I’m Not the Woman You Were Supposed to Meet,” She Whispered at the Blind Date—Then the Billionaire CEO Looked at Her Daughter and Said, “Actually… You Are”
“I’m Not the Woman You Were Supposed to Meet,” She Whispered at the Blind Date—Then the Billionaire CEO Looked at Her Daughter and Said, “Actually… You Are”
Caroline Mitchell knew she had made a mistake the second the hostess looked down at her thrift-store skirt, then over her shoulder at the glittering dining room, and asked in a careful voice, “Are you sure your reservation is here?”
That was the kind of question people asked when they already knew the answer.
Caroline tightened her grip on Lily’s small hand and forced a smile that felt like it had been taped to her face.
“Yes,” she said. “Reservation under Whitmore.”
The hostess’s eyebrows lifted.
Not much. Just enough.
Enough to tell Caroline that the name meant something here. Enough to make her painfully aware of the scuffed flats on her feet, the beige blouse she had ironed twice because the lace collar never sat right, and the four-year-old standing beside her in a cream dress from the consignment store on Maple Avenue.
Lily looked beautiful, of course. Lily always looked beautiful to Caroline. Her brown curls had been brushed until they shone under the restaurant lights, and Caroline had tied a pale blue ribbon at the crown of her head because Lily had insisted, “Pretty girls wear bows when they meet Mommy’s friend.”
Mommy’s friend.
Caroline almost laughed.
This was not a friend. This was a blind date she had been bullied into by Jessica Parker, her best friend since freshman year at community college and the only person on earth who could still guilt Caroline into doing something reckless with the phrase, “You deserve one good night.”
One good night had already cost Caroline twenty-three dollars in parking, fifteen dollars for a babysitter she had canceled at the last minute when Lily cried, and the last of her courage.
“Right this way,” the hostess said, her smile now brighter and less certain.
They crossed the restaurant, passing women in silk dresses, men with watches that probably cost more than Caroline’s car, and tables where wine bottles sat in silver buckets like trophies.
Caroline’s stomach sank lower with every step.
Jessica had told her the date’s name was Tom.
Just Tom.
“He’s kind,” Jessica had promised. “He’s normal. He won’t care that you’re a mom. He actually likes kids.”
Caroline had said, “Normal men don’t agree to blind dates with broke waitresses who bring a four-year-old.”
Jessica had said, “Then maybe it’s time you met someone abnormal in the best possible way.”
Caroline should have known.
The hostess stopped at a table near the windows, where the city lights of downtown Cincinnati glittered beyond the glass. A tiny white card sat on the table.
Whitmore.
Caroline stared at it.
Whitmore.
Not Tom.
Thomas Whitmore.
The Thomas Whitmore whose company owned office towers, hotels, luxury apartments, and half the blocks Caroline walked past on her way to the bus stop. The Thomas Whitmore who had been on the cover of the Cincinnati Business Journal last month under a headline about “the city’s youngest real estate titan.”
Caroline had seen that magazine at her dentist’s office while waiting to have a cracked molar looked at, praying the whole time the receptionist wouldn’t ask for payment upfront.
“Oh no,” she whispered.
Lily tugged her hand. “Mommy, this place smells like butter.”
Caroline’s throat tightened. “I know, baby.”
“Is Tom rich?”
A woman at the next table glanced over.
Caroline bent quickly. “Lily.”
“What? Grandma says rich people eat butter bread before dinner.”
Caroline closed her eyes for half a second and imagined walking straight back out, driving home, changing into sweatpants, and telling Jessica she had lost her mind.
Then a voice behind her said, “Caroline?”
It was warm, low, and uncertain enough to make her turn.
The man approaching the table looked exactly like his magazine photo, only worse.
Worse because he was real.
Dark hair neatly styled, charcoal suit perfectly tailored, broad shoulders, clean-shaven jaw, eyes the kind of deep gray that made people confess things without meaning to. He moved through the restaurant as if the room had silently agreed to make space for him.
But when he saw Lily, his expression softened.
Not politely.
Truly.
Caroline’s heart gave a traitorous little stumble.
“Caroline Mitchell?” he asked.
She stood too fast and bumped the table with her hip. Her water glass rocked, then settled.
“Yes. I mean—yes, but no.” Her cheeks burned instantly. “I’m sorry. There’s been a mistake.”
His mouth curved. “I’m Tom.”
“I know who you are.”
His smile grew slightly careful. “That sounds ominous.”
“You’re Thomas Whitmore.”
“Guilty.”
“No, I mean—” Caroline pressed one hand to her stomach. “I’m not the girl you were supposed to meet.”
For one strange second, the restaurant seemed to quiet around them.
Tom tilted his head. “You’re not Caroline Mitchell?”
“I am.”
“Jessica Parker’s best friend?”
“Yes.”
“Works at Miller’s Diner on Fourth?”
“Yes, but—”
“Has a daughter named Lily who likes butterflies, strawberry pancakes, and refuses to sleep unless the closet door is closed exactly halfway?”
Caroline blinked.
Lily gasped. “How do you know that?”
Tom crouched without hesitation, one knee almost touching the floor, his expensive suit suddenly irrelevant.
“Jessica told me,” he said. “She said it was very important information.”
May you like
Lily studied him with solemn suspicion. “Do you like butterflies?”
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