We'll bypass the tasting menu. It's pretentious and takes too long," Sloane dictated, handing back her unopened leather-bound menu. "Bring us two bone-in rib eyes, medium rare, truffle fries, and a bottle of the Cabernet, the good one, not the one you push on tourists." "Right away," the waiter practically fled the table. Dean watched him go, then looked back at Sloane. She was already fishing her phone out of her purse, her thumbs flying across the screen to fire off a quick email.
"You didn't have to do that," Dean said. Sloane didn't look up from her screen. "I despise snobbery. It's inefficient. Besides, you changed my tire in a monsoon.
The least I can do is make sure nobody treats you like the help while you're sitting at my table. She hit send, shoved the phone back into her bag, and finally looked at him. Do you even like steak? I'm a contractor from the Midwest, Dean said, leaning his elbows on the table. He didn't care about the grease stains anymore.
If you had ordered me a salad, I would have walked out. Sloane let out another short, real laugh. She reached for the crystal water glass. So, Dean Mitchell, tell me about the daughter who guilted you into sitting in a five-star restaurant with mud on your knees. Dean's posture softened.
The defensive armor he usually wore around wealthy clients melted away. Abby. She's six, missing two front teeth, currently obsessed with dinosaurs, and smarter than I am. Who has her tonight? My neighbor, Becca.
She's a teenager trying to save up for a car, so I pay her in cash and leftover pizza. Dean traced the rim of his glass. Abby is She's everything. But it's just the two of us. My ex-wife decided motherhood wasn't her calling right around the time the medical bills started piling up.
Sloane's eyes sharpened. She didn't offer a platitude. She didn't tilt her head and say, "I'm so sorry," the way people usually did. She just processed the data. Medical bills?
Abby was born premature. Lungs weren't fully developed. A month in the NICU. Dean shrugged, a heavy, tired movement. Insurance fought us on half of it.
The debt outlasted the marriage, so I picked up a hammer and started bidding on commercial drywall jobs. I work, I pay the bills, I go home to her. That's the whole script. And your sister thinks that's not enough. Laura thinks I'm a monk.
She thinks I need a social life, a woman, a reason to buy a new suit. Dean looked pointedly at his ruined sleeve. I think I proved her wrong tonight. The wine arrived. The waiter poured it with shaking hands and retreated immediately.
Sloane picked up her glass. She swirled the dark red liquid, staring into it as if it held the answers to a complex quarterly report. "My father is a shark," Sloane said suddenly. The transition was abrupt, but Dean didn't interrupt. He built Kensington Holdings from nothing.
He raised me to be exactly like him, ruthless, pragmatic, emotionally unavailable, and I am. I'm very good at it." She took a sip of the wine. Her expression was tight. "But I'm 34, and apparently, the board of directors feels my public image is too hostile. I fired three executives last month for embezzlement, and the media called me an ice queen." She rolled her eyes, a deeply human gesture that made Dean smirk.
"My father decided the solution isn't better PR. The solution is a husband, someone to stand next to me in photos and make me look softer, grounded." "Enter Chad," Dean supplied. "Um enter Chad," Sloane agreed, tapping her manicured nails on the tablecloth. "Or well, you. I told my assistant to find someone who works for a living, someone who wouldn't care about my money, but wouldn't be intimidated by it, either." She looked at Dean.
Her gaze was analytical, but there was a flicker of genuine respect beneath it. "You didn't take my money on the highway. I don't need a tip for basic human decency. In my world, everyone takes the money, Dean. Everyone wants a piece of the pie.
"I don't want your pie," Dean said flatly. "I just want to finish a drywall job on time and get 8 hours of sleep." The steaks arrived. They were massive, perfectly seared, smelling of garlic and butter. For the next 20 minutes, they didn't talk about corporate mergers or medical debt. They ate.
It was the first time Dean had eaten a meal that didn't come out of a microwave or a drive-thru window in 6 months. He watched Sloane eat. She didn't pick at her food. She ate with the same focused intensity she probably brought to a boardroom negotiation. "You know," Dean said, swallowing a bite of the steak.
It practically melted in his mouth. "You don't seem like an ice queen to me." Sloane paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. "Don't let the fact that I bought you a steak fool you. I am highly unpleasant to work for. You were shivering on the side of the road holding a wrench upside down, and you still tried to order me around." Dean pointed his knife at her.
"That's not ice. That's just panic disguised as authority. You're used to fixing everything yourself. You don't know how to let someone else carry the toolbox." Sloane stared at him. The ambient noise of the restaurant seemed to fade.
Nobody spoke to her like that. Men deferred to her wealth, or they overcompensated by acting aggressively dominant. Dean was just sitting there in his cheap muddy suit, looking right through the armor she had spent 15 years building. She felt a sudden terrifying urge to lean across the table. Before she could process the thought, Dean's phone buzzed on the table.
The screen lit up, a text message. Then, it started ringing. Dean glanced at the caller ID. It was Becca. He didn't hesitate.
He wiped his greasy hands on his napkin and answered it, pressing the phone to his ear. "Hey, everything okay?" Sloane watched him. The relaxed, slightly cynical man from 10 seconds ago vanished. His spine snapped straight. The lines around his mouth deepened into trenches of instant anxiety.
"Whoa, slow down," Dean said, his voice dropping into a calm, steady register that Sloane realized he probably used exclusively for his daughter. Breathe. What's her temperature? A pause. Dean closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Okay. 102 isn't the emergency room, but it's high. Did she throw up again? Another pause. All right.
Don't panic. You did exactly the right thing calling me. I'm leaving right now. Put a cool washcloth on the back of her neck and turn on the fan. I'm 15 minutes away.
He hung up. He didn't even look at his half-finished steak. He was already reaching for his wallet, his mind 3 miles away in a small apartment. Abby? Sloane asked, setting her fork down.
Fever spiked. She's sick. Dean pulled out two crumpled $20 bills, stared at them, and realized it wouldn't even cover the glass of water he drank. He looked at Sloane, a flash of genuine embarrassment crossing his face. I have to go.
I'm sorry. I can't I put your money away, Sloane said sharply. She pulled a heavy matte black card from her purse and tossed it onto the table. She didn't wait for the check. She stood up, grabbing her damp trench coat from the back of the chair.
Let's go. Dean blinked. You don't have to leave. I was planning to leave after 45 minutes anyway, remember? Sloane said, slipping her arms into the coat.
Besides, you drove here in the rain. I need to make sure my valet actually retrieves your truck and doesn't try to tow it. They moved fast. The maître d' practically tripped over himself to intercept them at the door, taking Sloane's black card with a barrage of obsequious bowing. The night air hit them as they stepped out from under the restaurant's awning.
The rain had stopped, leaving the city slick and reflecting the amber streetlights. The temperature had plummeted. They stood in silence while the valet jogged off to fetch their vehicles. Dean bounced slightly on his heels, his hands jammed deep into his pockets. He was radiating nervous energy.
He kept checking his phone screen, staring at it as if he could will the numbers on the digital clock to move faster. Sloane watched him from the corner of her eye. She was surrounded by men in her daily life, billionaires, politicians, tech founders, men who obsessed over market caps, golf handicaps, and offshore accounts. Men who panicked when a stock dropped two points. She had never seen a man panic over a child's fever.
It was jarring. It was real. It made her multi-billion dollar empire feel suddenly, violently hollow. She had 3,000 employees who answered to her, but nobody who needed her the way that little girl needed the man standing next to her. A low rumble cut through the quiet street.
The valet pulled up in Dean's battered Ford truck. The exhaust sputtered, blowing a small cloud of gray smoke into the pristine air. The check engine light glowed a dull orange through the windshield. Right behind it, a second valet pulled up in Sloane's Porsche, driving at a painfully slow crawl on the compact spare tire Dean had installed. Dean didn't wait for the valet to open his door.