The Rom Con(62)

It’s too much. It’s sensory overload. The heat of his skin, the weight of his arms caging me against the counter, the sandpaper scrape of his jaw, the rich flavor of malted whiskey on his breath, this sultry, soulful bump-and-grind playlist—it’s all building toward something that will almost certainly lead to my destruction. I’m flying too close to the sun.

I should put a stop to this. I should pull away before it goes any further. And yet, in this moment I’d rather die than stop. I want to stay right here in his arms, treasuring his kisses and reveling in the feel of him and believing for just one night that this could be right. That Jack could be the man I’ve been searching for all this time.

Right now, he’s the only thing I want.

So I close my eyes, press into him, and hurtle myself toward the sun.





Chapter 13

I can’t stop thinking about #98 on the “Tips to Hook a Husband” list: Turn wolves into husband material by assuming they have honor.

I thought about it as I left Jack’s apartment last night, the promise of another date hanging in the air between us like a strand of twinkling Christmas lights. I thought about it as I tossed and turned in bed, giddy and restless and horny as hell. And I’m thinking about it now as I reluctantly head to Cynthia’s office, feet heavy as cement blocks, a prisoner on her way to the guillotine.

I have no idea how she’ll take the news that I’m dropping the story. She’d be well within her rights to fire me, and honestly, I’m not sure I could blame her. I’ve been working on this for weeks and not only do I have nothing to show for it, but now I’ve found myself in bed with the enemy (metaphorically, at least). I’m irrevocably compromised, both professionally and ethically. I’m sure I’ve exposed Siren to some sort of liability, too. I know lying itself isn’t a crime, but should Jack find out about my ulterior motives he’d probably have grounds to sue Cynthia for invasion of privacy or emotional distress or defamation. (Or is it slander? I can never remember the difference. Cut me some slack, I’m not a lawyer.)

One thing I know for sure, though: My subterfuge ends today. If I’m going to move forward with Jack in good conscience, then this story needs to be a distant speck in my rearview mirror.

I knock once and enter when she invites me in, the chatter of the newsroom fading ominously as the door snicks shut behind me. In a blatant attempt at buying her mercy, I picked up a cup of her favorite overpriced coffee and a chocolate croissant from the fancy French bakery next door, though the bribery is about as transparent as these damn acrylic chairs. My thighs are already clammy at the sight of them.

“Hey there,” Cynthia says, holding up a finger as she continues to type feverishly. I take a seat at her desk, and when she finally pushes her keyboard away, she makes a little chirp of appreciation at my sweet treats. So far so good.

“So a vague, last-minute meeting request,” she says, pulling the croissant from the bag and tearing off a corner. “Do I take it there’s been a break in the case?”

“Sort of.” I rethink that. “Well, not exactly.” I roll my lips together. “Actually, sort of the opposite?”

“What does that mean?” she asks around her mouthful. “Don’t tell me he figured it out?”

“No, nothing like that.” I gnaw on my lip, stalling.

Her brow furrows as she waits a beat. “Well? Spit it out. What’s going on?”

I take a deep breath. “I need to call it off.”

She leans back in her chair, index fingers tented, chewing silently. This thousand-yard stare is one of her superpowers—I’ve watched her win countless face-offs just by staying quiet the longest. “Why?”

“First of all, he hasn’t said or done anything offensive, so as of now it’d be a pretty boring story.” It’s a lame attempt at humor, and she rewards me with crickets. I forge ahead. “If I haven’t found anything incriminating by now, I just don’t think there’s anything to find.”

“Of course there’s something to find. Everyone has skeletons in their closet, including me.” She peers at me over the rim of her glasses. “What’s really going on?” Great, I’ve tripped her bullshit detector.

I sigh. “I just don’t feel comfortable with this anymore. I’ve gotten to know him, and he’s not who I—who we—thought he was. Sure, maybe it was funny at first, but now it just feels wrong. And frankly, cruel. That’s not who I am, and it’s not the kind of journalist I want to be.”

She continues to stare at me, her face unreadable. I don’t even think she’s blinked once. She’s going to make me—and my sticky thighs—sweat this one out. “You let him get under your skin.”

I know what she’s really asking. I don’t want to lie to her, but I’m also not ready to share the true nature of Jack’s and my relationship—especially since I’m not even sure what that is yet.

So I sidestep. “He’s a good guy, and he doesn’t deserve to be ridiculed.”

She tuts and shakes her head, her mouth in a thin line.

“I’ll write the story the way I originally pitched it,” I offer desperately, a sick feeling gripping my insides like a fist. I’ve never said no to Cynthia before; I’ve rarely even pushed back. I’m a team player, a model employee. I do what I’m tasked, no questions asked. “I’ll test out the tips on unsuspecting men and it’ll be hilarious, I promise. I’ll do whatever it takes to make the story a success.” I swallow past the knot in my stomach, hoping those words don’t end up biting me in the ass. “I just need to leave Jack out of it.”