The Rom Con(13)

“Can you see if he’s arrived with anyone?” I ask Jack, hopping up on my tiptoes and craning my neck, but it’s futile; I can’t see a thing. I pray that Nat—wherever she is—has a better view.

“Nope,” Jack says, looking amused.

“You didn’t even look!”

He chuckles as he sets his empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter and thanks him.

“Come on, you said you wanted me to change my mind about you? Here’s your big chance. Just throw a couple ’bows and get us to the front of that pack.”

His grin grows wider. He’s enjoying this. “How about we raise the stakes a little?”

I arch a brow while simultaneously keeping my other eye trained on the crowd. One of the guys in the back is manspreading; I might be able to army-crawl through his legs.

“I help you secure an exclusive quote from Eric Jessup, and you . . .”

He pauses for dramatic effect and I brace myself for some crude sexual favor he’d like me to perform. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“. . . let me take you to dinner,” he finishes.

I slow-blink at him. “You want to take me out? The woman you suspect of being a con artist?”

He waves a hand. “That was so ten minutes ago.”

I laugh out loud. “Gotta say, I didn’t see ‘blackmailing me into a date’ coming.”

“Not my usual approach, I’ll give you that, but life is all about opportunity and timing. You gotta shoot your shot when you see an opening.”

“My professional pain is your gain, huh?” Which brings me to my next question. “How do you even plan to get his attention? Are you going to create a diversion or something?”

“Maybe I’ll take a dive,” he says, wagging his brows. “Now come on, clock’s ticking. Who knows how long Jessup’s contractually obligated to stay?” He sticks his hand out, letting it hang in the air. “Do we have a deal?”

I eye him warily, sizing him up. I don’t know how he’s doing it, but it feels like this guy’s been one step ahead of me since the second I spotted him in that shadowy corner. It’s disconcerting that I can’t get a good read on him. In fact, I’m nearly certain he’s still messing with me, but what else can I do? It’s not like I have a better option.

“Fine.” I clasp his outstretched hand and his eyes flame like I’ve struck a match. “We have a deal.”

“We have a date.”

“Easy, tiger. I don’t have my quote yet.”

He grins rakishly and releases my hand. “I’ll be right back.”

I expect to see him shoulder his way into the fray, so I’m surprised when he heads in the opposite direction, toward the back of the restaurant where I saw the PR folks huddled earlier. I watch him exchange a few words with a woman dressed all in black, and when he points at me, I lift my hand in an awkward wave. She nods once, then starts speaking into an earpiece.

Jack strolls back looking so smug, he’s practically spitting canary feathers.

“Who was that? And what’d you tell her?”

He shrugs innocently, but before I can follow up, the crowd parts and a different woman in all black emerges—this time, with Eric Jessup in tow.

How the hell did he pull that off? I start fumbling for my phone, but Jack brushes my elbow to stop me.

“He’ll be chattier if you’re not recording him,” he murmurs in my ear, then puts his hand up to wave. “Rick!”

“You know him?” I hiss. Great, and I sat here going on about what a womanizing sleazeball he is. Smooth move, Ace.

“We share a publicist.”

“You could’ve told me you know him!”

“Now where’s the fun in that?”

Eric’s upon us before I can answer. “Jackie boy!”

I watch them perform an intense bro-greeting ritual: hand-gripping pulled into a tight hug with a dash of aggressive backslapping. My shoulder spasms just watching them.

“Thanks for coming, man,” Eric says.

“Wouldn’t miss it. You know I’ve always dreamed of smelling like a jockstrap.”

“Just for that, you’re not going home with a gift bag.” He turns to me and flashes his signature megawatt smile. “Hi, I’m Eric,” he says, holding out his hand.

“Cassidy,” I say, smothering a laugh. Like I don’t know who you are. “Would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions?”

“That’s what I’m here for, so shoot.”

“Fantastic. First of all, congratulations on the cologne launch,” I tell him, getting that out of the way. “It smells”—awful—“great. Very . . . potent.”

“Some might even call it . . . forceful,” he says, straight-faced.

“Right.” I huff a laugh and make a mental note: Eric Jessup makes puns! “I was actually hoping to learn a little more about your recent engagement.”

He grimaces. “Ah, sorry, we’re not—”

“I know you’re keeping things private, and I totally respect that,” I barrel ahead, talking faster before one of the publicists circling us like sharks catches wind of my line of questioning and whisks him away. “It’s just that our readers are dying to know more about Olivia and how you two reconnected.”