The Rom Con(22)

To talk myself off the ledge, I run through all the reasons why he might be taking his time to call: he’s a busy guy at the helm of a major media corporation; he wants to establish himself as the alpha by making me wait; he mistyped my number; I have BO.

At least no one knows about this, I reassure myself. If he ghosts me, I’ll just go back to writing the original story. No harm, no foul.

But I can’t lie—I’m disappointed. I definitely got caught up in the idea of writing a big splashy takedown (and okay, perhaps even parlaying it into a buzzy bestseller). And fine, maybe I’ve got a bit of a bruised ego as well. Nat seemed so sure he was interested . . . heck, I thought he was interested. I like to think I’m decent at reading people; I guess I just pegged him wrong.

Or more likely, you scared him off by acting like a total psychopath.

By Thursday night I’ve just about decided he’s a lost cause (and stopped checking my phone eighty-three times a day—a watched phone never buzzes and all that). I’m two glasses of wine in and halfway through a rewatch of an old Outlander episode (a super-porny one, too; the best kind) when my phone rings next to me and I glance down at it. An unknown 212 number flashes across the screen and I bolt upright.

Settle down. It’s probably just a political robocall.

But if it is Jack, I need to stay in control. Act aloof, like I expected him to call.

I take a moment to slip into my Betty skin, pausing a shirtless Sam Heughan (my timing is impeccable), and let it ring once—twice—before answering on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Cassidy.” A statement, not a question.

It’s him, I know it immediately. I hadn’t realized I’d committed his voice to memory, but the deep baritone and silver-tongued confidence, smoother than any salesman’s, are instantly familiar.

“Yes?” I ask, infusing the word with a questioning lilt. Like I haven’t been anxiously awaiting his call like a parent on prom night. Like there are so many unidentified men of marriageable age calling me, I can’t possibly keep track of them all.

“Jack Bradford.” There’s a pause, and I don’t rush to fill it. “From the event on Monday?” A tinge of uncertainty’s crept into his voice and I have to squelch the urge to draw it out, see just how uncomfortable I can make him.

“Jack! Of course,” I say instead, pouring diabetic levels of sugar into my response. “I’d almost given up on hearing from you,” I scold in a playful singsong. Betty is an incorrigible flirt.

“Sorry about that,” he says, and he actually does sound remorseful. “I’ve been out of town. Still am, actually.”

See? I tell myself. He’s on a work trip. You don’t smell.

“Where to?” I ask, settling back on the couch and swirling the wine in my glass.

“Vegas. I head back tomorrow morning.”

“Wow, Vegas. Tough job you’ve got there.”

He laughs. “Right? Though I can assure you that Vegas for work isn’t quite the same as Vegas for fun.”

“I bet. I’ll confess, though, I’ve been to Vegas for a couple of bachelorette parties, and that was enough for me.”

“I can relate. After a trip, it always seems to take a couple of days for my ears to stop ringing.”

I strain to hear some identifying background noise, like slot machines or the buzz of the casino floor, but it’s as silent as a library at midnight. “Seems pretty quiet to me.”

He lets out a low chuckle. “I’m in my hotel room.”

It’s an oddly intimate mental image—Jack, alone in a Vegas hotel room. I picture his tall frame sprawled across a hotel bed, the comforter thrown back and sheets mussed, his socked feet hanging over the edge. I wonder if he’s the type to wear noisy patterns in hidden rebellion or if he sticks to muted solids.

“I read your Jessup story,” he says suddenly, amid the quiet.

“Oh yeah? What’d you think?” I ask reflexively, then immediately hate myself for fishing for compliments.

“It was surprisingly sweet. Romantic, even. To read it, you wouldn’t even know what a jaded fairy-tale hater you truly are.”

I laugh, gratified by his praise in spite of the teasing. Damn that universally disarming trap, flattery. “Yeah, well, I know my audience. Gotta give the people what they want, right?”

“Not gonna lie, I was a little disappointed not to get a mention, but . . .”

I nearly snort. Be careful what you wish for, buddy. “Noted for next time. And contrary to popular belief, I’m not actually a romance hater,” I say, dropping the world’s most obvious hint.

He catches it seamlessly. “Oh no? Let’s see you prove it.”

“What’d you have in mind?” I volley back playfully, then clap a hand over my mouth to smother my laughter. This is almost too easy. And the best part is, he thinks he’s the one in control while I’m busy pulling his strings like Geppetto.

“So I know I mentioned taking you out to dinner, but I thought I’d throw you a curveball and see if you like tennis.”

Wait, what? My silent laughter cuts off like a record scratch. “Tennis, as in . . . a racket and a net?”

He chuckles, and the sound is deep and rich, like a smooth whiskey. “I was thinking more like tennis, as in the US Open.”