Page 33 of Just The Way You Aren’t (Last Billionaire Standing #1)

DAMIEN

I bring Willow to lunch at Ambrosia, the restaurant I wanted to take her to in the first place before we decided on Billy's Burgers. Though, I have to admit, those were some damn good burgers.

"We'd like to be seated by the window," I tell the ma?tre d' when we enter the restaurant without a reservation.

The man looks up. I can tell it's on the tip of his tongue to ask me if I have a reservation, then recognition dawns and he nods.

"It will be but a moment, monsieur, madame.

" He presses his hand to his ear, where he has an earbud, and begins speaking in rapid French to whomever is on the other end of the line.

"Did you make a reservation this time?" Willow asks, grinning at me knowingly.

"I did not," I confide, smiling back. It feels nice to have her on my arm.

A waiter with a stiff, professional disposition shows up in no time and escorts us to our table. "My name is Jacques. I will be 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 ma?tre 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."

"The short version is Mason fell in love and now he spends his days making babies and watching sunsets," Wyatt says. "A tragic waste of a brilliant business mind."

"That sounds wonderful, not tragic," Willow counters.

Wyatt laughs. "That's what Lucy says too. Mason's wife," he adds for Willow's benefit. "Feisty little thing. You'd like her."

I’m just about to dismiss Wyatt when he gets a calculating look in his eye that I don’t like. “So, Willow,” he says conversationally, “where are you from? You don’t seem to have a city edge about you.”

“No, I don’t. I grew up upstate, the Catskills area. My family’s homestead is there,” she responds, still smiling at me. Then she blinks and I get the impression she hadn’t meant to share that information.

“Really? A homestead. In the Catskills, no less. I’m sure Damien would love to see where you grew up,” he says, dropping the hammer on his scheme.

Oh, that sonofabitch. “I’m sure Willow doesn’t have time to take me?—”

“She must visit her family sometimes. Don’t you, Willow?” Wyatt’s brown eyes coax the answer from her.

She swallows. “Well, I am actually going there for vacation the weekend after the fundraiser…”

“See? I was right.” His smile widens. “Damien, have you ever been upstate? ”

“Not that I can recall,” I grind out between clenched teeth.

“Well, what better time? You should take Willow, then you can meet the whole family. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Damien?”

Willow turns to me. “You would?”

I can’t very well say no at this point. “Sure. It sounds nice.” I manage a weak smile.

She looks very confused for a moment, then shrugs. “All right, I’ll let you know the details and you can come with me. It’s beautiful country.”

“It sounds like it,” I reply more sincerely.

Wyatt’s date sighs audibly, looking at her watch. "Wyatt."

"Right, of course." He squeezes her arm lightly—an affectionate gesture that somehow still feels impersonal. "We shouldn't keep you from your lunch." Then, to me, he adds in a lower voice, "Though at this rate, my friend, you're not going to win that bet."

"What bet?" Willow asks curiously.

Wyatt smiles, but all of his amusement is centered on me. On my discomfort now that he’s practically tossed a grenade into my lap. "Just a friendly wager among the poker group,” he says smoothly. “Nothing important."

"Ah," Willow says, sounding unconvinced, but not pressing further.

He turns to Jenna. "Shall we?"

As they walk away, I notice how Wyatt's hand barely touches the small of Jenna's back—a gesture that's perfectly correct yet somehow lacks genuine connection.

At the door, they exchange a brief, perfunctory kiss, and then she's walking toward a waiting car while Wyatt heads in the opposite direction, already checking his phone.

Willow watches this with perceptive eyes. "He couldn't even remember her name," Willow observes, then looks at me thoughtfully. "Do all the men in your poker group approach relationships that way?"

The question catches me off guard. I consider deflecting but find I don't want to.

"No," I admit quietly. "Not all of us."

We settle into our meal, the conversation flowing easily between us. The food is excellent, but I find myself watching Willow more than eating—the way she closes her eyes briefly when she tastes something particularly good, the way she gestures when she's excited about something.

When dessert arrives flambéed, she gasps in delight. "Oh, that's beautiful!"

"You should try it," I say, sliding it toward her.

She takes a bite and makes a small sound of pleasure that goes straight through me. "This is incredible."

I lean back in my chair, content to watch her enjoy it. This is what I've been missing, I realize—this simple pleasure of watching someone else's happiness.

"The big night will be here in no time," she says, setting down her fork. "Are you ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," I reply. "What about you?"

"Nervous," she admits. "What if nobody shows up? What if the auction items don't sell? What if?—"

I reach across the table and take her hand. "It's going to be perfect. Trust me."

She squeezes my fingers. "I do trust you. That's the surprising part."

The intensity of her gaze makes something shift in my chest.

Trust. She trusts me. The word echoes in my mind, carrying more weight than it should. When was the last time someone trusted me for anything beyond making money or closing deals?

"Good," I say, my throat suddenly tight. I clear it, reaching for my water glass to buy time. "Speaking of the fundraiser, I’m sorry you didn’t have any luck at Bella’s. Do you know what you’ll be doing for a dress?"

"Oh, I'll figure something out," she says, waving dismissively. "Maybe I'll check out one of those department stores. Or there's this vintage boutique in my neighborhood?—"

"Absolutely not." The words come out more forcefully than I intend. I soften my tone. "You're not showing up to a black-tie gala at The Plaza in a vintage dress from a thrift shop."

She raises an eyebrow. "There's nothing wrong with vintage."

"Not for everyday wear, no. But this is different." I signal for the check. "Come on. I know just the place. It’ll be my treat"

"Damien, really, I can handle?—"

"I know you can." I stand and offer her my hand. "But you singlehandedly saved the Guardian account today. Buying you something nice to wear to your fundraiser is the least I can do."

She takes my hand with a small sigh. "You're not going to take no for an answer, are you?"

"Have you ever known me to back down from something I want?"

“Fair enough,” she says, grinning at me.