20. Michelle #2
“I’m networking,” I say, offering a smile that doesn’t quite reach. I finish the last of my drink. “Or trying to.”
Max gestures toward the other side of the room. “Can I introduce you to my mom? She’s interested in you, you know. Said you sorted me out.”
“Maybe another time—” I begin.
“She’s just there. With Dean.”
I follow his gaze. Dean is standing with Silvia and two women I don’t recognize. Both are stunning, dressed like they just walked out of a high-end perfume campaign. One wears emerald satin, the other black with a thigh-high slit.
Silvia is in the middle of something, gesturing animatedly between Dean and the two women like she’s about to close a deal. Dean has his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed, but even from across the room, it’s obvious he’s not into it. He’s not even pretending to be.
One of the women laughs and touches his arm. Dean steps back and shrugs her off without a word. It’s blatant, and honestly, kind of rude.
Silvia’s smile falters. She gives him a look, then a subtle nudge. The universal cue to be charming and play along.
He doesn’t. Instead, he scans the room, openly disinterested, until the women finally take the hint and move on.
He knows I’m here. Knows I might be watching. If he wanted to make a point, he could flirt. He could try to get a rise out of me. But he doesn’t. Even angry, even wound tight, that’s not how he moves.
“There’s our opening,” Max says, grabbing my hand and tugging me toward them.
I start to protest but it’s too late. Silvia sees us.
As we reach them, Dean’s eyes lock on Max’s hand around mine. He stares until I pull my hand away, only then does he look up.
“Mom, this is Michelle Pierce,” Max says.
My heart kicks. Silvia looks me over and extends her hand. Her grip is cool and precise.
“Michelle,” she says. “I’ve heard wonderful things.”
That’s not what people usually say.
“And you know Dean,” Max adds.
“Good to see you,” I say, turning to him.
He leans in to kiss my cheeks. It’s expected here, polite and brief. But then, instead of stepping back, he slides in between Max and me. It’s not smooth. Max hesitates, then steps forward, awkwardly adjusting to stay part of the group.
There’s a brief, awkward pause. Then Silvia, either oblivious or pretending to be, fills the silence.
“You seem to have a talent for improving men,” she says. “Max is proof.”
Her gaze shifts to Dean. “This one’s been a challenge for years. Any pointers?”
I consider that for a moment. I’m not exactly sure what she’s referring to.
“Depends what you think needs fixing,” I say lightly.
“He resists direction,” Silvia replies. “What would you do?”
I glance at Dean, and she clarifies, “If you had an employee who refused direction?”
She’s looking at me like I have all the answers, and for a moment, I wonder what exactly she’s heard about me.
Max wasn’t anything special. I was firm with him, set clear boundaries, and he listened. He wanted direction.
Dean is different. If we weren’t seeing each other—if he were just someone who worked for me—I’m not sure I could manage him at all. He’s not the type to fall in line just because he’s told to. Pressure and authority don’t move him.
What he responds to is purpose. Respect. Being treated like an equal, not a problem to solve.
“I find people don’t listen unless they have a reason to,” I say. “Max was very motivated. He has a strong sense of pride once he decides something matters.”
I assume that’s the end of it, but Silvia presses on.
“And if nothing seems to matter to them?” she asks.
“Everyone’s motivated by something,” I say.
She turns her attention to Dean, taking him in slowly. Her head tips in a small nod, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Hmm.”
“For the record,” Max says, “being introduced by my mother as ‘between projects’ was all the motivation I needed.”
“Realtor carries respect,” Silvia replies, offering him a warm smile. Then her gaze flicks to me. She lingers there for a beat before turning to someone just over my shoulder.
“Excuse me,” she says, already moving.
Once Silvia walks away, I let out a breath. My shoulders ease, just slightly. She was pleasant. Not at all what I expected.
“Want another drink?” Max asks, glancing toward the bar.
It takes me a second to realize he’s talking to me.
“Oh—” I start.
“She’s good,” Dean cuts in, too fast and too sharp.
Max blinks, caught off guard.
“She’s got half a glass,” Dean adds.
I glance down. He’s right. I relax, just a little, but the air has shifted.
Max lets out a small laugh. “Right.”
The awkwardness settles in thick. Whatever Dean’s holding in, it’s barely under the surface now. The tension rolling off him is unmistakable.
“I should head home, actually,” I say. I should be working the room. That’s why I came. But not like this. Not with Dean all keyed up. It’s already clear this night isn’t going anywhere good.
“You sure?” Max asks. “I can drive you. I was heading out soon anyway.”
Dean’s head snaps up.
“She’s fine,” he says. The tone is flat and final. “She doesn’t need a ride.”
There’s no excuse for it this time. No mistaking what it is.
“I’m good,” I say quickly. “Really.”
I leave before either of them can respond.
If I know Dean, he’ll follow. I just hope he waits. Doesn’t do it in front of everyone.
Because this isn’t like him. Dean keeps everything locked down, especially his emotions. That control is part of who he is. But right now, he’s unraveling. He doesn’t even care who sees it.
I know what I need to do.