The Rom Con(29)
“I’m sorry?”
“You know, like were you a late bloomer? Go through a prolonged awkward stage? Buck teeth? Ears that stuck out?”
I regard him suspiciously. “How’d you get ahold of my teenage photo albums?”
“Fascinating,” he murmurs. “I’ve finally spotted one in the wild.”
I smack his arm—then have to smother my reaction to the unexpectedly firm bicep hidden beneath his shirt sleeve. Is he flexing? “How dare you.”
“The point is,” he says, laughing, “I get the sense you don’t know how other people see you. Remember the bar, when I came up?” I shrug in assent. “How do you think I knew you purposely took that guy out?”
I groan and let my head fall back, shaking a fist at the sky. “I fell!”
“Oh-kay.” He folds his arms across his chest—quit noticing his arms!—and trains his vision back on the match, his voice aloof. “Let me know when you’re ready to come clean.”
I huff in disapproval, but I know when I’ve been bested. He’s clearly not going to let this go, so I’m prepared to make a concession.
I sigh dramatically, as though chagrined to be giving in. “Fine, it was on purpose. Happy now?”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” he notes dryly, his gaze lazily wandering back to my face. “Like, for example, why did you take him out?”
“It was for a story,” I admit, offering up the alibi Nat and I concocted for just this scenario. Why lie when you can tell the truth? “We were testing out some extreme pickup lines.” The partial truth, anyway.
He raises a dubious eyebrow.
“You know, like ‘Worst Ways to Meet a Guy’? Crash into him and drop your purse. Get lost on a golf course or a military base. ‘Accidentally’ take a shower in a men’s locker room. Play dumb at a shooting range. Pretend to be drowning at the beach.”
He looks alarmed. “Pretend to drown? What kind of pickup lines are these?”
“The ridiculous kind, obviously.”
He snorts. “No kidding.”
“So ridiculous, in fact, they worked on two men.” I smile with all my teeth.
He opens his mouth like he’s going to dispute my version of events, then seems to accept he has no leg to stand on. “Not sure I can argue with that. Which brings me back to my original point, which is that the reason I knew you intentionally knocked that poor sap on his ass was because I noticed you well before I came over.” He clears his throat. “From the second you walked in, in fact.”
“You mean you noticed Nat in her fire-engine red dress,” I joke. I’m used to her antics drawing attention wherever we go; frankly, she’s hard not to notice.
He pulls his glasses off again, fully this time, revealing his deep blue eyes—indigo, they’re definitely indigo—and pins me with his gaze. I couldn’t look away if I tried.
“No, I noticed you.” The intensity in his voice makes something roll over in my stomach. “Some try hard to stand out, while others stand out without trying.”
Chapter 7
My heart stalls in my chest, heat stealing over my skin like the creeping glow from a fire. I blink at him from behind my sunglasses, at a loss for words, all my typical snappy comebacks completely deserting me.
It could be a line. In fact, it sounds exactly like a line some slick Don Juan wannabe would use to try to pick me up at one of those overpriced and overly trendy rooftop bars Nat’s always dragging me to.
And yet . . .
It didn’t sound like a line coming out of his mouth. It sounded honest and sincere and . . . earnest, even. It sounded like he meant it. I mull it over as an unsettling swirl of emotions begins to gather in my gut.
You’re supposed to hate this guy.
He’s supposed to be awful. He’s supposed to offend me with his bad takes and worse behavior, not give me warm fuzzies with his thoughtful, genuine compliments. I expected crass and shameless, not attentive and sensitive. I can hear Cynthia’s voice ringing in my ears: Don’t underestimate him. Don’t let him derail you.
Is acknowledging that I’m flattered the same as being derailed? Seems like a gray area.
Before I can untangle my tongue, Jack gets a tap on the shoulder—saved!—and I train my gaze on the court, letting out a slow, unsteady breath.
Thankfully, the rest of the afternoon passes uneventfully. I’ve never been on a date to a sporting event before—like Rose DeWitt Bukater, something about me must scream “indoor girl”—though it occurs to me that it’s actually an ideal setting for a first date. Having the match as a distraction takes the conversational pressure off while also providing me with a convenient escape hatch: If there’s ever an awkward silence, I can just pretend to be enthralled by the on-court action. Easy-peasy.
Though I find I never need to pull that rip cord. Jack’s exceedingly easy to talk to, our conversation effortlessly skipping from one topic to the next like a smooth stone across a lake. Sharing the same industry means we speak a common language, and even I’m surprised by how quickly we fall into a natural shorthand. Frankly, if this was a real first date, it’s the kind I could imagine spawning sappy, gag-inducing wedding toasts like It was meant to be! or We kept finishing each other’s sentences!