Page 13 of Defending What's Mine

And the truth?

I’m not sure either of us is ready for what happens when we stop pretending.

Because if he looks at me like that again...

I’m not sure I’ll have the willpower to pull away a second time.

Later in the evening,after another intense family dinner, Asher leads me through the lobby. He guides me toward the main bar. His hand never actually touches my back, but I feel its phantom reassurance the entire walk—like he’s a force field between me and any lingering threats.

Inside, the bar is equal parts polished mahogany and hazy romance lighting. Amber sconces cast pools of gold across curved banquettes, and somewhere a jazz trio wanders through a slow, smoky rendition of “All of Me.” The low murmur of conversation feels worlds removed from my grandmother’s dagger-sharp dinner table and Wade’s predator stare.

Asher scans the room—of course he does—then picks a small two-top tucked near a window, sightline on both the entrance and the emergency exit. He waits for me to sit first, then slides into the opposite chair, posture relaxed but eyes still tactical.

A bartender materializes. “For you, sir?”

“Soda water, lime,” Asher says with no hesitation. Then, glancing at me, “I’m on the clock.”

I smile with half gratitude, half amusement at the way he always clarifies the rules. “Cabernet for me, please. Something big enough to knock the edges off the night.”

The bartender nods, and glides away. I fold my hands around the heavy linen napkin to keep from fidgeting. Asher’s gaze softens a fraction; the intensity in those steel-gray eyes shifts from perimeter to me.

“Charlotte, why is your grandmother so invested in you and Wade?” he asks, voice low enough that conversation at the next table won’t overhear. “She pushed hard last night.”

I exhale a dry laugh. “Nana Peg is old-school to the bone. Corporate alliances, maintaining ‘standing’—all of it matters more to her than comfort, maybe even happiness. Marrying Wade would consolidate two big private-equity blocks and—according to her—fortify the Lane brand against hostile acquisitions.”

His brows lift. “A human merger.”

“Exactly. And because Wade plays the part so well, she thinks he’s sincere.” I shrug, feeling the weight of expectation tug at my shoulders again. “She trusts pedigree. She sees an Ivy MBA and a trust fund, not the red flags under the bow tie.”

Our drinks arrive. The cabernet is velvety dark. I take a slow sip, letting berry and oak calm my nerves, then cradle the glass between both palms. “I’ve known him forever. Our parents have been friends since I was in pigtails. Family beach rentals, Fourth-of-July cookouts, Christmas brunch. Wade and I used to hide in the pantry and steal gingerbread icing.” I smile at the childhood memory, then glance at Asher. “Back then he was harmless. We were matched before we understood whatmatching was. At sixteen he asked me to the winter formal because both moms practically choreographed the invitation.”

He tilts his soda water, the slice of lime bobbing against the rim. “Sounds… suffocating.”

“It is.” I swirl my wine, watching the deep red run slow legs down the glass. “I grew up thinking my life was penciled into a planner I didn’t get to read. Prep school, university, charity boards, then marriage to a man who knows the difference between black-tie and white-tie and how to shake hands with senators.” I peek at him over the rim.

“And your parents? They’re not pushing the proposal? Why not?”

I smile, my eyes radiating the warmth I feel when I think of my parents. “My mother actually loves me and wants me to be happy. She asked me a few months back how I truly felt about Wade, and I told her.” I hold up a hand as if that explains everything.

“But Nana Peg isn’t budging, huh? Sounds like a gilded cage.”

I nod, taking another sip. “It is. I’d love a little freedom.”

“And what feels like freedom?” he asks.

The question drifts between us, the jazz trio sliding into a lazy blues. I close my eyes for half a second, picture it clearly: “A ranch in the mountains. Acres of open pasture, rescued horses galloping instead of being auctioned off for slaughter. Kennels for senior dogs who never got a home. A clinic on-site with visiting vets. Morning coffee on a porch that overlooks sunrise over rolling hills.” My chest loosens just describing it. “I’d trade vintage galas for muddy boots in a heartbeat.”

When I open my eyes, Asher’s studying me in that still, thoughtful way of his. “I can see it,” he says softly, like he’s already imagining fence lines and barn rafters. “You’d make a damn good rescue director.”

A shy heat creeps into my cheeks. “You think?”

“Yeah.” He sips his soda. “You care. That’s rarer than you’d think in rooms like tonight.”

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “So, what about you? What does your planner look like?”

He huffs a faint laugh. “No planner. I built a career on preventing bad things from happening to good people. That’s enough of a blueprint—for now.”

“But eventually?”

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