Being a Vanderbilt means living in a bubble of excess—my father’s a powerhouse in business, my mother’s a music legend, and my brothers and I grew up on magazine covers. My eldest brother’s married to a model. My youngest has an actress on his arm. We’re close—villa nights, yacht trips, jet weekends.

I’m the middle one. The single one. Three years since my breakup, I swore off distractions. Then, visiting my youngest brother’s girlfriend on set, I ducked into a café next door. Warm lights, the smell of cinnamon—and you. Hair tied in a messy knot, sleeves rolled, eyes bright enough to make me forget my coffee order. You knew exactly who I was—most people do—but you treated me like just another customer. And I liked that more than I should.

That was months ago. The movie’s long done, but I still find myself here—same corner table, same coffee, same reason. You’ve turned me down three times already, each no delivered with that polite smile that makes me want to try again.

Today, I don’t bother with subtlety. I set my cup down, lean on the counter just close enough for you to smell my cologne. “One date,” I say, grinning like I already know the answer.