and kind. And even after she threw me out, even after she told me I didn’t matter to her, I can’t stand hearing someone talk about her like this. They don’t know her.
“Maybe she’s the one putting up with him,” I say before I can stop myself. I hand James back to Will. Both he and Henry turn to look at me, wearing matching frowns of confusion.
“You know how unorganized he is.”
The silence stretches. Their expressions don’t shift. So I pivot. I glance down at James and nod toward Henry.
“He’s starting to look more like you every day. Poor kid.”
“Shut up,” Henry mutters, but there’s no real bite behind it.
Will launches into a story about his latest renovation drama, but my focus drifts.
Across the lawn, Natalie stands with Mom and Abigail, deep in conversation.
I remember when Henry was in love with her and she wouldn’t give him the time of day.
Now they’re married. He got through to her somehow. Maybe he knows something I don’t.
When Will heads off to break up another twin fight, I glance at Henry. I don’t want to ask. But I do anyway.
“Can I ask you something?” The words feel clumsy coming out. “How’d you lock it down? With Natalie.”
“Lock it down?” he asks.
Christ, he’s going to make this harder than it needs to be. “You know. Make it official. She didn’t want to at first, right? Because of work?”
He looks at me like I’ve just spoken in a language he doesn’t know. I never bring up women, and it shows. He has no idea what to do with it. Then he covers, playing it cool with a shrug.
“Honestly? I just sort of blundered around until she got tired of saying no.”
“Great advice.”
“You’re seeing someone?”
“If seeing means she fucks me and leaves, then yeah.” Or rather, she makes me leave.
He tilts his head, watching me for a beat too long. Like he’s trying to figure out what I’m not saying.
“Tell her you like her,” he says with a shrug, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“Tried that,” I say. “She told me she only likes me with my shirt off and my mouth shut.”
I drag a hand down my face, the stubble catching against my palm. She told me not to come by this week. Said she had her period, like sex is the only reason I show up. Like that’s all this is to me.
But I know what it really is.
She’s shutting me out for pushing. For trying to take this somewhere real. We’ve been together nearly every night. I’ve seen the way she looks at me, the way she softens when she thinks I’m not paying attention. I waited. I never pushed, until I did. Because I thought we were there.
And for a second, I swear we were. Then she slammed the door. Harder than before.
“She’s going to be mine. She can fight it all she wants but I’ll win her over,” I say, more to myself than Henry.
Henry’s eyes light up like something just clicked. “You know who’s actually good at this kind of thing?”
He glances across the lawn at Abigail, then back at me. Of course. She’s a lawyer, sharp as hell, but more than that, she gets people.
“Why the hell am I talking to you, then?” I say, and I cut straight across the lawn toward the playpen. Abigail is crouched beside Will, separating the twins mid-scuffle. One’s howling. The other’s smirking like he won.
“Abigail,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “Can I have a word?”
Will straightens, his gaze sharpening just slightly. He’s always been protective of her. I get that now.
“Sure,” she says, passing the twin off to him. We walk a few steps away, just enough space to talk without being overheard.
“What’s up?” she asks, light and easy. But when her eyes meet mine, something shifts. She’s paying attention now. Really listening.
I’m not great at talking, asking for advice. But I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t need help.
I clear my throat. “There’s a woman,” I say.
Abigail’s mouth curves into a knowing smile. “Of course there is.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, then glances toward Henry before looking back at me.
“Let me guess. You’ve written your wedding vows, and she’s still deciding if she even likes you.” Abigail lets out a quiet sigh. “And now you want me to tell you how to make her fall for you.”
“I think she already has. At least a little,” I say. “She won’t admit it. Completely shuts down when I try—” I stop myself. I don’t like this.
“What’s she like?”
I hesitate. “What does it matter?”
“It matters,” she says gently. “Because women aren’t interchangeable. If we’re going to win her over, I need to understand her.”
I guess that makes sense.
I exhale. “She’s smart. Focused. Comes off a bit cold, maybe.
That’s what you see first,” I pause, surprised by my own honesty.
But once I start, I can’t seem to stop. “But that’s not her.
Not really. Underneath all of it, she’s kind.
She tries to do the right thing, even when it’s hard.
She’s…she’s good. But she holds everyone at arm’s length. And I don’t know how to—”
I cut myself off and scrub a hand over my jaw.
Abigail watches me for a moment, her expression shifting to something thoughtful.
“Have you told her any of that?” she asks gently.
“We don’t exactly, talk. She’s not into that.”
Abigail tilts her head, thoughtful. “Have you tried opening up first?”
“Told her I liked her.” I shrug.
She raises an eyebrow. “I mean properly.”
“Define properly.”
“Talk to her. About real things. About you,” Abigail says. “You want her to drop her guard? Then drop yours. You can’t expect it from her and give nothing back. Let her in. But don’t expect anything in return. Give her some time.”
I think it over. It makes sense, even if I don’t like it. I’ve been wanting Michelle to trust me and open up when I haven’t done the same. I told her I like her and let her into my space, which felt like a lot but I guess I haven’t really let her see me.
I hate that I’m admitting this at all, but I don’t know what else to do.
“I don’t want her to think I’m weak with all this feelings crap,” I say, and just saying it makes me feel exactly that.
Abigail gives me a look. “You know, Will was the same.” She glances toward him, then back at me. “He was persistent. Kept showing up. But it wasn’t until he let me in that I finally trusted him.”
Right. If I want Michelle to open up, I have to go first. Let her see what’s real and hope she doesn’t run.