The Rom Con(46)

“Not that you’re counting,” I quip, trying to sidestep that land mine.

“Oh, I’m counting.”

My blood pressure ratchets up.

“But it’s interesting,” he says, catching my hand before I can think to snatch it away, and I have no choice but to stare up into his eyes. They’re dark as a roiling sea and just as deep. “I’ve realized there’s something to be said for delayed gratification.” He strokes his thumb across the back of my hand and I barely suppress a shiver. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve anticipated anything quite this much.”

He sounds as surprised as I feel—and just like that, this doesn’t feel like a game anymore. This relationship no longer feels fake. The stakes are too high and I’m in way over my head.

And later, when I’m lying in bed without the bright lights of Times Square to distract me, I no longer know if I’m doing this for a story . . . or if I’m doing it for me.





Chapter 11

Thwack.

The magazine lands on top of my knuckles, forcing me to stop typing. When I glance up to see the source of the interruption, I find Nat, looking triumphant.

“What’s this?” I slide off my noise-canceling headphones and pick up the magazine.

“Your next date idea,” she announces. “You’re going to make Jack ‘Engagement Chicken.’?”

“I’m going to do what now?”

She taps a perfectly polished coral fingernail on the page. “Engagement Chicken! According to this article, any woman who uses this recipe on her boyfriend can expect a proposal shortly thereafter. It has a proven track record of success and everything! Meghan Markle even used it to get a proposal out of Prince Harry. Allegedly.” She raises a finger. “And it’s absolutely something Betty would do.”

I groan and spin around in my chair. “This is the opposite of what I need! I told you, all these tips are doing is backfiring on me! What am I supposed to do while the chicken is roasting—ask if he has any socks that need darning? Invite him to a Tupperware party? He’d probably accept and thank me for the invitation!” I blow out an exasperated breath. “If I had to turn in the story right now, he’d coming out smelling like a rose. My only hope at this point is that he lets something damaging slip about Brawler, but so far, I’ve got nothing.”

Nat flashes some settle down hands. “You didn’t let me finish. The Engagement Chicken is just your ticket in the door.”

“In what door?”

Her grin is Elphaba-wicked. “His apartment.”

Fear trickles through my veins like ice water. “I really don’t want to be alone with Jack in his apartment.” Talk about a danger zone.

She tilts her head. “Don’t you, though? Think about it—what better way to discover his deepest, darkest secrets than by infiltrating his lair?”

I stall, unsure how to respond without showing my hand. So far I’ve been able to keep my muddled, not-exactly-platonic feelings for Jack under wraps, and I don’t want to admit to Nat (or anyone else, for that matter) just how out of control this situation has begun to feel. Jack’s made no secret of his intentions; an intimate night alone at his apartment would surely be asking for trouble.

On the other hand, her idea is a good one—and it’s also the only idea on the table, since I’ve come up with precisely zilch in the week since our double date. I’ve spent the last few days taking rain checks on his date requests and dodging his calls like a total coward. (A true test of willpower when he’s texting me adorable things like an article explaining the historical significance of men walking street-side. Turns out, it has something to do with runaway horse-drawn carriages back in the day. Who knew?)

I don’t know what to do. I’m bewitched, bothered, and bewildered by him, and the laugh is definitely on me.

“Are we at all worried that this is taking things too far?” I ask in a low voice, mindful of our coworkers within earshot. “Invading his home sort of feels like crossing a line.”

Without a word Nat reaches over my shoulder, tilts my monitor in her direction, and starts typing, her fingers flying over the keyboard. When she angles the screen back toward me, I see she’s pulled up the Brawler home page.

She points at a headline midway down the page and starts reading aloud. “?‘Rate my rack! Who’d you rather motorboat? Cast your vote!’ Shall we click through the gallery?”

I wince and cover my eyes.

“Or how about this lovely blog post: ‘How to hook up with your friend’s sister without losing a limb.’ And let’s not forget the Meme of the Day: ‘She’s a 10 but she expects me to watch women’s sports.’?”

I wave my hands in front of the screen as if to block it out.

Her smile is gloating. “Still feeling guilty?”

I sigh in resignation and pick up the magazine again. “Engagement Chicken, huh?” I rock back in my chair, scanning the article. “This is so ridiculous.” So ridiculous, in fact, it just might work.

“Ridiculously genius, you mean. Emily Blunt even used this on John Krasinski! And we both know Emily Blunt can do no wrong.”

Well, that much is certainly true.

Nat leans a hip against my desk. “Come on, what guy doesn’t love a home-cooked meal? Just ply Jack with some food and booze and he’ll be singing like a canary.”