Page 74 of Just The Way You Aren't

A waiter with a stiff, professional disposition shows up in no time and escorts us to our table. "My name is Jacques. I willbe your server this afternoon. Will you be having wine with lunch, monsieur?" he inquires.

"Yes, we will," I say.

He nods. "The sommelier will be right with you. In the meantime, I invite you to peruse our menu. Please let me know if you have any questions."

"I will, thank you," I reply.

As Jacques walks away, I notice Wyatt Reed and a sleek blonde woman standing nearby, apparently just finishing their meal. Wyatt is hard to miss—that confident posture, impeccable suit, and trademark smile that's charmed executives and supermodels alike. They're in conversation with the maître d', but then Wyatt looks up and spots me.

"Well, well," he says, smoothly redirecting his path toward our table. "Damien Langley. I hardly recognized you without a scowl."

I rise to greet him, suppressing a sigh. "Wyatt. Good to see you."

Wyatt's companion follows a step behind, her expression politely bored. She's attractive in the same way all of Wyatt's dates are—polished, expensive, and ultimately interchangeable.

"Don't let us interrupt your lunch," Wyatt says, though he's clearly doing exactly that. His eyes shift to Willow, taking her in with a single appreciative glance that somehow manages to be both admiring and respectful. "And who is this?"

"Willow Harper," I say, perhaps a bit too possessively. "Willow, this is Wyatt Reed. We've known each other for years."

Wyatt extends his hand to Willow, giving her a firm handshake. "The famous Willow Harper. I've been wondering who's been monopolizing Damien's time lately."

"We're working on a fundraiser together," Willow explains, looking a bit confused by his familiarity.

"So I've heard. Silver Hearts, right?" Wyatt flashes that million-dollar smile. "Damien missed our weekly get-together to work on it. That's practically unheard of."

I clear my throat. "Wyatt and I play poker once a week. With some other friends."

Wyatt turns to his date as if suddenly remembering she's there. "Oh, this is Jennifer."

"Jenna," the woman corrects with a tight smile.

"Right, of course," Wyatt says smoothly, not missing a beat. "We were just leaving. Jenna has appointments this afternoon."

The woman—Jenna—gives a perfunctory nod. "Nice to meet you." Her tone suggests it's anything but.

I watch this exchange with interest. There's an unmistakable transience to their dynamic, a subtle distance in how Wyatt stands slightly apart from her, how his charm seems to be running on autopilot.

"We should let you get to your lunch," Jenna says, glancing at her phone.

"Just a moment, darling," Wyatt says, the endearment sliding easily off his tongue. He turns to me. "So, the fundraiser this weekend. I hear it's at The Plaza?"

"Yes," I confirm, surprised he knows.

"Black tie affair?" he continues.

"Yes," Willow answers. "We're hoping to raise enough for our home assistance program."

Wyatt nods thoughtfully. "Well, I'll be there." He pulls out his phone, types something, then puts it away with a smile. "And so will the rest of the guys. Just texted them."

"The guys?" Willow asks, looking between us.

"Our poker group," I explain. "There are six of us altogether."

"There were seven, before Mason abandoned ship," Wyatt adds with a theatrical sigh.

"Mason?" Willow prompts.

"Another friend who recently got married and moved to a tropical island," I tell her. "It's a long story."

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