The Rom Con(30)

If we’re not chatting or watching the match, Jack’s introducing me to other Brawler guests, which includes a seemingly endless array of investors, colleagues, and friends who stream in and out of the suite throughout the afternoon. While in any other context I might find the experience draining (the plight of the true introvert), I’m surprised at how easy it all feels.

We get along so well, in fact, that I’m surprised when I check my watch and see I’ve been here more than four hours. Knowing that a damsel of the fifties would Leave him wanting more—and let’s face it, because another second in this girdle and I might pass out—I decide it’s time to make my exit.

When I tell him, Jack immediately reaches for his jacket. “I’ll call us a car.”

Trapped in a car with him, alone, for a forty-five-minute ride into the city? Abort!

“Oh no, you stay,” I insist, praying he won’t push the issue, because on this, the tips are clear: Let your man take the lead! “I heard some of them talking about going on to get drinks, and I’m sure they want their fearless leader there. I’d feel terrible making you leave early.”

He looks like he wants to argue, but whatever he must see on my face makes him reconsider.

“I probably should stay,” he pivots seamlessly, granting me that gift, and I let out an internal sigh of relief. “But you can’t stop me from walking you out.”

I rearrange my features into a winsome smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

I say my farewells to the group, and a few minutes later we’re outside the stadium, a black SUV idling beside us on the curb as he tells the driver we’ll be just a minute. I face him and swallow, my nerves a riotous mess at what I’m deathly afraid is coming.

He steps back onto the sidewalk and raises his eyebrows at me, a playful smile on his mouth. He’s got to be the most confident man I’ve ever met, relaxed and unruffled even in the face of the dreaded end-of-date awkwardness. “Did you have a good time? I know it was a lot, meeting everyone.”

“I had a lot of fun,” I respond honestly—and I’m shocked to realize that I mean it. “Everyone was . . . really great, actually.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “You sound surprised.”

That’s because I am.

“No, I’m . . .” I shake my head, then groan-laugh in embarrassment. “That came out wrong. Rewind.”

“No offense taken.” He winks, lifting his chin. “I’d like to see you again.”

Whoa. Startled by his directness, I rock back a step, nearly tripping over my own espadrilles. “Oh! Wow, okay. Sure.” Betty frowns at me in my mind’s eye. “I mean, I’d like that too,” I stammer, attempting to course-correct. Better.

He looks amused. “Were you . . . not expecting that?”

A middle-aged couple in matching fanny packs passes by, and I watch the woman glance back over her shoulder and give Jack a once-over, then raise her eyebrows at me and nod approvingly like, Get it, girl! I have to swallow the knot of hysteria bubbling up in my throat.

“Honestly? I’m just a bit more used to I’ll call you,” I intone in a man’s low register. “And historically, I’d say there’s only about a fifty-fifty chance of actually receiving said call.”

“Ah.” He nods, looking thoughtful. “So, something you should know about me: I’m past the game-playing stage of my life. I’m also not a beat-around-the-bush kind of guy. So if I say I’m going to call, you can trust I’m going to call. And if I say I want to see you again, then that’s exactly what I mean.” His eyes are steady on mine, clear as sea glass, determined as a gathering storm. “I won’t make you guess.”

My brain short-circuits as I gape at him, struck dumb for the second time today. Is this guy for real? And how is he still single? (Misogynistic job notwithstanding.)

My muteness seems to entertain him. “Have I scared you off? Didn’t mean to put you on the spot there. You want to think about it and get back to me?”

“No!” It comes out more forcefully than I intended, and now he’s the one who looks startled. “I mean, I don’t need to think about it.” I beam up at him adoringly. Nice save. Betty is pleased.

He’s returning my smile when I watch his eyes flick to my lips and linger there for one second. Two. And it’s that pause—a pause with intent—that makes me spring back just as he starts to lean forward.

“I don’t kiss on the first date,” I blurt, exhaling in a heavy gust. Why am I winded?

He blinks. “Really.” Blink blink blink. “Well, that’s a throwback.”

You don’t know the half of it.

“I know it’s a little unorthodox,” I babble, wondering if this will be the straw that breaks the camel’s back, if said camel will finally spook and bolt down the Long Island Expressway. “And it has nothing to do with you, it’s just one of—”

“Your rules,” he finishes. “Like the chaperones.”

“Exactly,” I confirm, slowly dying inside. Saying these ridiculous things to his face is so much more awkward than over the phone.

“So.” His mouth tugs up at the corner. Is he actually amused by this? “Any other rules I should be aware of?”