The Rom Con(26)

“No need for an introduction,” I tell him as I accept his handshake. “Your reputation precedes you.”

If he catches my veiled insult, he doesn’t let on. “It often does, for better or worse,” he says without a hint of apology. “As does yours, by the way. I’ve been anxious to meet the Siren spitfire.”

Guess that answers my question of whether Jack relayed the details of my outburst. Tom’s tone is casual enough, but I don’t miss the unspoken challenge in it, or the sharp assessment in his gaze. He’s testing you, trying to determine if you’re friend or foe. Prove you’re not a threat.

I look him dead in the eye, instinctively knowing the only way to deal with a guy like Tom is head-on. “I’ve earned myself a nickname already, huh? Let’s see if I can live up to it.”

There’s a brief pause—before Tom barks a loud laugh. I exhale, relaxing a little. Advantage: me.

“I think you and I are going to get along just fine, Cassidy.” He raises the beer bottle he’s dangling by the neck and clinks it against the side of my cup. “And to think I was warned you might rip me a new asshole.”

“I never said that.” Jack turns to me, his expression pained. “I never said that.”

I pat his arm reassuringly. “I wouldn’t blame you if you had. Besides, I think we established that the Siren-Brawler feud is all in good fun, right?” My voice is spun sugar, double-dipped in honey. I’m the amiable arm candy of their dreams.

“We’ve had a lot of fun with Siren over the years,” Tom admits, rocking back on his heels. “Your boss is a good sport.”

“Well, she’s certainly had plenty to be a good sport about.”

It slips out before I can censor myself, and when Tom’s eyes narrow, I curse silently. No sassing the menfolk! You have got to learn how to hold your tongue. More Betty, less Cassidy.

I’m preparing to backtrack when Jack steps in to save me. “Alright, no work talk. We’re off the clock.” I feel his hand flex against my back.

“I promised him I’d be on my best behavior,” Tom confides conspiratorially.

“And you’re failing miserably,” Jack snaps back, annoyed.

I laugh in spite of myself, instantly diagnosing the Odd Couple dynamic between the two of them: Jack is the straight man, and Tom his outlandish foil. Jack’s the Felix to Tom’s Oscar; the Spade to his Farley.

“Oh, he’s fine,” I reassure Jack. “If you dish it out, you’ve got to be able to take it, right, Tom?” I toss him a wink.

“A girl after my own heart.” He nods at Jack. “Think you might be punching above your weight with this one, bud.”

I’m feeling pretty smug about how quickly I’ve won Tom over. Didn’t even break a sweat. He also just handed Betty a prime opening: Compliment your man in front of his friends.

“I think it might be the other way around,” I coo sweetly, placing a possessive hand on Jack’s arm and giving it a squeeze. When I glance up at him adoringly, I’m rewarded by his look of surprised pleasure, twin spots of color blooming on his cheekbones. Honestly, the aw-shucks routine from a guy this attractive is both absurd and adorable. Is it possible that this cheesy, blatant flattery actually works?

“Well, he’s . . .” I trail off as Jack guides us to our seats, trying to come up with an appropriate adjective to describe that encounter.

“Insane?”

“I was going to say a lot, but your way works too.”

“Tom is . . . an acquired taste.” Yeah, acquired like a bad rash. “Trust me, there’s nothing you could say about him that I haven’t heard before.”

He seems eager to change the subject, so I go with it, peppering him with questions about the match currently underway, the players’ records, what the morning session was like. I play dumb about the rules of the game whenever possible (Why do they call zero “love”? Is “deuce” a tie?), which actually stings quite a bit, considering the couple of years I spent on my high school tennis team. Allow him to shine and feel smart! Le sigh.

I’m also melting. September heat in New York is oppressive, and within a few minutes I’m seriously regretting thumbing my nose at that parasol. I can’t even imagine how Jack is surviving in his blazer. I go to dig my sunglasses out of my purse and catch a glimpse of my phone, noticing I’ve gotten a few texts from my sister. I scroll through them quickly, laughing at a couple of pictures she’s sent of my nieces at some kid’s birthday party, cake smashed all over their faces. Ugh, I’d kill for some of that cake. I wish I could teleport it through the phone, Wonka-style.

Jack leans over to peek at my screen, the fabric of his blazer brushing my bare shoulder. “Friends of yours?”

“My nieces,” I tell him, angling the phone toward him so he can see better. “My sister’s kids, Ella and Adeline.”

He smiles at the screen. “Well, they’re adorable.”

“An adorable handful,” I say wryly. “Honestly, they’re a couple of holy terrors. But I love ’em to pieces.” I give the pics a couple of heart tapbacks and slide the phone back into my purse.

“So you’re the cool aunt, then?”

“Oh, absolutely. And I take my role very seriously. Not to brag, but I’m their favorite babysitter,” I boast with exaggerated importance. “And just to annoy my sister, I buy them the most obnoxious toys I can find, like a microphone that only plays songs from Frozen and dolls that won’t stop crying.”