The Rom Con(31)

“Uh . . .” My mind’s gone hideously blank. My heart’s galloping like Seabiscuit. “Give me a minute and I’ll come up with some.”

“Is a hug too forward?” he says seriously, then snaps his fingers. “What about hand-holding? Or is that considered, like, third base?”

I refuse to laugh, instead donning a look of prim disapproval. I am an untouched vestal virgin, pure as the driven snow. This corset may as well be a chastity belt.

My reaction only makes his grin grow wider. He’s having fun with this now. “So let’s just say—and this is purely a hypothetical, of course—that I was interested in kissing you. Exactly how many dates would I be looking at?”

“Infinity, if you’re going to make fun of me.”

“So, three then?” His smile is irrepressible.

I’ll be long gone by the time you make it to that kiss, buddy.

I peer up at him from beneath my lashes, simultaneously coy and seductive. Betty is a saucy little minx. “Stick around and maybe you’ll find out.”

It’s the perfect response, really—ambiguous, yet just tempting enough to keep him in the hunt. I’m walking quite the tightrope here; my balancing act could rival Zendaya’s in The Greatest Showman.

His grin lights up his whole face. He’s a shimmering, flapping fish, hopelessly caught in my net. “You’re definitely different than I expected.”

“Gotta keep you guessing, right?” I throw him a wink, and something unidentifiable sparks in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or maybe more like curiosity.

We stand there for a beat, quiet, until I raise my hand in an awkward wave and move to leave—but before I can, he catches my fingers and brings them to his lips, lightly brushing them against my knuckles in a featherlight kiss. I’m paralyzed in place.

His eyes meet mine over the curve of my hand. “Not technically against the rules,” he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing rumble. “A gray area, I think.”

I’m frozen in shock. An elaborately carved ice sculpture. I’m Princess Anna of Arendelle, forged in frost.

He takes a step closer to me and the space between us narrows to a sliver. “But it’s probably best for you to learn now: I don’t always play by the rules.”

He gives my hand a gentle squeeze before reaching around my fossilized form to open the car door. “I’ll call you.”

I mumble something unintelligible and practically fall into the car, flattening myself against the backseat as the door snicks shut. My pulse hammers in my throat as the driver pulls away from the curb, and if I listen closely, I think I can make out its bleating warning, shrill as a Ross Geller primal scream: DANGER!

What is wrong with me?

Why am I so affected by this guy? It’s like all he has to do is drop some not-even-terribly-original line or pin me with his bedroom eyes and I go comatose. It’s mortifying, really; I’m not usually such a soft touch. It’s like he’s hypnotized me and I’ve forgotten the wake-up word to snap myself out of it. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt this off my game, this jittery around a man—and I know it’s not just the stress of the story and this scam I’m running.

No, in the worst development imaginable: I am genuinely attracted to Jack Bradford.

I groan and grope for the door controls, suddenly desperate for oxygen. I consider sticking my head out the window like a dog, but this humid, muggy air would totally ruin my pricey blowout. I draw the line at self-immolation.

So he’s good-looking, I acknowledge, attempting to rationalize away this epiphany. Like an addict, the first step is admitting the problem. Big deal. Plenty of men are attractive. It changes nothing about my plan . . . or my intended outcome.

I need to get my act together—literally. I can’t be going starry-eyed and weak-kneed every time he says something remotely flirtatious or this whole thing will be over before it even began. I need to deflect his flattery and compartmentalize his compliments and resist his (admittedly strong) gravitational pull.

I definitely need to stop thinking about the naked interest in his eyes.

One thing’s for sure: I need to regroup—but first things first.

I lean forward and tap the driver on the shoulder. “Excuse me, sir? Could you pull over at the nearest McDonald’s?”

Goodbye girdle, and hello Big Mac.





Chapter 8

So you got nothing.”

Cynthia peers at me from across her desk with one eyebrow raised, her piercing laser-stare practically burning a hole through the chic acrylic and gold office chair I’m currently occupying. She’s intimidating on a normal day, but right now? Her midnight-black bob and blood-red lipstick are giving off serious Angelina Jolie in Maleficent vibes.

“I mean, not nothing.” I shift in my seat, the backs of my thighs sticking to the Pinterest-popular but decidedly uncomfortable plastic chair. “I made inroads with the Brawler team, for one thing. Granted, Jack didn’t take the bait on some of the things I thought he would, but I’ll just have to get more creative.”

She leans back in her chair, nonplussed. Cynthia’s used to instant gratification—understandable, considering Siren survives and thrives on tight timelines and quick turnarounds—but this story requires flexibility. Finesse. She needs to grant me some breathing room.