He gives another shrug. “Stanford was always the plan. Business school was the plan. Prescott Investments was the plan.” With that, Andrew launches into several long-winded and involved stories about the local properties he’s acquired in the past five years. Since I’m still unclear as to whether this is a real date or an elaborate prank, I put on a first-date performance, listening and nodding at the appropriate moments as I suck down a second drink. Suddenly, the third round is arriving at the table, and we still haven’t ordered food to go with all this booze. Apparently, Andrew can sustain himself on stories about investment revenues and top-shelf whisky alone.

“I’m very privileged to be able to work for my family’s company,” he eventually says, “even if that has meant, you know, working with my family.” Andrew shifts his weight in the booth. “Do you—do you want to hear the real reason I wanted to get drinks with you tonight, Oliver?”

“It’s not because I’m such a witty conversationalist?”

Andrew scrubs one hand across his face, looking serious. I sit up straight. “Okay, sorry. What is it?”

“I got some real shitty news, and I needed a distraction. The executor of my grandfather’s will called this morning,” Andrew explains. “You see, there’s this trust—two million dollars set aside to become mine on his death, but I found out my grandfather added a stipulation to my trust fund before he died.” He stares darkly into his drink. “I can only inherit once I’m married.”

“What kind of fucked up, patriarchal, Regency-era romance bullshit is that?” I explode. Because I’m clearly drunk. Sober, it would be harder to feel pity for a man who’s been denied two million dollars in generational wealth when you’re sustaining yourself on Top Ramen and El Monterey frozen burritos.

Andrew sighs and takes a solemn drink. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that. I—I haven’t told anyone since the executor called to give me the heads-up. The thing is, my dad’s side of the family is obsessed with legacy. My grandfather believed I was his only shot at continuing the Prescott name with biological children, and now he’s blackmailing me into matrimony from beyond the grave. Like one giant fuck you for all the ways I never lived up to his impossible expectations.”

I do feel the smallest ounce of pity for Andrew now. “Is that even… allowed?”

“It’s his money. He can add whatever strings and stipulations he wants.”

“It’s too bad you’re hideous.” I take my straw to the dregs at the bottom of my glass. “And rich. I don’t know how you’ll ever find someone to marry you.”