The Rom Con(42)

“You’re a sweetheart, Jack,” Christine is saying, ignoring my icy glare. “I know I speak for Greg when I say we hope this works out.” She goes up on her tiptoes to give him a hug while I mentally draw a chalk outline around her body. “Take care of my sister, okay?”

She releases him to Greg, and while the guys do some macho backslapping routine, I squeeze her extra tight, not at all trying to cut off her air supply.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I hiss in her ear. “?‘I hope this works out’?”

“Hush, I did you a favor,” she says, speaking into my hair. “This guy really likes you, and I think you like him. If you go through with this story, I know you’ll regret it.” She pulls back and squeezes my hand. “Think about it, okay?”

Before I can formulate a response, she links her arm through Greg’s. “Let’s go, babe, I don’t want to be late. Love you, Cass. Be good, you two!” She winks at us, and with a final wave from Greg, they head off arm in arm and we’re left alone on the sidewalk.

I turn to face Jack, feeling a fresh wave of nerves now that my human shields are gone. Christine’s words ring in my ears like a skipping record: “I think you like him. I think you like him.”

“So have they permanently scared you off?” I joke as we start ambling down the sidewalk side by side. Part of me hopes they have; it would certainly make my life easier.

He laughs. “They’re a trip, you were right about that. But in a good way. Honestly, it’s refreshing to be around a family that genuinely likes one another.”

It’s the second time he’s referenced a less-than-ideal upbringing, so I put on my camo bucket hat and go on a little fishing expedition. “Oh yeah? What’s it like in your family?”

He makes a low humming noise in his throat. “More like . . . a lot of tense silences. Or shouting. Not much in between.” He attempts a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “We don’t really get together unless we’re forced.”

Yikes. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

He shrugs like it doesn’t bother him, but his body language tells a different story. He may be a worse actor than I am. “I’m used to it, for the most part. But you’re very lucky. Not everyone has a family like yours.”

“But surely your parents must be proud of your success?” However ill-gotten it might be. “How often do you see them?”

“You could never be successful enough for my dad. Anyway, I’d rather hear more about your book,” he says, expertly dodging my line of questioning. It’s one of the things I’ve noticed about him, how adept he is at pivoting the conversation away from himself. And here I thought these hotshot types loved talking about themselves?

“I wish there was more to share,” I admit, deciding that if I want him to open up, I’ll need to take the first step. “My dream is to be a novelist, but I’ve started and stopped so many times, I’ve lost count. I can’t ever seem to get past the first few chapters. I can’t even decide on a genre. Should I write a thriller with a shocking twist? A sweeping family saga? An epic love story where the sexual tension is just steaming off the page?”

“I’d read it.” He guides me around a subway grate, correctly guessing it would be a problem for my stilettos.

“You read a lot of romance novels, then?” I tease, calling his bluff.

“Fine, you caught me. I tend to stick to nonfiction and business books. I’m sure you find that pretty boring, though, huh?”

“Nah, I would never judge what someone else reads. But hey, you know who else likes nonfiction? My dad.”

He groans. “Thank you for that. Real nice.”

I can’t help laughing; he’s fun to mess with. “I’m just kidding. I think everyone should read what they want to read.”

“Well, I’d read your romance novel.” The corner of his mouth curls up. “I could probably learn a few things.”

“Every man could learn a few things from romance novels,” I say firmly. “Why more men don’t take advantage of what are essentially instruction manuals for women is beyond me, though I suppose that’s a conversation for another day.”

He cants his head as if to say Touché. “So what do you think is holding you back? From writing, I mean.”

Now I’m the one who wants to change the subject. “Oh, you know, the usual suspects: Fear of failure. Unrealistic expectations. Perfectionism. Inadequacy. Self-doubt.”

“Just those, huh?” he teases.

I think of how to explain it. “Writing a two-hundred-word article is simple for me. I do it every day—multiple times a day, actually. Easy-peasy. But writing an entire book? Coming up with a plot that’ll hold someone’s attention for a hundred thousand words? Creating a story that’s memorable, that will resonate, that someone will love so much it’ll become their favorite book? It’s incredibly daunting. It’s such a high bar to clear.”

“And if you don’t try, then you can’t fail,” he says pragmatically.

“Exactly.” It takes me a second to hear what he actually said. “Wait, no.”

He chuckles, his eyes twinkling like he’s pulled the sparkle straight from the stars overhead.