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I should’ve known she’d find out eventually. My family’s success isn’t exactly a secret in Hartwell, but it’s never been my favorite topic of conversation. People tend to look at me differently once they realize how much the Ashfords own.

“That’s right,” I confirm. “We own Ashford Marina too.”

“And the lighthouse?” she asks, raising her brows.

“Technically.”

“And apparently half the houses in town?”

“That might be an exaggeration,” I tell her.

Blair tilts her head. “But not by much?”

I fight a smile. “Probably not.”

She takes a sip of her Riesling. Mom once claimed it was the best wine on the menu, and judging by Blair’s expression, she might actually know what she’s talking about.

“This is amazing,” Blair says, studying her glass. “So, do you get free dinner because your family owns the place?”

“Technically,” I repeat.

“Oh, good.” She picks her menu back up. “I’ll order the expensive shit.”

I laugh, relieved by how completely unimpressed she seems by the Ashford name. There’s no sudden shift in the way she looks at me. No careful questions about money or what my last name might be worth.

I still feel like myself.

Our server approaches, and Blair orders the baked salmon while I choose the steak. Once we’re alone again, she rests her chin in her hand and studies me.

“If your family owns all of this, why did you open the shop?”

“I wanted something that was mine.”

“You could’ve taken the easy route,” Blair points out.

“Never really appealed to me.”

She watches me for a moment, like she’s trying to see beyond the simple answer. “How did you get into cars?”

“My dad,” I explain. “For as long as I can remember, he had some old car sitting at the house that he was restoring. I started helping when I was a kid and never really stopped.”

I turn my beer bottle slowly between my hands.

“I opened Hartwell Motor Co. when I was twenty-five.”

Blair’s eyes widen. “So, you’ve been running it for ten years?”

“Almost.”

“That’s impressive,” she says sincerely.

I shrug. “It keeps me busy.”

“And apparently gives you somewhere to hide when beautiful women make you nervous.”

My mouth twitches. “You think pretty highly of yourself.”

“You’re the one who keeps staring,” she reminds me, lifting her wine to her lips.