The banana cream pie didn’t just land on his plate.

It slid, slow-motion, off the fork, off the edge of the dish, and smeared itself across his face in one perfect, creamy arc. Whipped cream on his nose, custard on his cheek, crust flaking down his shirt. The jukebox in the corner of Darla’s Diner kept playing a ’90s love song like nothing had happened. Outside, a neon OPEN sign buzzed against the California dusk, traffic rushing somewhere more glamorous than this exit off the 101.

Giselle stared at him, at the custard and the chaos, and for two seconds she almost laughed.

Then she remembered the check lying on the table between them.

Forty dollars. Pie, burgers, fries, two sodas. Thirty-four and change plus tax. Gary—her date, her “promising match,” the guy she’d met on a dating app and low-key stalked on Instagram—had just slid a twenty across the Formica, the way a friend spots you for coffee.

“So,” he’d said, smiling, still wiping pie from his lip, “it’s my twenty. Want to put your twenties there?”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

He looked genuinely confused. “Like… I’ll put cash, you put cash. Are you paying card? Cash? Whatever works.”

“Are you kidding me?” she’d asked, carefully, like maybe he was about to jump up and say it was a joke.

He had not.

And that was the moment, standing in the middle of a retro red-booth diner somewhere in greater Los Angeles, under fluorescent lights and the stare of a waitress topping off coffee, that Giselle decided she was done.

“How cheap are you?” she’d snapped, standing up so fast her chair screeched. “Oh. Ew. Just—no. I’m not coming back now. You ruined it. Don’t call me.”

She’d grabbed her fake designer bag—the one she swore looked real—and marched past the pie-smeared man with the soft brown eyes and surprisingly good laugh, right out into the California night.

There goes another one, she thought as she shoved her car key into the ignition of her beat-up Corolla. Another broke guy wasting my time.

Later, when she replayed that night, she noticed how his eyes had followed her out, not angry, just disappointed. But right then, all she saw was a man who couldn’t even pick up a forty-dollar diner bill in the richest country on earth.

By the time she walked into her apartment off Ventura Boulevard, the whole injustice of it was bubbling out of her in one long rant.

She threw herself onto the couch, heels kicked off, phone already in her hand.

“I cannot believe him,” she told Julia on FaceTime, the moment her best friend’s face appeared. “It should have been a major red flag when he said he was taking me to Darla’s. Do I look like the kind of girl you take to a diner?”

Behind Julia, the skyline outside her tiny downtown studio window blinked with L.A. lights. Julia pushed her glasses up her nose.

“I personally like the place,” she said. “The food’s good. And the price is affordable.”

“Affordable?” Giselle repeated like the word tasted bad. “Does anything about me look affordable?”

Julia eyed her through the screen. “I mean, besides the knockoff designer bag. That fake diamond necklace. And that Bol—uh, ‘Both X’ watch you got on sale from that sketchy site.”

Giselle clutched her wrist. “What are you talking about? These are all real.”

“Sure,” Julia said, not even bothering to argue. “But the point is—he didn’t know that. He just saw you. Hair done, nails done, full glam. And he still asked to split the check.”

“Exactly,” Giselle said triumphantly. “Who does that?”

“Someone who thinks you’re an equal partner?” Julia suggested. “Look, G, you seemed like you really liked him. You’re both cat lovers. You like the same movies. You were sending me videos of how funny he was. Who cares if he made you split the check?”

“Who cares? You obviously don’t get it.” Giselle tossed a cushion aside and lounged dramatically. “I am tired of going on dates with broke guys. I need someone who can pay my bills so I don’t have to work forever. I live in Los Angeles, not some small town in the middle of nowhere. Rent alone is an act of violence.”

Julia snorted. “Okay, calm down, Beverly Hills.”

“I’m serious,” Giselle said. “I want someone young and handsome that I can actually settle down with. And most importantly, rich.”

She let the word hang there, glittering in the air between them. She could practically see it: a house in the Valley with a pool, a Tesla in the driveway, weekends in Malibu. No more stressing about gas prices or pretending she didn’t see the overdraft notification from her bank.

“Are you sure you’re looking for a boyfriend and not a sugar daddy?” Julia asked.

“Sugar daddies are old and gross,” Giselle said. “Plus, they’re usually married. I want the real thing. He can be my age, have hair, be hot, and have a six-figure salary. Is that so impossible in this country?”

“Apparently on whatever dating apps you’re using,” Julia murmured.

Giselle rolled onto her stomach. “If only there were a way to know for sure who has money and who doesn’t before you waste your time.”

“I mean,” Julia said slowly, “you’re always job hunting on LinkedIn. Why don’t you just use Indeed or ZipRecruiter like everybody else?”

“Because LinkedIn lets me see the names and titles of every person who works at the company I’m applying to,” Julia said. “That way, instead of applying like everyone else, I can message them directly. It’s networking, not stalking.”

Giselle froze.

Her mind clicked.

“That’s it,” she whispered. “Oh my gosh. That’s it.”

“Please don’t say what I think you’re about to say,” Julia replied.

“Forget Tinder,” Giselle said, already scrambling off the couch. “Through LinkedIn, I can figure out exactly what they do, where they work, how much they probably make. I’ll know ahead of time who has money and who’s just a big waste of mascara and time. This is why I love you, Julia. You’re a genius.”

“Hey, I didn’t suggest—”

But Giselle was already halfway to her bedroom.

“I have to get to my laptop,” she called. “Kisses, bye!”

Her laptop glowed blue in the dark. As the palm trees outside swayed in the freeway breeze, Giselle typed “Vice President Los Angeles Telecommunications” into the search bar and smiled.

America loved its titles. Vice President of This. Director of That. Chief of Something. She clicked through profile after profile: polished headshots, job histories stacked with brand-name companies, connections in New York, Dallas, San Francisco.

And then she saw him.

Ethan Vanderbilt.

Vice President of Network Operations, WestCoast Telecom. Stanford graduate. Based in L.A. Profile picture: mid-twenties, dark hair, square jaw, smile that probably cost at least five thousand dollars in orthodontics. Under “Interests”: dogs, running, reading.

“Perfect,” she breathed.

Never mind that she was a cat person who got winded climbing a single flight of stairs and hadn’t finished a book since a YA vampire novel in high school. Details.

The next morning, she dragged Julia to yoga.

“So remind me again,” Julia said, rolling out a mat in the crowded studio on Melrose. “Why are we going to yoga? You can’t even touch your toes.”

“Two words,” Giselle whispered, smoothing out her borrowed leggings. “Ethan. Vanderbilt.”

She showed Julia his profile on her phone. “Vice president of a big telecommunications company. He’s into dogs, running, and reading. It’s all on his LinkedIn.”

“And it’s all the things you despise,” Julia said. “First off, you’re a cat mama. You hate dogs.”

“I don’t hate dogs,” Giselle said. “I just like cats more.”

“You literally left your mom’s dog on the back of a stranger’s pickup truck outside a shelter and told her it ran away,” Julia said. “Because you didn’t want to live with it.”

“That was a long time ago,” Giselle muttered. “I’ve grown.”

“And running?” Julia went on. “I’ve never seen you run a day in your life. You get tired walking from the parking garage to the mall.”

“I can make it up a flight of stairs,” Giselle said defensively.

“It depends how many steps there are,” Julia said. “And when was the last time you read a book?”

“Recently,” Giselle lied.

“Name a book.”

Giselle chewed her lip. “Does the Bible count?”

Julia stared at her.

“Fine,” Giselle sighed. “So we don’t have a lot in common. Him being rich will compensate for a lot of things.”

“You should choose someone for who they are, not what they have,” Julia said.

“You can split as many checks as you want,” Giselle said. “I’m not going to.”

“So he’s also into yoga?” Julia asked.

“No,” Giselle said. “At least not on LinkedIn. But I know someone who is.”

She glanced toward the front of the room, where the instructor—a gentle-voiced woman named Mae—was adjusting the straps of her headset.

Mae’s classes were always packed with young women, a few older ladies, and the occasional bored boyfriend. Today, there was a new face too: a woman in an expensive-looking athleisure set, hair in a perfect blowout, yoga mat that probably cost more than Giselle’s rent.

Mae dimmed the lights. “Three, two, one,” she said at the end of class. “Let it all go.”

The room let out a collective breath.

“Great job, everyone,” Mae said. “Thank you for coming.”

Giselle flopped onto her back, chest heaving. “I’m surprised you lasted to the end,” Julia whispered. “I thought you were gonna pass out at downward-facing dog.”

Giselle didn’t answer. She had already sat up and was watching the fancy lady roll her mat.

Time.

She pushed her hair back and stepped toward Mae with a calculated wobble.

“That was such an amazing class,” she gushed loudly, placing a hand on her chest. “I feel so much better. Especially after last night.”

Mae frowned. “What happened last night?”

“How do you not remember?” Giselle said, projecting her voice just enough to reach the woman in the expensive leggings. “I found out that Brent was cheating on me.”

Julia, behind her, barely choked back a laugh. “Brent,” she mouthed.

“It’s just been especially hard,” Giselle continued, “because I really thought he was the one.”

The rich woman looked up. “Oh dear,” she said, stepping closer. “I couldn’t help overhearing. I’m so sorry about your breakup.”

“Thanks,” Giselle said, dialing her expression to fragile. “It’s just… hard these days to find the right partner. Like, who can you trust?”

“I one hundred percent agree,” the woman said. “I just want an honest guy. I’m not asking for much. Someone who loves dogs, likes to go on an occasional run, wouldn’t mind getting lost in a good book on a Sunday afternoon…”

Giselle wanted to hug her. “Same,” she said breathlessly. “Exactly. Maybe I’ll just be single forever.”

The woman smiled. “You know,” she said slowly, “everything you just described reminds me of my son. Ethan.”

Giselle kept her face neutral with sheer willpower.

“He has a hard time dating and trusting people too,” the woman went on. “Probably because of how successful he is.”

“You don’t say,” Giselle murmured.

“If you’d be open to it,” the woman said, “maybe I could set you two up on a date.”

Giselle glanced over her shoulder at Julia, whose eyes were as wide as saucers.

“Yeah,” Giselle said, as if the idea were new and mildly terrifying. “You know what? Maybe that would be… nice.”

Two weeks later, she found herself at a rooftop restaurant in downtown L.A., fairy lights strung over the skyline, heat lamps glowing, everything exactly the opposite of Darla’s Diner.

Ethan was even better-looking in person.

Clean-cut in a navy blazer, sleeves rolled, Rolex peeking just enough to be noticed. The kind of guy who smelled like expensive cologne and probably never had to Google “how to get overdraft fee refunded.”

“…and then I said, ‘You better not have spiked the punch, Mr. Andrews,’” he finished, laughing at his own story about a high school teacher.

Giselle laughed too. “That is so funny,” she said, even though it wasn’t. His mother, seated beside them—because of course his mother had joined them for “just one drink”—laughed like it was a comedy special.

“You’re such a good storyteller, Ethan,” she said.

“Thanks, Mom,” he said. “It’s probably because I like to read so much. My mom tells me you like to read,” he added, turning to Giselle. “Who are you into right now?”

“Oh gosh,” Giselle said, panic fluttering under her ribs. “Um. No one you’d know. Romance authors, mostly. What can I say? I’m a hopeless romantic.”

“No way,” Ethan said, eyes lighting up. “I love a good romance novel. Did you read Nora Roberts’s new book, Identity?”

Giselle’s brain did a hard reboot. “I—Yes,” she lied. “So good. So, so good.”

“How’s this banana cream pie, by the way?” Ethan asked, waving his fork. “I could eat ten of these.”

“Careful,” his mom said. “Your trainer will not be happy.”

He grinned. “Worth it.”

Giselle watched the way he ate—neatly, no custard disasters—and tried to remember any romance author’s name that wasn’t Nicholas Sparks.

“So,” Ethan said. “Which other romance authors are you into?”

“There are just so many,” Giselle said weakly. “How can you choose just one, you know?”

“Come on,” he said. “Name one. Any one.”

Her mind flashed to Julia’s apartment, books spilling off shelves. Julia pointing to a series once, something with fancy dresses on the cover.

“Julia,” Giselle blurted.

Ethan blinked. “Julia who?”

She scrambled. “Julia Quinn!” she said. The name landed in her brain and out of her mouth at the same time. “Hands down one of my favorites.”

Ethan stared at her, then broke into a huge smile.

“That’s crazy,” he said. “I love her stuff.”

Giselle exhaled. Somehow, she’d survived the pop quiz.

As the night went on, something almost like comfort settled in. Ethan talked about his work—kind of—about “expanding infrastructure” and “network optimization” in a way that mostly sounded like a foreign language. He talked about running marathons and volunteering at dog shelters and reading on Sunday afternoons.

He talked a lot about his mom.

“I’ve got to say,” he said at one point, swirling his wine, “I don’t think I’ve ever had this much in common with someone before. And the fact that my mom introduced us? That’s just the cherry on top.”

Giselle smiled like her face wasn’t starting to ache. “Yeah,” she said. “It’s… special.”

“To be honest,” he continued, “I’m a bit of a mama’s boy. At least all my ex-girlfriends say that. Oh man, that sounded bad. When I say ‘all,’ I mean, like, two. Well, one and a half. There was this girl Veronica; I thought we were dating, but she thought we were just friends. That was… awkward.”

He chuckled at the memory, alone.

Giselle forced another laugh.

“Now,” he said, more serious, “if things move forward between us, I do have one rule. I say this at the risk of sounding old-fashioned, but it’s important to me that my lady never pays for anything. Is that okay with you?”

Giselle stared at him, then at the sunset glowing over downtown.

She pictured Gary’s twenty on the diner table. The expectation in his eyes when he’d asked, So, you want to put your twenties there?

She’d walked out on him without a second thought.

Now, here was a man who could buy the entire diner ten times over… and he was practically swearing she’d never have to see a check again.

“I won’t fight you on it,” she said.

The next few months looked like a slideshow of somebody else’s life.

Ethan’s home was a glass-and-concrete dream in the Hollywood Hills. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A giant sectional couch no one sat on. A kitchen island big enough to land a drone on.

“And this is my home,” he’d said on her first visit, sweeping an arm like a game show host. “Oh—and this is Rex.”

“Rex” was a golden retriever the size of a small horse. He barreled toward her, tongue lolling.

“Looks like you passed the Rex test,” Ethan said, as the dog leaped up, paws planting on her dress. “He doesn’t like everyone.”

Giselle smiled, even as she felt dog hair embed itself into the fabric. “We’re going to be best friends,” she lied.

They ran together—for values of “together” that meant Ethan jogging easily up the Griffith Park trails while Giselle wheezed behind him, wondering why God hated her.

“You okay?” he’d call back.

“I’m great!” she squeaked, lungs on fire. “Almost halfway, right?”

“That was the first mile,” he grinned. “We’ve got two more. Come on, you’ve got this!”

At night, he wanted to read.

“TV rots your brain,” he’d say cheerfully, curling up with a thick hardcover. “Here, babe, you should try this one. It’s a classic.”

She’d sit beside him on the couch, scrolling silently through her phone while pretending to read a book with tiny print and no pictures.

His mother was always there.

Always.

Dropping off casseroles. Folding his laundry. Commenting on his Instagram posts. Laughing at his jokes about Mr. Andrews and the spiked punch like it was the first time every time.

They had a laugh, Ethan and his mom—this choked “heh-heh-heh” grunt that made Giselle’s eye twitch.

“And then I said, ‘You better not have spiked the punch, Mr. Andrews,’” Ethan would say at a brunch.

“You tell that story so well,” his mother would cackle. “You’ve told it since ninth grade.”

He’d beam. “Thanks, Mom.”

Giselle would sip her mimosa and wonder how she’d gotten herself into this.

One afternoon, after Rex had once again climbed into their bed, leaving golden fur on every sheet, Giselle called Julia.

She paced Ethan’s massive kitchen, footsteps echoing on the polished concrete.

“You said it was an emergency,” Julia said when she picked up. “By the way, you’ve got dog hair all over your dress.”

Giselle looked down and groaned. “This is exactly what I’m talking about,” she said. “I don’t think I can take it anymore.”

“What happened now?” Julia asked.

“He’s driving me crazy,” Giselle said. “We literally have nothing in common. I tried to warn you,” Julia said gently. “You said his money would help compensate.”

“No amount of money on earth can make up for the last few months,” Giselle said. “First, he’s old-school, so he expects me to do all the cooking and cleaning. His mom is constantly here. He’s a grown man and she still does his laundry.”

Julia winced in sympathy.

“The dog sleeps with us in bed. Our bed. There is fur everywhere. He never wants to watch TV or movies. He just wants to read. And the jokes—oh my gosh, the jokes. His mom is the only person who thinks they’re funny. They do that grunt laugh together and I feel my soul leaving my body.”

“In other words,” Julia said, “you’re saying maybe you should choose someone for who they are, not what they have.”

“Fine,” Giselle snapped. “You were right. Is that what you want to hear?”

“I just want you to be happy,” Julia said. “What do you actually want, G?”

Giselle sank onto one of the barstools, staring at the view of the city below.

“I just want someone I can watch movies with,” she said quietly. “Someone with a good sense of humor. Someone who likes cats. If I could find someone like that, I wouldn’t even mind… splitting a check.”

“It sounds,” Julia said, “like you shouldn’t have walked out on Gary.”

Giselle winced.

“So what are you going to do?” Julia asked.

“There’s only one thing to do,” Giselle said.

She hung up.

The next day, she went to Ethan’s office downtown.

WestCoast Telecom’s building rose like a glass tooth against the Los Angeles sky. Inside, everything was chrome and white and expensive art on the walls.

“And then I said, ‘You better not have spiked the punch, Mr. Andrews,’” Ethan was saying to a group of executives in the lobby when she arrived. They laughed politely. His mother stood nearby, as always.

“You’re welcome to go on in, Ms. Reyes,” the receptionist told Giselle. “Mr. Vanderbilt’s expecting you.”

Her heels clicked on the marble as she walked toward him.

“Hey, honey,” he said, smiling when he saw her. “We just can’t get enough of this story, huh, Mom?”

His mother tittered on cue.

“Do you mind if we pick up later?” he asked the executives. “Of course,” one man said quickly. “Does this mean I got the contract?”

“Yes,” Ethan said. “Talk to my assistant about the check.”

As they left, he turned to Giselle, concerned. “Is everything all right? You said it was an emergency.”

She took a breath. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“Oh,” he said. “I actually have something to tell you too. But you go first.”

“No, you start,” she said, suddenly curious.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay. Well, I’ve been thinking about things. Giselle, I feel like things… aren’t working out.”

She stared at him. “Hold up. Are you breaking up with me?”

“It wasn’t an easy decision,” he said. “But I talked to my mom and we both feel it’s just not working. You and I aren’t—”

“Your mom?” Giselle exploded. “What kind of mama’s boy are you?”

He blinked. “I—”

“No, no, no,” she said, heat rising in her cheeks. “You are not breaking up with me, because I am breaking up with you.”

“Giselle—”

“Don’t even try to back out of this,” she said. “You are a twenty-six-year-old child who can’t make a decision without your mom. You have zero sense of humor, your laugh is annoying, and if I’m being completely honest? I hate your dog.”

His mother gasped.

“I don’t care how much money you make,” Giselle went on. “I have a way better guy I used to talk to who’s actually normal. He likes to watch movies. He likes cats. He’s actually funny. Unlike you.”

She took a breath, chest heaving.

“I’m going back to him,” she said. “His name is Gary.”

The name hung in the sleek corporate air.

Ethan’s expression did something strange. “Gary,” he repeated slowly. “What’s Gary’s last name?”

“Why do you care?” she snapped. “It’s not like you know him.”

The elevator dinged.

A man stepped out in a crisp suit, talking to an assistant.

Giselle’s mouth fell open.

“Gary?” she blurted.

He stopped. His eyes widened.

“Giselle?” he said.

Ethan looked between them. “You two know each other?”

Gary’s assistant melted away with the instinct of someone who recognized drama.

“Gary’s my boss,” Ethan said. “The president of the company.”

The room swayed slightly. Giselle grabbed the back of a chair.

“You’re… what?” she managed.

Gary straightened his tie, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“We went on a date a while back,” he told Ethan. “Darla’s Diner. Banana cream pie. She left before dessert.”

Giselle felt her face burn.

“You’re the president?” she whispered.

“President and majority owner,” he said. “My father started the company. I just do my best not to ruin it.”

Ethan cleared his throat. “I should, uh, give you two some space,” he said, backing away. His mother followed, Rex’s dog hair snared on her skirt.

When they were gone, silence settled. From the windows, the spread of Los Angeles glittered—freeways, palm trees, the promise of wealth and the reality of struggle all tangled together.

“I owe you an apology,” Giselle said finally, staring at the floor. “The way I acted at the diner. It was… shallow. And rude. And everything else you could list.”

Gary leaned against the edge of a desk.

“I do this thing,” he said slowly, “where I ask my date to split the check. Just to see how she reacts.”

She looked up, stunned. “You… what?”

“If there’s an issue with that,” he said, “it tells me a lot. Not because I can’t afford it. But because I want to know if she sees me as a person, or a wallet.”

Giselle swallowed. “Hope you’re not still upset,” he added gently.

She laughed once, humorless. “Upset? I’ve basically torched my own love life on both ends. You were testing for character, and I failed.”

Gary shrugged. “We all fail tests sometimes.”

She studied him. The same brown eyes. The same easy smile. No designer watch flashing in the light, no need to brag. Just a man who’d eaten banana cream pie with delight and offered to share a check like it was nothing.

“You know what’s funny?” she said quietly. “I’ve spent so much time chasing titles and salaries and LinkedIn profiles, thinking that would make me happy. And the only guy who actually made me laugh—really laugh—was the one I walked out on because he asked me to pay my share.”

Gary tilted his head. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “the diner was my test too. I like Darla’s. It reminds me of how my parents started out. But I wanted to see if a woman could be comfortable with something real. Not rooftop restaurants and curated photo ops. Just burgers and pie.”

Giselle thought about Ethan’s huge house, his mom folding his laundry, Rex’s fur on her dress. She thought about Gary, whipped cream on his nose, trying not to laugh when she’d stormed out.

“I wasn’t ready to be that girl,” she admitted. “The one who doesn’t care about the bill, or the car, or the house in the hills. I was too busy auditioning for a lifestyle.”

“Maybe,” Gary said, “you were just scared.”

“Scared of what?” she asked.

“Of picking someone you actually had something in common with,” he said. “Because then you might have to show them who you really are.”

She blinked. That landed a little too close.

A phone buzzed somewhere in the office. Outside, a helicopter chopped the air over downtown L.A., heading toward some rooftop pad.

“I am sorry,” she said again. “Not because you’re rich. Or because you’re his boss. But because I treated you like you weren’t worth my time when you were the only guy who actually saw me.”

Gary smiled.

“Well,” he said, “consider this a re-test.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“There’s a great little place three blocks from here,” he said. “Food trucks. Picnic tables. Best tacos in the city. No white tablecloths. No waiters who memorize your name.”

Her heart stuttered.

“Are you asking me out?” she asked.

“I’m asking if you want to split some tacos,” he said. “We can each pay for our own. Or we can take turns. You know—like a partnership.”

Giselle looked at him, really looked this time. Not at what he was wearing. Not at what title was on his door.

But at the man.

“I don’t have anything to prove anymore,” she said. “Least of all that I can land a vice president.” She hesitated. “Do you… still like cats?”

“I still foster them on weekends,” he said. “My neighbor’s allergic, so I keep them at my place until they find homes.”

She laughed, this time without forcing it. “And movies?” she asked. “Do you still like movies?”

“Only if there’s popcorn and terrible previews,” he said.

She took a breath.

“You know what?” she said. “Tacos sound perfect.”

They walked out of the glass building together, onto the sun-baked downtown sidewalk, past a row of palm trees and a man selling knockoff sunglasses from a folding table. The city hummed around them—sirens, car horns, a faint echo of someone playing guitar near the Metro entrance.

For the first time in a long time, Giselle didn’t check what kind of car he walked toward. She didn’t think about what the tacos would cost, or whether the place was “Instagrammable” enough.

She just thought about the way he’d laughed with banana cream pie all over his face and how she’d missed what really mattered that night: his kindness, his humor, the way he’d listened when she talked about her cat.

She’d been chasing rich.

She’d almost missed real.

America loved its glossy stories about overnight success, about rich men in glass towers and women who snagged them. Clickable headlines. Viral clips. But the real story, the one that never made the trending page, was quieter.

It was a girl who finally learned that the most valuable thing about a man wasn’t his job title, his bank account, or the rooftop views from his house in the hills.

It was the way he treated her when the check hit the table.