The Rom Con(27)

“So you have an evil streak.”

“I think of it more as payback for a lifetime of big-sister torture.”

He grins and cracks open his water bottle, draining half of it in a single impressive gulp. How do guys do that? “So you two are close?”

“We are. She lives in Connecticut, so I’m able to see her regularly. On the flip side, it’s nearly impossible to have a phone conversation without being interrupted by the girls forty-seven times, so ninety percent of our interactions these days are via text.” I shrug, accepting the stage of life we’re in. “What about you, do you have any siblings?” I feel a pang of guilt asking him a question I already know the answer to, but I suppose that minor fib is the least of my transgressions right now.

“Just one. My older brother John.”

“Two boys,” I observe, sipping my wine.

“Yep. We even get along sometimes, too.”

“Ouch.” I grimace good-naturedly. “That doesn’t sound too good.”

He shrugs, though there’s a resigned air to it. “It’s mostly competitive brother stuff, but I think some people are just destined to butt heads. We worked together for a time, too, and that didn’t help.” He squeezes the water bottle, the plastic protesting his grip with a loud cracking noise. “There’s just a lot of water under that bridge.”

“Well, high tide eventually becomes low tide,” I say reflexively.

He tilts his head, brow furrowed in question.

“Sorry, it’s just something my grandma always says about the ebb and flow of relationships. Basically, all relationships have seasons, and sometimes people just need a little time and space. If you’re patient, they usually come back around.”

“Your grandma, huh?” he teases, not unkindly.

“I know, right? I’m really a ninety-year-old stuck in a twenty-eight-year-old’s body.” If he only knew. I let out a high-pitched giggle that resembles a horse’s whinny. Nope, I don’t sound suspicious at all.

He doesn’t seem to notice. “Well, your grandmother sounds smart. What advice do you think she’d have if the rough patch had lasted, say, thirty-two years?”

“Hmm.” I pretend to think about it. “She’d probably say . . . you need a therapist.”

He coughs a laugh. “Touché.”

He stands and shrugs off his blazer, draping it over the back of his chair before setting to work unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling the sleeves to his elbows. I keep my eyes trained forward, as though thoroughly engrossed by the rousing display of athletic prowess before me, but I hardly think I can be expected to ignore the forearm foreplay unfolding mere inches from me. Show me a woman who isn’t turned on by that bare expanse of skin and I’ll show you a liar.

“So are you happy at Siren?” Jack asks, interrupting my forearm fantasy.

“I am,” I tell him, sitting up a little straighter. “I get to write what I want for the most part, and my pieces typically get a strong response. Each day and story are different, so I don’t get bored. I’ve moved up to the point where I’m managing quite a few contract writers, and Cynthia’s really great about seeking our input on the growth and direction of the site.”

He nods, listening intently—and then I realize what I’m doing and give myself a mental kick to the shin. This isn’t a real date. Stop giving him real answers.

I need to quit fixating on his foxy forearms and JFK Jr.–like charisma and remember why I’m here. What would Betty do? Never let him believe your career is more important to you than marriage.

I lean in and drop my voice. “But actually, my real dream is to be a stay-at-home mom.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

“I mean, not tomorrow, of course, but eventually. Once I meet the right person.” I cast my eyes briefly away, faux coy, before sliding them back, doe-eyed once again. “Don’t get me wrong, I like working. But don’t you think raising a family is the most important work a woman can do?”

I’ve teed it up perfectly; all he has to do is agree. I’m giving him permission to say aloud what a man like him surely believes: that a woman’s place is in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant. Let’s hear those misogynistic thoughts in all their unvarnished glory.

“You don’t think you’d get bored?” he says instead, tilting his head. “You’re so talented, and your career is just taking off. You’d really be okay giving all that up?”

I’m totally thrown by his response; I have to scramble to regain my footing.

“It’s just that I’ve had a front-row seat to how difficult it is for my sister and her husband to juggle everything as a two-working-parent household,” I explain, thinking fast. “She feels like she doesn’t see the girls enough, she’s only working to pay the nanny, she struggles with mom-guilt. I always thought if I had the financial means, it’d make more sense to commit myself fully to wife-and motherhood, keep things running smoothly on the home front. You know, have dinner on the table when my husband gets home, help the kids with their homework, make sure everyone’s needs are met, that sort of thing.”

I can’t believe how easily this crap is falling out of my mouth. Honestly, I’m surprised the big man upstairs hasn’t struck me down for such blasphemy. But Jack’s not reacting how I expected. In fact, he’s gone silent. Did I take it too far? It’s hard to read him with his eyes hidden behind sunglasses—but judging by the crease in his brow, he’s not buying it.