“And you said yes?”
“I said yes.”
He’s quiet for a moment, processing. “That’s pretty public for something that’s only been going on a few weeks.”
“I know.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“I’m sure,” I say, even though new worries are now rattling around in my head.
Jake nods slowly. “Okay. Just… keep your eyes open, alright? Don’t let the fancy events and the charm blind you to any red flags.”
“Banks doesn’t do charm. He barely does complete sentences.”
“You know what I mean.”
I do. That’s the problem.
We finish lunch with lighter conversation—hisclasses, our parents’ upcoming anniversary, and whether Mom is ever going to stop asking when we’re giving her grandchildren. But underneath the banter, Jake’s words keep circling.
Who knows where he’s been.
Flavor of the week.
Use protection.
Banks isn’t good at the relationship stuff. He told me that himself—he hasn’t been in a relationship in years. So what has he been doing instead? Hookups? One-night stands? A different woman in every city, easy and uncomplicated and gone by morning?
I have no reason to assume he’s a saint. No reason to believe I’m special. No reason to think that whatever’s happening between us could grow into something real.
The doubt settles in my chest like a cold stone.
By the time I hug Jake goodbye on the sidewalk, I’ve convinced myself I need to be more careful, rational. Smart.
Chapter Twenty-One
Glass Slippers
Winnie
Tori’s guest room has been transformed into a salon.
Two director’s chairs face a large mirror propped against the wall, flanked by ring lights that cast everything in a soft, flattering glow. A woman named Margot has set up her professional kit on the dresser—brushes, palettes, curling irons, and products I couldn’t name if my life depended on it.
This is Tori’s doing. “We’re doing this right, Win,” she said when she booked it. “Full glam. No arguments.”
I didn’t argue. I just brought the champagne.
Now, we’re an hour into the process, sipping Veuve Clicquot while Margot works her magic. Tori’s already finished—her hair swept into an elegant updo, makeup flawless—and she’s lounging on the bed in her robe, scrolling through her phone and offering commentary.
“You should do a red lip,” she says. “Classic. Timeless.”
“Nude,” I counter. “The dress is already a statement.”
“She’s right,” Margot says, blending something along my cheekbone. “With that color, you want the focus on the eyes. Let the dress do the heavy lifting.”
“See?” I raise my champagne flute in Tori’s direction. “Professional opinion.”
