CHAPTER 5

Saturday mornings were supposed to be sacred. At least for Rachael. They were her one-day truce from the chaos of her weekly grind, a chance to wake up late, scroll aimlessly through social media, and pretend she was an heiress whose only responsibility was deciding whether brunch would be pancakes or waffles.

But that morning, her peace was ruined by the shrill ringtone of her phone. She groaned, yanked the blanket over her head, and prayed it was a wrong number. Unfortunately, the name flashing across the screen made her sit up immediately: Mom.

Rachael squinted at the clock. 11:43 a.m. Too early for drama, too late to ignore. She cleared her throat, trying to sound more awake than she was.

“Hello, Mom.”

“Rachael!” Her mother’s voice carried the kind of urgency usually reserved for emergencies—like floods, fires, or 50% discount sales.

Rachael frowned. “Is everything okay? You sound… urgent.”

“Yes, everything is fine,” her mom replied, but there was a peculiar lilt in her tone, almost secretive. “I just need to see you. Today. This afternoon. It’s very important.”

Her suspicion radar immediately lit up. “Uh-huh. Important like what? Did you find out I secretly adopted a cat? Because that’s not true. Not yet.”

“Don’t joke,” her mom said quickly. “I need to speak to you face to face. Just come, Rachael. And wear something nice.”

That last line made her freeze. “Wear something nice?” she repeated slowly, like the words were in a foreign language. “Mom, are you inviting me to an ambush wedding? Or worse, a church fundraiser?”

“Stop being dramatic. Just dress decently. You’ll see why.”

Rachael narrowed her eyes even though her mother couldn’t see her. Something wasn’t right. Her mom never cared what she wore unless it was Sunday service or family portraits.

“Mom,” she said firmly, “what’s this about?”

“You’ll find out when you get there,” her mother replied smoothly. “I’ll send you the address. Come alone.”

The line went dead before Rachael could protest. She sat staring at her phone, baffled.

Come alone. Wear something nice. Don’t ask questions.

It sounded like the instructions of a N*****x thriller where the daughter ends up kidnapped by a cult.

Rachael sighed. “Great. Either this is a trap or she’s finally lost it.”

By noon, Rachael was standing in front of her wardrobe, chewing on her lip. Picking clothes was supposed to be fun. Except today she didn’t know if she was dressing for: a serious mother–daughter talk, a surprise church program, or a straight-up intervention.

Her first instinct was to throw on ripped jeans and a T-shirt that said, Don’t Talk to Me. But she pictured her mother’s face and shook her head.

“Decent,” she muttered, dragging out a knee-length floral dress she hadn’t worn in ages. It was the perfect balance between I respect myself and don’t get excited, I’m not attending a wedding.

She paired it with sandals, stared at herself in the mirror, then burst out laughing.

 “If this turns out to be a funeral, I’m overdressed. If it’s a dinner party, I’m underdressed. Excellent. Perfect balance.”

The restaurant address pinged into her messages shortly after. It was in town, a place she vaguely recognized but had never been to. She ordered a cab and spent the ride making up ridiculous theories.

“What if she’s arranging a family intervention because I eat too much chocolate? Or maybe she’s giving me a surprise inheritance? Wait… do we even have an inheritance? Unless it’s her old blender.”

The driver glanced at her through the mirror, clearly amused at her mumbling. Rachael coughed, pretending she was on the phone.

The building loomed ahead—sleek glass doors, outdoor plants trimmed within an inch of their lives, and a golden sign that screamed expensive but I*******m-worthy.

“Wow,” Rachael muttered as she stepped out. “If Mom wanted to scold me, she could’ve just called me in the kitchen. What’s with the luxury location?”

Inside, the restaurant hummed with low chatter and clinking cutlery. A waiter with the politest smile in the world approached.

“Table for one, miss?”

“Uh… not exactly,” she said awkwardly, glancing around. “I’m supposed to meet someone. My mom. Or maybe not my mom. Honestly, I’m not sure what’s happening.”

The waiter blinked, clearly regretting his question.

Rachael quickly fished out her phone and dialed. “Mom? I’m here. Where are you?”

There was a pause. Then her mother’s voice came through, oddly calm. “Good. Listen carefully. Do you see a man in his early thirties? White shirt, navy blazer, sitting near the window?”

Rachael turned. Sure enough, a man fitting that description sat with a glass of water, scrolling on his phone.

“Yes, I see him,” she said slowly. “Why?”

“Go to him. He’s the one you’re meeting.”

Rachael froze. “I beg your pardon?”

Her mother’s voice was brisk, like this was the most normal thing in the world. “Trust me. Just sit with him. I’ll explain later.”

The line cut off again.

Rachael lowered her phone, blinking rapidly. Her mind did a somersault. This is not happening. She did not just—

She whipped her head toward the man again. He was handsome, annoyingly so, the kind of handsome that made women adjust their hair without realizing. He looked serious, though, maybe even nervous.

Rachael’s jaw dropped. “Oh my God… Mom tricked me into a blind date.”

She slapped a palm over her face, half horrified, half ready to laugh hysterically.

Rachael stared at the man again. 

“Go to him. He’s the one you’re meeting.”

Her chest rose and fell quickly. She wanted to storm out, call her mom, and give her a piece of her mind. But walking out meant admitting defeat. And if there was one thing Rachael didn’t do, it was lose—especially not to her mom’s ridiculous schemes.

She squared her shoulders, muttered, “Fine. Let’s play this stupid game,” and marched toward the table.

The man looked up when her shadow fell across his plate. His eyes—sharp, calculating, but surprisingly warm—narrowed slightly in curiosity.

“Hi,” Rachael said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I think… I’m supposed to sit here?”

One of his brows arched. “You think?”

“Yes,” she snapped, already irritated. “Apparently my mother thinks it’s cute to trick me into—” She cut herself off quickly. No way was she going to admit she’d been set up like a desperate teenager. “—into meeting strangers.”

His lips twitched. Not quite a smile. “Then you’d better sit.”

Rachael dropped into the chair like a hostage accepting her fate. She folded her arms across her chest and glared at the menu like it was the source of her misery.

“Great,” she muttered under her breath. “Of course Mom picks someone who looks like a recruitment poster for How to Intimidate Women 101.”

“Excuse me?” His tone was calm, though his eyes glimmered with amusement.

“Nothing,” she said quickly, cheeks heating.

The waiter appeared with menus, saving her from further humiliation.

Rachael cleared her throat, her voice tight. “So… what’s your name? Since we’re apparently doing this.”

“Lawrence. Lawrence Mulrose.”

The name tugged faintly at the back of her mind, but she shoved it aside. “Right. Well, Lawrence, I’m Rachael. Beaumont.”

His eyes flickered—so fast she almost missed it. His jaw tightened briefly, then relaxed again.

“Beaumont,” he repeated softly, as though tasting the name. Then he gave a faint smile. “Pleasure to meet you, Rachael.”

“Yeah, sure. Pure pleasure,” she said flatly, flipping through the menu like it was a life raft.

They both ordered. Rachael chose something small and cheap—there was no way she was going to owe this man anything—while Lawrence ordered with crisp precision, like a man accustomed to being obeyed.

Once the waiter left, silence stretched. Rachael tapped her fork on the table. Say something. Get this over with.

“So,” she blurted, “do you do this often?”

“Eat lunch?”

She gave him a dead stare. “Blind dates with unsuspecting women whose mothers should honestly be locked away.”

His lips twitched again. “No. This is a first.”

“Well, congratulations,” she said dryly. “You’ve just witnessed a miracle. Write it in your diary.”

Instead of bristling, he leaned back, studying her like she was a complicated puzzle. “You don’t like surprises, do you?”

“Surprises? No. Cake? Yes. Unless it’s carrot cake. That’s treachery disguised as dessert.”

This time, he chuckled—a low, rich sound that made her grit her teeth.

“Oh, don’t laugh,” she snapped. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Not particularly,” he said smoothly. “But you’re… entertaining.”

“Wow. Thanks. That’s what every woman wants to hear—‘entertaining.’ What am I, N*****x?”

His patience cracked, just a little. “You could try being civil.”

“I am being civil,” she shot back. “This is my civil face. You should see the uncivil one.”

The waiter reappeared, looking like he’d walked into a warzone. They both muttered thank yous as their plates landed, then went back to glaring at each other.

“So, what do you do?” she asked suddenly, stabbing her salad.

“I’m a lecturer,” he said simply. “International business.”

Rachael froze mid-bite. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head: “Wear something nice. You’ll thank me later.”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “You’re a lecturer?”

“Yes,” he said, calm as ever.

“Oh, that’s just perfect,” she said with a bitter laugh. “My mom set me up with a man who grades papers for fun.”

His jaw tightened. “I don’t just grade papers. I teach. I consult. I—”

“—bore innocent students to death, probably,” she cut in sweetly.

He set his fork down, patience slipping further. “Do you interrupt people as a hobby, or is it a family trait?”

Her fork clinked against her plate. “Excuse me? Did you just insult my family?”

“You barely let me finish a sentence.”

“Because every sentence you start sounds like it’s going to end in blah blah blah quarterly reports.”

His lips pressed into a hard line. “You are—”

“—charming? Delightful? The best dinner companion you’ve ever had?”

“I was going to say impossible,” he said coolly.

“Good,” she shot back, standing abruptly. “At least we agree on something.”

She shoved her chair back, grabbed her purse, and stood. She didn’t care that her meal was half-eaten. She didn’t care that half the restaurant was now watching them like it was reality TV.

“Enjoy your navy blazer, Professor,” she snapped, and stormed out.

Lawrence leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. For the first time in years, someone had gotten under his skin—and it was infuriating.

By the time Rachael reached her apartment, she was fuming. Marianne nearly choked on her tea as Rachael reenacted the entire dinner, complete with scowls, fake “professor voice,” and exaggerated fork stabbing.

“He’s awful,” Rachael declared, collapsing dramatically onto Marianne’s couch. “Condescending, smug, and way too good-looking for his own good. Ugh, I hate him.”

Marianne snorted. “Mhm. You hate him so much you noticed his jawline?”

“Shut up!” Rachael tossed a pillow at her. “That’s irrelevant evidence.”

Her phone rang. She picked it up and looked at the screen. Mom.