Chapter 1

I went on a blind date. He barely looked at me, just kept scrolling on his phone the whole time.

As we stood to leave, he set down his coffee and said flatly, "You're nice, but too ordinary."

I nodded and smiled. I didn't tell him I own the restaurant.

That night, a message lit up the family group chat and tagged everyone.

My older brother, Gavin Morris, his newly appointed boss, posted my graduation photo. "Meet my sister, Kylie Morris. She just came back from Cambridge."

Three seconds later, my phone started blowing up with his messages.

*****

My mom, Eileen, pushed a photo across the table while I was signing the quarterly report for my new restaurant.

"Logan Grant. Thirty. Investment bank VP. Six-foot-one," she said, pointing at the sharply featured face in the photo. Her excitement left no room for argument. "Your Aunt May picked him out carefully. No complaints on his end. Saturday, 3 p.m., Summit Bistro. You have to go."

I glanced at the photo. The man wore a perfectly tailored suit, standing in front of a financial conference backdrop. Standard smile, eyes sharp, sizing up value like it came naturally. Very typical.

"Mom, I,"

"You're free Saturday," she cut me off, eyes flicking to the report in my hand and back to my face with a little disappointed sigh. "Kylie, you're twenty-seven, not seventeen. You spend all your time running around these restaurants. Are you going to deal with your personal life at all? Logan's seen the world. If he likes you, consider yourself lucky."

Lucky.

I clicked the pen cap, saying nothing. Arguing never works. This tug-of-war has lasted three years. Ever since my dad, Harrison, handed me the newly acquired restaurant division to manage, my mom's anxiety has only grown. In her eyes, a "proper woman" shouldn't spend her prime dealing with suppliers, chefs, and renovation crews, or drowning in grease and spreadsheets.

"Fine." I closed the folder and smiled at her. "I'll go."

A KPI, that was all.

Saturday, I arrived at Summit Bistro ten minutes early.

It's my least profitable location, high-end, private, perfect for sensitive business talks or a blind date. My manager, Robert Anderson, froze for a second when he saw me, then hurried over. "Ms. Morris, you're here? No reservation?"

"I have someone. A03," I said, waving him off. "Just regular service. Keep it low-key."

A03 was the window booth, best view in the house. Logan hadn't arrived yet. I ordered a soda and flipped through the menu, the new season's dishes, a few creative touches from Chef Lawrence Foster, who had just returned from overseas training. Prices had gone up by fifteen percent. I frowned and made a mental note.

At 2:59, Logan arrived.

In person, he was even taller than in the photo. Deep gray Armani suit, no tie, top button of his shirt undone. A Patek Philippe Nautilus glinted on his wrist with every step. His eyes found A03, and when they landed on me, he paused almost imperceptibly.

It was brief, but I noticed. A flicker of assessment, with a hint of underwhelmed.

"Ms. Morris?" he said, voice low, extending a hand.

"Mr. Grant," I said, standing, giving a light handshake. His hand was dry, firm, and gone in an instant.

He sat, and the server handed him a menu. He didn't even look at it. "An iced Americano," he said, then finally glanced at me, lips curling into a polite smile. "Ms. Morris, what would you like to drink?"

"Soda water, thanks," I said, nodding at the server.

While we waited for our food, we went through the usual small talk. He asked about my job. I told him I worked in marketing at a small company, which was pretty relaxed. He nodded, didn't press, and shifted to talk about a recent cross-border merger he'd handled, billions involved, high stakes, clever opponents, and how he'd pulled it off. His words were precise, calm, sprinkled with technical terms.

I smiled and nodded at the right moments, pretending to be impressed, while in my head I calculated turnover rates for another branch.

His phone sat on the table. The screen lit up from time to time. WhatsApp was on silent, but it vibrated constantly. At first, he apologized for the interruptions, saying, "Sorry, work," but soon it became second nature; he'd grab it, type quickly, sometimes frown, like he was untangling a tricky problem.

I had finished half my soda. His iced Americano was barely touched.

"Ms. Morris, what do you usually like to do for fun?" he finally asked, putting his phone down, as if he'd finished handling a sudden urgent matter.

"I read, check out shops, travel sometimes," I answered safely.

"Travel's great. Last year, I went to Aetheria to see the Northern Lights. The year before, I skied in Silvervein." He leaned back, relaxing a little. "Domestic spots are too crowded and commercial. Not worth it."

"Yeah," I agreed. "It's nicer when it's quiet abroad."

He seemed to find a connection and talked a little more, but the conversation still revolved around his travels, wine tasting, and golf skills. I mostly listened, chiming in occasionally. The sunlight shifted outside, casting a small shadow across his sharply defined profile.

Sensing the conversation had stalled, he asked, "Ms. Morris, are you interested in finance or investing? I could give some tips. It's good for women to learn money management."

His tone was gentle, but with a subtle sense of authority.

I looked up at him. "Thanks, but I don't need that right now."

He smiled, didn't push. The expression said, as expected.

Our food arrived, a chef-recommended set for two. He ate distractedly, commenting briefly, "Foie gras slightly overdone, truffle flavor not rich enough," then returned his attention to his phone for most of the meal.

It felt like a one-way work report rather than dinner.

When we finished, he called the server for the check. He glanced at the total without a flicker of emotion and pulled out his card. While waiting for it to process, he finally put his hands on the table and looked at me, really looked, like he was doing a final assessment.

"Ms. Morris," he said, voice calmer and clearer than before, "you're kind, gentle, quiet, and seem responsible."

I waited for the but.

"However," he said, with a faint hint of regret, or perhaps merciful honesty, "we might not be a good match. My life moves fast. The people I deal with and the pressure I face, I probably need someone more experienced, someone who can keep pace. You are a bit too ordinary."

Too ordinary.

The words floated lightly, landing on the cluttered table.

The server returned his card and receipt. He took them, stood, and straightened his jacket perfectly. "Thank you for your time today. This one's on me." He paused, adding, "Be careful going home."

Then he turned and walked away, tall, confident, disappearing around the dark-gold screen at the corner of the restaurant.

I stayed, slowly finishing the last sip of soda, now flat.

Robert walked over quietly, looking nervous. "Ms. Morris."

"The cod in set C is too rich; cut the butter by a third next time. Dessert plating needs adjustment; the sugar sprinkle is sloppy." I set down my cup and grabbed my bag. "Charge the bill to my personal account. Don't process that gentleman's card."

Robert nodded quickly. "Got it."

I stepped out of Summit Bistro. The afternoon sun was harsh. My phone vibrated in my bag, a voice message from my mom, urgent, "How was it? Did you talk? Is Logan as handsome as he looks?"

I turned off the screen without replying.

On the drive home, my brother Gavin's WhatsApp pinged. First, a cheeky sticker. Then a message, "Heard Mother arranged another hunk for you? How'd it go?"

One hand on the wheel, I typed back, "Already dead."

He replied instantly, "Condolences. Family video call tonight. Be online. Big news about my lifelong happiness (not)."

I smirked. 'Lifelong happiness? Gavin? The guy who changes girlfriends faster than he changes cars?'

At 8 p.m., I joined the family group video. My parents were already online, their living room behind them. Gavin's camera wobbled before settling. He looked like he was in a minimalist office, with huge floor-to-ceiling windows showing city lights.

"Dad, Mom, Kylie!" he grinned, messy hair but bright-eyed.

"Gavin, where are you? Still at the office?" Mom asked immediately.

"Just finished a meeting. Heading out soon. Let's get to business." He cleared his throat, looking unusually serious. "Next month, I'm transferring back to HQ. My title's secret for now, but let's say, a little promotion."

Mom gasped. Dad smiled. "Good news! Great, you're coming back. Mom won't nag you daily anymore."

"And," Gavin added with a mischievous gleam, "to celebrate my return and my totally devoted future service to the family business, I'm sending an Amazon gift card in the chat, and officially introducing my long-lost (not really) little sister."

My eye twitched. Bad feeling.

Sure enough, the next second, the chat exploded with a screenshot of a 1,000-dollar gift card and a redemption code. Relatives flooded the thread with "Thanks, Gavin!" and "Congrats, Gavin!" He tagged everyone.

Then he posted a photo.

My graduation picture from Cambridge. Black gown, square cap, diploma in hand, smiling a little awkwardly. Ancient college buildings behind me, bright blue sky overhead.

Gavin's caption, "Introducing my sister, Kylie. Just finished Cambridge. Currently working in the family business (mainly to dodge blind dates). Elders, please look after her. And when suggesting dates, use me as the blueprint."

The chat went silent.

Three seconds later, chaos.

"Cambridge?? I thought she went to a regular college!"

"Family business? Harrison, what else do we not know?"

"Wow, she's definitely been flying under the radar!"

"Use Gavin as the blueprint? That's a tall order."

*****

I buried my face in my hands. 'Gavin, you idiot.'

My phone buzzed again. Not the group chat. Private messages.

A stranger's profile, nickname "S.", but the note said it clearly: Logan.

Messages flooded in, almost spasmodic.

"Ms. Morris? Are you there?"

"I'm really sorry for today, I was too forward."

"I didn't know you were Mr. Morris' sister."

"Summit Bistro is your family's? What a coincidence, I love that place."

"What did you major in at Cambridge? Actually, I'm quite interested in British culture myself."

"Free this weekend? I know a new restaurant with amazing food."

*****

I stared at the screen, at his frantic attempts to reconnect. It made me laugh a little.

I opened his profile, thought for a moment, and replied.

"Mr. Grant, you're a good person, but,"

"A bit too ordinary."

Then I blocked him. Deleted him.

The world went quiet.