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“Rachel,” he greets me with a grin, holding his arms out like he’s about to hug me, but then thinking better of it and offering his hand instead. “You look fantastic.”

“Thanks,” I say. “You too.”

He chuckles, giving me a once-over. “I have to admit, I was pleasantly surprised to get your call. I thought you didn’t mix business with pleasure.”

I shrug with a smile, although I don’t appreciate the lingering look. “Usually, I don’t. But I’m trying to change that—being a little more open to… new experiences.”

Lyle raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued, but I get the distinct impression that his mind sunk into the gutter before he consciously dragged it back out.

“I like that. Life’s too short to stick to rules anyway.”

I laugh lightly, even though I’m not entirely sure I agree with him. “Exactly. Sometimes you just have to go for it.”

The waiter appears almost immediately, taking our drink orders while we peruse the menu—a whiskey for him and a glass of Pinot Noir for me.

Once the drinks arrive, Lyle raises his glass, giving me a confident smile. “To new beginnings,” he says, and this time I agree wholeheartedly, clinking my glass against his.

“To new beginnings,” I echo, taking a sip.

Lyle leans back, clearly comfortable in his element. “You know, I have to say, I respect someone who knows what they want and goes after it. That pitch you gave the other week was killer. You really command a room.”

I smile, but there’s a part of me that wonders if he means it as a compliment or a strategy. Praise often comes easily from people who expect everything to be transactional.

Still, I take it. I’ve worked too hard not to. “Thanks,” I reply.

He nods appreciatively. “Smart. I’ve always believed that calculated risks are the only way to get ahead. You’ve got to be willing to bend the rules when it counts.”

There’s something slick about the way he says it—like he’s not talking about bold ideas, but about cutting corners and justifying it later. It reminds me of a dozen other men I’ve met in boardrooms and during brunches: driven, yes—but never slowed down by things like ethics or empathy.

“So,” I say, steering the conversation, “when you’re not flipping burgers, what do you like to do? Hobbies? Passions?”

He gives me a look that’s somewhere between amused and horrified. “You’re kidding, right? I wouldn’t be seen dead in one of our restaurants, in front or behind the counter.”

I laugh, but it comes out brittle. He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. There’s a pride in his voice I can’t quite align with. I think of Dan teaching kids how to block scenes, mucking in with AV equipment and lighting, never above anything. There’s a dignity in showing up, even when it’s messy. Lyle seems allergic to mess—and slumming it with staff.

“Oh,” I say, my smile faltering just a touch. “Surely, for market research, or employee satisfaction, you need to?—”

He waves a dismissive hand. “I’m a vice president, Lara. My staff deals with the nitty gritty. I’m all about the big picture. As for hobbies, I don’t really think there’s room for distractions if you want to succeed. I’ve always said that relationships and personal stuff can wait until you’re established. You’ve got to build your empire first. Then you can enjoy it.”

I nod slowly, though everything inside me recoils. I used to think like that. Maybe I still do, sometimes. But hearing it aloud—so clinical, so certain—makes it sound more like a warning than a philosophy.

I nod slowly, but I feel a tightening, like something small and sharp curling behind my ribs.

“That makes sense, I guess… but don’t you think there’s more to life than just work?”

He chuckles, like I’ve made a cute joke. “Sure, sure. But I figure once I’m at the top, I’ll have plenty of time to relax. Right now, I’m focused on getting there.”

His voice fills the space between us like an ad jingle—loud, confident, repetitive. I try to keep pace, but it’s like playing tennis with someone who’s only practicing their serve.

The conversation seems to be very one-sided. He lists off his career achievements, the big brands he’s worked for, followed by a monologue about how he’s clawed his way up the corporate ladder. I nod and smile in all the right places, but my mind is elsewhere, wondering why on earth I thought this man was worth my time.

After dinner, he insists on paying the bill—making a show of it, really—before escorting me outside.

He pauses on the sidewalk, turning to face me with that same self-assured smile. “I had a good time,” he says, leaning closer. “You really are as impressive as I thought.”

I manage a polite smile, but I’m already leaning back, not quite ready to let him close the gap.

There’s a moment where he looks like he might go in for a goodnight kiss. Instead of panic, I feel… mild curiosity, like watching someone attempt karaoke in a language they don’t speak.