Wesley Briar wasn't the type of man who did dating apps. He wasn't the type of man who did dating, period. At thirty-nine years old, he had everything he needed—his daughter Maria, his sprawling estate at Briar Cliff, his construction business, his farms. The last thing he needed was some woman trying to wedge her way into the quiet, orderly life he'd spent years building. So when his cousin Alexander had gotten that look in his eye a few weeks back, the one that screamed trouble, Wes should've known something was coming.

Turns out, Alexander had decided on his own that Wesley needed to "get back out there." Never mind that Wesley had never been "out there" to begin with. Never mind that the man had explicitly stated multiple times that he had zero interest in romantic entanglement. Alexander, being the relentless bastard that he was, had created a tender profile for Wesley without his knowledge and set up a date. When Wes found out, he'd nearly lost his mind. But Maria had looked at him with those curious five-year-old eyes and asked why Daddy didn't want to try making a friend, and somehow that had shifted something in him. Not enough to actually want to do this, but enough to not completely refuse.

So here he was, dressed in actual dress clothes instead of his usual work shirts and jeans, sitting in some upscale restaurant in downtown Briar Hills, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. Because he would. He'd rather be on his property, working on the new barn expansion or tending the orchards. He'd rather be with Maria, reading her bedtime stories in that animated way that made her giggle uncontrollably. Hell, he'd rather be anywhere than sitting at this table, waiting for some stranger to show up.

The reservation was under his name—Alexander had at least done that much—and the host kept giving him these sympathetic looks like he knew this was going to be a disaster. Wes adjusted his collar uncomfortably. He'd worn dark slacks and a navy button-up with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, which meant his calloused hands and the hair on his arms were fully visible. He looked out of place among the polished silverware and soft lighting, too rough, too intensely present in a space meant for people who actually knew how to do small talk.

He pulled out his phone to check the time. Six forty-seven. She was thirteen minutes late. Not that he was counting or anything.

The thing was, Wes didn't do well with people. Never had. He preferred the company of animals, plants, construction materials—things that made sense, that had logical outcomes, that didn't require him to pretend to be interested in conversations about the weather or some tedious work story. He'd gotten decent at managing contractors and business associates because it was necessary, but genuine social interaction? That was torture. And a date was basically the worst form of torture invented by man.

He wondered if she'd stand him up. Part of him hoped she would. That would certainly give Alexander something to complain about, and Wes could return to his estate with his conscience clear. He'd tried, he could say. It wasn't his fault if—

"Wesley?"

He looked up. There she was.