The Rom Con(37)

Maybe he has a naughty librarian fetish. “Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

It’s an understatement. He’s dressed similarly to how he was at the bar that first night, in full business attire: white button-down, perfectly coordinated striped tie, and a steel-gray suit that’s cut as impeccably as his hair. With his high-voltage smile and godlike bone structure, he’s easily the best-looking guy in this restaurant. Maybe for miles.

He has an ugly soul, I remind myself.

“I didn’t picture Brawler as the type of office where people dress up for work,” I confess as we navigate our way through the restaurant’s main dining room. In my mind, Brawler’s headquarters are akin to a grimy frat house, full of degenerate men in shapeless hoodies and sporting a sticky, beer-stained floor.

“It isn’t, but these days I’m constantly in meetings with investors and finance people,” he says as we arrive at our table. “Not exactly a jeans crowd.” I thank him as he pulls out my chair, ending up with him on my left and Christine to my right.

As everyone gets seated and settled I take a look around the restaurant, appreciating the vibe of the place, the decor a blend of modern industrial and traditional steakhouse. There’s exposed brick and funky oversized chandeliers made of metal and glass, but the comfy leather chairs and moody lighting ensure the overall feel is cozy, not cold.

“Jack, thanks so much for getting us the reservation here,” Christine says, accepting a menu from the hostess. “I feel very VIP.”

“It’s no big deal,” Jack says, brushing off the praise. “A friend of a friend runs the parent restaurant group. All I did was make a phone call.”

This time I’m the one studiously ignoring the pointed looks Greg’s beaming across the table. Alright, I get it. The man has access to perks.

“Well, it’s a big deal for us,” Christine continues. “We don’t get out much.”

“It’s your anniversary, you deserve to celebrate in style,” Jack says graciously, tapping his knife on his water glass in jest. “How many years?”

“Eight, but we’ve been together for twelve.” They moon at each other like horny honeymooners and I can’t help feeling a pang of envy.

I can barely remember a time when Christine and Greg weren’t together, which basically means I’ve idolized their relationship for a decade. They’re truly best friends—the embodiment of #couplegoals—as well-matched and secure in their relationship as Cory and Topanga. In fact, I blame them for giving me unrealistic expectations. Because of them, I always assumed I’d meet my soul mate in college and live happily ever after, too. Talk about a letdown.

“Your daughters are adorable,” Jack says as he unfurls his napkin. “Cassidy showed me some photos.”

“Meh, they’re alright,” Christine jokes. “They’re also—”

“Not here!” Greg finishes, and they high-five each other. At Jack’s confused expression, she clarifies. “We have a policy of not talking about our kids on date nights.”

Jack laughs at that. “Fair enough.”

Our server interrupts to take my drink order, and this time I wise up and request my usual pinot. Betty can bite me.

“Do you have any nieces or nephews, Jack?” Christine asks, sipping her martini.

He shakes his head. “No. It’s just my older brother and me, and he and his wife divorced before they had any kids.”

“Ah. Well, if you’re bored or hate sleeping, we have a couple we’re willing to lend you.”

Jack chuckles. “Sign me up.”

“So, how’d you two meet?” Greg asks.

Jack’s face lights up and he turns toward me. “Well, it’s a funny story, actually—”

“That we don’t need to get into right now,” I cut him off instantly.

“Oh come on, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s a great story.” When I make no move to share it, he turns back to Christine and Greg, his now-captive audience of two. “You could say she fell into my path.”

I slant him a look. “You could also say he blackmailed me into a date.”

“She was blowing a little hot and cold,” he tells them conspiratorially.

“The details aren’t important,” I say hastily, desperate to wrest back control of this conversation. “Long story short, we crossed paths at a cologne launch party for Eric Jessup a couple of weeks ago that I was covering for Siren. Jack happens to be friends with Eric, and he was kind enough to help me get a quote.” Downplay your professional competence so he doesn’t feel threatened: check!

Greg coughs. “Friends with Eric Jessup? Huh. That’s cool.” He eyes me over the rim of his glass as he takes a long swig of his drink. Pretty sure the poor guy’s head is about to explode.

“I apologize for my husband,” Christine tells Jack, patting Greg’s hand consolingly. “I didn’t give him enough notice about your identity, and he’s very starstruck. He’s trying so hard to be cool and just failing miserably.”

Jack chuckles. “I promise, most of the Brawler stuff is not nearly as exciting as it looks from the outside. Most days it’s just a job like any other.”

Greg considers that for about half a second. “I don’t believe you.”