Page 101 of Brewer Family Collection, Part 1

My lips part to fire back a snarky response, but I quickly remember there are cameras.

“What would that be?” I ask.

“What do you search online the most often? Because I’m dying to know how we were matched.”

My laughter is loud and immediate.

“I’m serious,” he says, laughing, too. “Give me your top three. If we can find the overlap, it will give us a natural starting point.”

My top three searched terms? Conspiracy theories, random medical ailments I have no business looking up, and deep dives into the backstories of strangers I encounter online.

If I say those things, it’ll give him ammunition somehow to use against me later. But more importantly, I know our overlap doesn’t exist because this is all for show. That doesn’t mean I can’t use it to learn a little about Mr. Brewer, though.

“Cleaning hacks, meal prep tips … and porn,” I say instead, watching his features closely for a reaction.

His eyes widen. “Porn?”

“Yup. That must be where we overlap.”

The grin kissing his lips is one that I haven’t seen before—not directed at me, anyway.

It’s suggestive in the dirtiest of ways.

Butterflies flutter in my stomach as if they didn’t get the memo that we don’t react to Ripley …

or that he’s acting and trying to make the audience believe he finds me attractive.

“I feel like I should say that porn is one of mine because that would be quite the overlap,” he says, chuckling. “But it’s not.”

“Well, it’s not mine either. I might as well admit that since they’ll probably show you the list at some point.” Except you know as well as I do that there is no list.

His brows lift in confusion. “What?”

“I was just trying to learn something about you.” I shrug. “I don’t look up porn. Well, it’s not in my top three searches, anyway.”

He tilts his head to the side, clearly amused, as the server steps to our table. After a quick introduction, Vernon takes our drink order and hands us menus before leaving us alone.

“So porn is out,” he says, grinning cheekily. “Should we move on to meal prep?”

“My meal prep consists of making sure I have enough string cheese and cookie butter to get me through the week.”

“Did you give up cookies?”

I laugh. “Never.”

“I’m guessing you don’t clean either.”

“What would give you that idea?” I drop my attention to the menu and my eyes about bug out of my head. “ Whoa .”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say, bringing my gaze to his. “I’ve just never eaten at a restaurant where one meal will be easily over one hundred dollars. Seems rather excessive.”

“It’s a little fancier than string cheese and cookie butter, huh?”

I laugh. “A bit.”

Vernon returns with our drinks. “Are you ready to place your order, or do you need more time?”

I stare at the dinner options, none of which include cookie butter, and start to panic.

The steaks have a location beneath them, which I don’t understand.

I’m fairly certain one of the appetizers is whale, and I’m not sure of the legality of that.

There are duck tacos, which I didn’t know was a thing, and so many variations of butter you can order on the side that I don’t know where to start.

Where are the bacon cheeseburgers?

My palms begin to sweat.

“Would you like me to order for you?” Ripley asks softly.

My smile is wobbly as relief washes over me.

Ordering food I’m not familiar with and food that’s this expensive makes me self-conscious.

I want to do it myself, but the longer I fumble with this decision, the goofier I’ll look.

That would be worse than letting him have this small victory by looking like a gentleman.

Surely, he’ll choose something I like, right?

“That would be nice,” I say. “Thank you.”

He returns my smile and then turns to Vernon.

“We’ll have an artisanal cheese board as a starter.

Georgia would like an iceberg wedge, please hold the tomato, and an eight-ounce filet cooked medium and an order of truffle fries.

I’ll have the wedge salad, roasted chicken with pistachio gremolata, and potato gratin. ”

“Excellent choices, sir,” Vernon says. “I shall return.”

He takes the menus and leaves.

“I’m not sure if you have a personal vendetta against tomatoes on salads, but I do, so thank you,” I say, my face flushing.

He furrows his brow. “You never eat tomatoes.”

“You can’t know that about me,” I say through a fake smile. “We just met. Remember?” How do you know that anyway?

“Fuck.” He looks at Greg. “I …”

Greg pops his head around the camera. “We’ll edit it out. Keep going.”

Ripley nods, and for once, I think he senses that he’s a mere mortal. Ha .

“So no porn, meal prep, or cleaning hacks,” he says, as if he’s actually interested. “Tell me something about you—something real.”

I think you’re a pretty good actor. But you haven’t seen anything yet.

“Let’s see …” I try to think of something that will get a reaction. “Okay. I applied for a weatherwoman job last week.”

Ripley knows I don’t have a meteorology degree—but he can’t say that, so his reaction is perfect. “ What? ”

“I’m really hoping I get it. I have a knack for predicting the weather.”

He chuckles. “I’m glad to hear that although I think the weather is more of a science than a guessing game.”

“Then we don’t watch the same weather reports.”

He shakes his head, holding back a comment. God knows what he'd say if there wasn’t a camera in our faces. But there is. That means he has to behave.

I’m starting to like this. Now, let’s level it up.

“I really think it’s hard to believe you’re single,” I say, fluttering my lashes. “Why is a man like you on a reality show looking for a date?”

“Because there’s a chance I’ll meet a woman like you.”

Oh, well played. I smile, acknowledging his game. “What are you looking for in a relationship?”

We pause as a plate of cheeses, nuts, and fruits and two small plates are placed between us.

He sits back, his features pensive. “Honestly? One of my brothers just got married and had a baby. Watching him with his wife and little boy has made me start thinking outside of myself.”

“So you’re looking to settle down?”

“Yeah. If I can find the right woman to build a family with, I’d love to be able to raise my children alongside my brothers.”

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

I’m not sure how I expected him to answer my question—or if I had a response in mind. But this reply wasn’t on my radar. The worst part, the most confusing part, is that I don’t know if he’s being honest or just creating a good soundbite.

No, maybe the worst part is that I’m curious.

“What about you?” he asks. “What are you looking for in a relationship?”

That suddenly feels like a loaded question.

I take a drink to buy myself some time to shake out of the weird headspace I’ve inadvertently entered. I’m not sure whether to answer honestly, or if I should give him a bullshit response to maintain my privacy. His eyes sparkle as if he’s being vulnerable with me, but I don’t trust him.

He’s still Ripley Brewer behind all that charm.

“I’m looking for a man who can complement my life,” I say, setting my drink down. “I don’t need to be saved and don’t want to save anyone, either. It would just be nice to find someone honest who doesn’t play games.”

Our gazes lock. I search his pools of blue for any inkling that he understands what I’m saying.

And I come up empty-handed.

Why did I almost hope for something else?

Silly me.