Chapter 2 - The Woman in the Dark Green Blazer
The ambient noise of the restaurant seemed to fade into a dull hum as I sat across from Claire Whitman, trying to recalibrate my entire understanding of how a Friday night was supposed to go.
“Let’s back up,” I said, lifting my glass of pale ale. “Because I feel like I missed a crucial chapter. You’re sitting alone, eating whatever high-end organic masterpiece Table 4 serves, you overhear my date tell me I’m built like a wet cardboard box personality-wise, and your immediate reaction is let’s legally bind our assets?”
Claire didn’t blink. Her pale green eyes held mine with a terrifying level of confidence. “My reaction was that I needed a distraction, and you looked like a man who could handle a completely absurd proposition without calling security.”
“And if I had called security?”
“Then I would have had to explain to the bouncer that my fiancé was abandoning me at the altar before we even ordered dessert, which would have been embarrassing for both of us.”
I had to give it to her; the woman had a rhythm.
“Why were you eating alone on a Friday night, Claire?” I asked, narrowing my eyes slightly. “Successful, sharply dressed women in Denver don't usually sit in upscale bistros solo unless they’re hiding from the law or escaping a very specific kind of disaster.”
Her smile didn't reach her eyes this time. A shadow flickered across her face—quick, defensive, and gone before most people would have noticed.
“Let’s go with escaping a disaster,” she said smoothly. “Though corporate extortion sounds much more dramatic than a broken engagement.”
I stopped mid-sip. “A broken engagement?”
“Three weeks ago,” she said, swirling the dark red wine against the sides of her crystal glass. “Four years down the drain, a ring the size of a postage stamp returned via certified mail, and an ex-fiancé who immediately shacked up with his senior VP of marketing. Tonight was supposed to be our reservation. I decided to keep the table anyway out of spite.”
I let out a low whistle. “Ouch. That makes my bread basket rejection look like a minor stubbed toe.”
“Oh, it’s entirely worse,” Claire agreed, leaning her elbows on the table and looking at me with genuine curiosity. “So, Ethan Cole, master builder of concrete monoliths and victim of Hannah’s matchmaking crusade. Why are you single?”
“What makes you assume it’s my fault?”
“Because,” she said, tilting her head, “a man who handles a rejection by making self-deprecating sweater jokes and offering a polite exit is either a saint, a serial killer, or emotionally exhausted. You looked exhausted.”
“I’m busy,” I said defensively. “Building a thirty-story mixed-use commercial space in LoDo leaves very little time for swiping through dating apps where people pose with dead fish or list ‘traveling’ as their sole personality trait.”
“Fair enough.” Claire signaled the waiter with a subtle flick of her hand—a gesture of command that suggested she was used to people jumping when she blinked. “Waiter? We’ll take the artisan cheese board, and whatever bottle of bold red the chef recommends that isn't currently poisoning the table next to us.”
“Wait,” I held up a hand. “Did you just order for me?”
“You were eating stale sourdough and drowning your sorrows in generic pale ale. You needed an intervention.”
“You’re very bossy for a stranger who just proposed to me.”
“You’ll get used to it,” she said calmly.
For the next two hours, the awkward ghost of Lauren vanished entirely. We didn’t talk about weather or traffic or hiking trails. Claire talked about commercial real estate zoning laws—turns out she was a senior acquisitions lawyer for a major development firm downtown—and I talked about the nightmare of managing supply chain delays for steel beams. We argued passionately about whether green chile should contain pork or beef (pork, obviously), debated the merits of old-school architecture versus modern glass boxes, and laughed until the busboy came by for the third time to politely inform us they were closing the kitchen.
When the bill arrived, I reached for it immediately.
Claire’s hand shot out across the table, her fingers wrapping firmly around my wrist. Her skin was warm, and the sudden, electric jolt of contact made my breath hitch in my throat.
“Split,” she said, her voice dropping an octave. “Unless you want to invalidate our entire engagement on grounds of patriarchal financial control.”
“You proposed to me, Claire. Traditionally, the sugar mama pays.”
“I am not a sugar mama, Ethan. I am a hostile corporate takeover in a green blazer.”
She dropped her credit card onto the leather tray before I could argue. When the receipt came back, she signed it with a flourish, looked up at me, and slid her business card across the wood.
“Call me tomorrow,” she said, standing up and smoothing down her skirt. “We need to discuss wedding venues. I’m thinking something with exposed brick and heavy industrial beams. You’d like that.”
With a wicked wink, she turned and walked out into the cool night air, leaving me sitting at the sticky wooden table with her black-and-silver embossed business card resting beside my empty beer glass.
Claire Whitman.
Senior Partner, Whitman & Sterling Acquisitions.
May you like
I stared at the card for a long time. Then, slowly, I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and texted my sister Hannah:
Cancel the next three dates. I found my own fiancée.
