22. Michelle
MICHELLE
Ican’t remember the last time I went on an actual date. Dean’s hand is warm around mine as we move through the restaurant. Tonight I’m in a slip dress, low block heels and silver hoops instead of my usual studs.
I feel beautiful. Probably because Dean’s told me I am at least a dozen times since he picked me up.
The restaurant sits high above the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the room, giving an uninterrupted view of the skyline. Everything below glows.
Inside, it’s quiet. Bare dark wood tables are set with polished glassware. Deep, low-backed booths are upholstered in charcoal leather. Rough-cut stone walls in warm tones frame the space. Everything is simple. Understated in the way only money can afford to be.
It feels like Dean. Probably because it’s his restaurant.
He leads me to a booth tucked in the corner and lets me slide in first, then takes the seat across from me.
Tonight he’s in a white dress shirt, no tie, the top buttons undone like he couldn’t be bothered pretending he’d keep them fastened. The sleeves are rolled to his forearms, and when he shifts, the fabric pulls across his shoulders just enough to distract me, though I try not to show it.
His jaw is clean-shaven, his hair pushed back like he ran a hand through it on the way in. He looks so good I can barely think straight. And what really gets me is how he’s looking at me. Like I’m the one turning heads.
“Have I mentioned,” he says, “that you look beautiful tonight?”
He reaches across the table and laces his fingers through mine.
I give his hand a small squeeze. “You know, I think that’s the first I’m hearing of it.”
Before he can respond, a waitress approaches. She’s tall and willowy, with a dark, shiny bob. Her eyes skim past me without much interest, landing on Dean. Her smile blooms instantly, like this is the highlight of her shift.
We order a bottle of wine, and then she recites the specials, her voice just shy of sultry. When she leans in to point something out on the menu, her fingers brush Dean’s shoulder like it’s an accident. It’s not.
“The scallops are incredible,” she says, and follows it with a breathy little laugh that doesn’t seem tied to anything specific.
If Dean notices the attention, he doesn’t show it. He studies the menu, orders the steak, saying the chef knows how he likes it. As soon as she finishes writing it down, his hand returns to mine.
“And for you?” the waitress asks, her tone noticeably cooler now.
“I’ll have the roasted branzino,” I say, matching her neutrality.
She nods curtly and walks off.
I don’t say anything. With Jason, he would’ve pointed it out. Gloated. Made sure I knew he’d noticed. Back then, I might’ve felt jealous and insecure.
But with Dean, I don’t feel any of that. I don’t know when it happened but I trust him.
Maybe it’s because I made him wait before letting him in.
You learn a lot about someone willing to be patient.
Or maybe it’s that he hadn’t been with anyone for months before we met.
I asked him once how many women he’s been with.
It was the first time I’d seen him embarrassed.
The number he gave me, rough and not exact, was honestly a little disturbing.
But he’s not that guy anymore. He knows what he wants and he’s careful with it. With us.
“So, what’s the plan if Vinnie wins?” Dean asks. His tone is easy, but the question lands heavy.
I glance down at our hands, still linked on the table. His thumb moves lightly over mine.
“If he wins, I’ll stay. Someone has to keep the place from falling apart.”
Dean’s hand tightens just enough for me to feel it.
“You shouldn’t spend your life cleaning up your brother’s messes,” he says. “You should be running things.”
I know he’s trying to help, but it’s not that simple.
“It’s not that easy,” I say. “This is a family business. You can’t just walk away.”
“I did. My mom tried to rope us all into Carter. Fashion wasn’t my thing.”
“Real estate is my thing,” I say. My voice hardens. “I’m not walking away.”
“I’m not saying you should,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean you need to live in Vinnie’s shadow.”
“Can we talk about something else?”
“Yeah. But just know you don’t have to worry about anything, no matter what happens. You have a safety net. It’s me.”
The candlelight throws soft shadows across his face. My instinct is to tell him that I don’t need saving. That’s always been my first response. But I stop myself. I let the tension drain from my shoulders. I won’t take his help, but I appreciate the offer.
“Thank you,” I say.
Over dinner, we talk about places we’ve traveled, favorite movies, the best meals we’ve ever had. The conversation feels natural, but I want more. I want to understand him.
I set my glass down. “What was your childhood like?” I ask.
The pause that follows is longer than expected. I prepare for him to deflect, maybe make a joke. Instead, he exhales and begins. What spills out is bare facts in a flat voice. His father’s death. Boarding school. Summers with hired help. There’s no feeling in it.
“That sounds lonely,” I say.
“No,” he answers immediately. Then he shifts. “Did your dad push you into real estate?”
I tell him the story. I wasn’t pushed. I was just following the path. Happily, I think.
When I mention losing my mom young and my dad burying himself in work after, I know he understands. There’s a quiet weight people carry when they’ve had to grow up too fast. It sharpens you in some places, closes you off in others.
That's probably why I don't believe him when he says it wasn't lonely. Because no matter how good you get at being alone, at pretending you don't need anyone, no one's that strong. Not even him.
The waitress returns, cutting through the moment like she’s unaware she’s walked into something. She sets a chocolate torte between us. Her eyes skip right over me and land on Dean.
"Can I get you anything else?" she asks with that forced sweet tone again.
"No," Dean says without looking at her.
She hesitates and I look away before I roll my eyes. That’s when I see Vinnie stepping through the door, a stunning woman on his arm. Of all the restaurants in the city, he had to choose this one.
My body moves before my brain catches up. I pull my hand back from Dean’s just as Vinnie’s eyes find mine.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
“What?” Dean asks, turning in his seat. He follows my gaze to Vinnie, who’s heading straight for us.
“That’s my brother,” I say quickly. “Don’t tell him about us. Not yet. Okay?”
“Dean Carter,” Vinnie says as he strides up to the table, thrusting out a hand. “I didn’t realize you and my sister ran in the same circles.”
Dean gives his hand a single, firm shake, his expression of polite indifference. “Vinnie, is it?”
“Dean’s a client,” I cut in. I feel the flush creeping up my neck. “We were just finishing up some business.”
Vinnie glances down at the single dessert between us. The corner of his mouth twitches. I push the plate toward Dean, as if that explains everything.
Dean doesn’t move to touch it. Vinnie’s eyes flick between us, and for a beat, no one says anything.
“On a Saturday night? That’s dedication.” Vinnie doesn’t wait for a reply. Just nods, says, “Well, I won’t keep you,” and turns, guiding his date toward the lounge.
Ten minutes later, we’re in Dean’s car. The air feels tight, like I’ve carried it in from the restaurant.
“I’m sorry. It’s not that I want to keep us a secret. It’s just none of his business. And if he finds out, he’ll turn it into a whole thing. I don’t need that right now—”
“I get it,” Dean says, cutting in. His voice is low and calm. One hand stays on the wheel while the other rests on my thigh.
For a moment, I consider telling him the real reason. Yes, I need to focus on winning the agency. But it’s more than that. People remember what happened last time. I don’t want them thinking I’m getting my hopes up again just to watch it fall apart.
I should feel confident about Dean. I know that. But I want a little more time to settle into this before it gets picked apart by other people’s opinions, even the well-meaning ones.
“We’ll have to tell people eventually. We’re not really in a position to take our time with certain things, you know? If we want them.”
“Are you talking about kids?” I ask. I glance over. He’s watching the road.
“I am. What do you think?”
I don’t answer right away. We’ve only been together a few days. It feels too soon to be talking about something like that. But he’s right in that we don’t have the luxury of putting that kind of thing off, if we want them.
The truth is, I do want kids. A proper family of my own.
I always have. I just stopped saying it out loud.
After Jason, it felt safer to let the idea go, like admitting it would only make the loss worse.
A family always felt like something other people got.
Something I’d missed my chance at. But now, sitting beside Dean, it doesn’t feel impossible.
I turn toward the window, watching the streetlights blur past. Saying this feels like cracking something open I might not be able to close again. But with him, it doesn’t feel so scary.
“I want them,” I say quietly. “I want that.”
Dean doesn’t make a big deal of it. He just nods, eyes on the road, like I’ve said something simple.
“Me too. But if it’s not in the cards,” he shrugs. “I just need you.”
Just like that, it feels settled. I rest my hand over his, still on my thigh, and lean back into the seat.
I let myself picture it—my own family.
A life I stopped believing I could have.