The Rom Con(6)

She throws up her hands. “Cass, just read the book and give some of the tips a shot. What do you have to lose?”

“Uh, my dignity?”

“Pfft.” She waves a hand. “Overrated.”

“You’re actually suggesting I behave like a submissive 1950s trophy wife?!”

“I’m suggesting you consider that some of those tips might actually have merit. They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting a different result, right? You’re sitting here telling me you wish things were different, but you’re not willing to change your behavior or consider another way.” She raps the book cover with a knuckle. “Here’s another way.”

“I hardly think you blackmailing me into highly problematic, subservient behavior is a proportional response for my lack of a wedding date.”

“Oh, ‘blackmail’ is such a strong word,” she says airily. “Think of this as . . . an experiment.”

I open my mouth to argue further, but the word triggers something in my brain and I pause.

This article—one my grandmother’s saved for seventy years—is exactly the kind of story we salivate over at Siren. Just reprinting these half-baked dating tips in all their ridiculous retro glory would generate a million clicks and even more shares, but what if we actually tested them on some unsuspecting suitors? I can see the headline now: I tried these old-fashioned dating tips so you don’t have to! Subhead: June Cleaver meets the modern Manhattanite. We could even turn it into a recurring series. It’s a content gold mine.

Gran’s voice snaps me out of my reverie. “I know you wouldn’t deny an old woman one of her last requests.”

I laugh in spite of myself. “Please, you’re going to outlive us all.”

She wags a finger at me. “I won’t be around forever! My clock is ticking. And I want to see you happy.”

“I am happy.”

“But you could be happier.”

I groan and drop my head into my hands. “I can’t win.”

She shrugs, unrepentant. “I just call it like I see it.”

“You should consider a filter.”

“Nah. One of the few benefits of being ninety is that I’m allowed to say whatever I want, whenever I want. And pressure my grandchildren into doing my bidding, of course,” she adds with a wink.

“I see. And how exactly do you think”—I consult the list—“?‘Asking him to carry my hatbox’ or ‘Dropping my handkerchief’ is going to secure me a significant other?”

She pats my hand. “You’re smart and creative, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

“That’s it, huh?”

“What, you need me to lend you a handkerchief?” I sigh in defeat as she starts for the door. “Now that we’re agreed, I want some more of that cake,” she tosses over her shoulder.

“I did not agree to this,” I call after her—but I know I’ve lost before the words have even left my mouth.





Chapter 2

So what do you think?”

I scan the faces of the women lining either side of the conference room table and stop on Cynthia, trying to gauge whether her expression indicates amusement or horror. Maybe a little bit of both.

I’m at our Monday morning editorial meeting at Siren’s offices in Gramercy, where department heads give status updates on both the short-and long-lead pieces we’re working on, as well as pitch and assign new story ideas. I’ve just explained my concept for the vintage-inspired dating feature I’ve cheekily coined “Operation Betty Draper.” I spent my Sunday doing a deep dive into the Military Wife etiquette book Gran gave me (verdict: every bit as antiquated as I expected), fell down a rabbit hole of additional internet research into courtship customs of the 1950s, then somehow wound up inhaling an entire pint of birthday cake Halo Top while streaming YouTube clips from classic films of the era like Pillow Talk and Sex and the Single Girl. Between all that and the 125 tips to snag a spouse, I have more than enough material to work with (and a newfound appreciation for Doris Day, the “girl next door” rom-com queen of the golden age).

“I love it,” Cynthia says immediately, and I beam. It’s one of my favorite things about her leadership style, how direct and decisive she is. It’s either “I love it, get to work,” or “What else you got?”—nothing in between. And she has a pitch-perfect radar for which stories will hit, a skill honed over the course of her twenty-plus years in the always evolving, cutthroat world of modern journalism. She also has a built-in bullshit detector, which is why I come overprepared to every meeting.

She holds up the “125 Tips” magazine pages I’ve since encased in plastic sheet protectors. “These are gold.” She slides them down the table for others to peruse before turning back to her laptop, fingers flying over the keyboard. “So you’re thinking a long-form piece?”

“Yep, maybe a couple thousand words? I thought I could assign the actual testing of the tips to Hannah, since she did such a good job with—”

“Wait, wait, wait. You’re not going to be the one testing them?”

Every head swivels toward me in unison like a pack of meerkats. “I—well no, that wasn’t my plan. You know I don’t typically do—”