The Rom Con(17)

Just saying that last part burns my throat like bile. Frankly, I’m amazed I could even vomit the words up. Please God, do not smite me for speaking with such a forked tongue.

I pause to gauge my progress, assessing his body language to see how I’m faring. He’s studying me carefully, his expression inscrutable. He hasn’t spoken a word since I flipped the script on him, so I have no idea if he’s buying this in the slightest. He probably thinks I have multiple personality disorder.

I don a coquettish smile. “I hope I haven’t scared you off.” I bite my lip and Look at me, I’m pleasing and submissive and exactly the type of woman you want. I lightly brush my fingertips along his forearm, and his eyes flare. “I’m still game for that date—that is, if you’re still offering.” I stop, my case rested, on tenterhooks now as I wait for his final verdict.

He wants to agree, I can tell he does, but still he waffles. Behind those navy eyes I can see his mind working, the gears spinning as he tries to make sense of my one-eighty. He’s at war with his own intuition.

A lightning bolt of inspiration strikes me. Men like him—masters of the universe, kings of all they see—love a challenge. Appeal to his manhood.

“Of course, that’s if you think you can handle me,” I say suggestively, throwing him a sly grin and a wink for good measure. I’m daring him to claim me.

It does the trick. “Consider yourself handled.” His eyes gleam and I know I’ve got him. “It’s a date.”





Chapter 4

So then it dawned on me—Jack is my story. These tips are just begging to be tested on him.”

It’s the next morning and I’m in Cynthia’s office, relaying every sordid detail of my run-in with Jack while Nat provides pithy commentary from Cynthia’s blush-colored love seat. Behind her, a wall of glass provides an unobstructed view of the newsroom floor, a hive of worker bees orbiting their queen, their low buzz of activity throwing off a lulling ambient noise. If I were the boss I’d want a little more privacy—good luck picking so much as a wedgie without someone seeing—but I think she gets off on surveying her kingdom like Mufasa.

“You should’ve seen how she had him eating out of her hand by the end of it,” Nat reports gleefully, swilling her coffee. “Not an actress, eh? Could’ve fooled me.”

I flush with equal amounts of pride and embarrassment. “Honestly, I don’t even know where it came from. I felt possessed.”

After I somehow managed to convince Jack to hop aboard the crazy train, I practically threw my number at him while Natalia made some excuse and we hightailed it out of there as fast as our heels could carry us. Back at the apartment (and after I explained myself), Nat and I spent the rest of the night workshopping my new-and-improved plan for the vintage dating story. When we finally called it a night, I spent hours blinking at the ceiling, my brain racing with ideas, too keyed up to sleep. I woke up blurry with fatigue, yet somehow so jittery I was forced to eschew my morning coffee. An EKG machine would have a field day.

“I’ll tell you where it came from,” Cynthia says, matter-of-fact. “Your reporter’s instinct. You recognized a once-in-a-lifetime story and went for it.”

“What can you tell me about Jack?” I ask her, leaning forward in my chair. “We weren’t able to find all that much by googling.”

It’s an understatement; “virtually nothing” would be more accurate. In an attempt to know thine enemy, my first order of business was to comb the internet for background information—past interviews, photos, anything I could use to paint a clearer picture of Jack Bradford—but for someone in such a prominent role at a highly publicized company, Jack’s basically an internet ghost. He doesn’t actually write for Brawler, so no past bylines to dissect. I couldn’t find any public social media profiles (or private ones, for that matter). He’s rarely quoted on Brawler’s scandals du jour, instead leaving that dirty work to his cofounder and college BFF Tom “the Tomcat” Bartlett (who, to be fair, seems responsible for most of the dustups). From what I can gather, Jack seems to maintain a shadowy existence behind the scenes, pulling strings and operating beyond the glare of the media spotlight. How very Wizard of Oz of him.

The only in-depth profile I was able to find mainly recounted Brawler’s inception and meteoric rise. It’s an origin story we’ve all heard a million times before—two guys in a dorm room, blah blah blah—but it also included some rare personal details about the founders and friends. I learn that Jack, along with an older brother, was born and raised here in the city and earned his degree from Penn’s Wharton School of business, where he met Tom his freshman year after they were randomly paired up as roommates. It’s heavily implied that the Brawler seed money came from Jack’s father, a wealthy hedge fund manager, corroborating something I already suspected: Jack is used to getting what he wants.

“We cross paths every so often,” Cynthia says, leaning back in her chair and raking her fingers through her chic black bob. “I’d say our relationship has been fairly cordial, all things considered. It’s his horrible partner I avoid like the plague.” Her face pinches in distaste. “Jack’s always seemed pretty reserved to me, though I suppose it’s easy to maintain a low profile when your Tweedledum cofounder is sucking all the air out of the room.”