The Rom Con(65)

She’s studying me, the corner of her mouth curved up. “Did you know you smile when you say his name?”

My cheeks heat. “I do?”

“Totally. Your face gets all flushed and dreamy.” I bury said face in my hands, embarrassed. “What? It’s sweet! You like him, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Isn’t there, though? Aren’t I essentially choosing a guy over my career? I don’t want to be known as ‘the girl who didn’t go to Paris.’?”

We exchange matching grimaces, the pain of LC choosing Jason Wahler over a summer internship at French Vogue still fresh.

“And the thing is, Cynthia’s not wrong; I am a little blinded by my attraction to him,” I admit. “After all, he’s still the guy who runs Brawler. That hasn’t changed.”

“But your opinion of him has changed. You said it yourself, he’s nothing like the site, nothing like you thought he’d be. Evolving your position based on new information is a sign of strength, not weakness.”

I huff a laugh. “You’d make an excellent politician.”

“Are we really all that different, though? They’re playing to their audience just like we are. Brawler gives Siren a hard time, and we give it right back. We’re not exactly saints here.” She pops another fry into her mouth. “Come to think of it, a little healthy competition makes for great foreplay.” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively.

“Well, I hope foreplay’s enough to satisfy him for a while, because . . .” I trail off, second-guessing that dash of honesty. Nat won’t understand this.

“Because what?”

I drag a fry through the ketchup, stalling. I don’t know why I’m embarrassed to admit this. “Because I actually like the pace we’re moving at. It feels nice, you know? Getting to know him slowly, giving myself the chance to look forward to things. I haven’t been pursued like this since . . . well, ever.” I think of how to explain it. “Everything about the way I’ve handled this relationship has been different, and since it seems to be working out pretty well, I’ve decided to stay the course.”

She sits back in her chair, giving me a looong look. “I don’t believe it.”

“What?”

She points her fry at me. “You’re turning into Betty.”

“What?” I attempt a laugh, but what comes out is a noise that’s never occurred before in nature. “No, I’m not.”

“You are.” Her eyes are alight with the thrill of scientific discovery. She’s Edison, and her prototype light bulb has just blinked to life. “She’s gotten into your head. You think the tips are working, so you’re turning into that crazy Nebraska lady!”

“Okay, first of all, Nebraska lady has a name, it’s Tami. And she is not crazy, she’s sweet as cherry pie and has been very helpful to me, so I will not abide any Tami slander.” Nat rolls her eyes. “Second of all, you’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being ridiculous? Let’s consider the evidence, shall we?” She’s gesticulating so wildly with her fry that a blob of ketchup plops onto the table. “You got a subscription to Good Housekeeping. You’re watching black-and-white movies constantly. You pitched a story the other day about the comeback of pantyhose. Pantyhose!” she repeats, pounding the table for emphasis. She’s a lawyer making her case; the fry is her laser pointer. “You followed a bunch of Rock Hudson fan pages on Instagram, and you’re singing oldies in the shower. And now you’re embracing celibacy?!”

I wave off her concerns. “All of that stuff is for research and you know it.”

“Oh really? Have you even noticed what you’re wearing today?”

I glance down—a gingham midi skirt, matching boatneck tee, and ballet flats. An adorable ensemble, if I do say so myself.

“I’ve never seen you wear that color before. I’ve never seen you wear a pattern before! You look like Doris Day’s body double. And you wore this to work, so you can’t blame it on a date with Jack.”

Who is she, the fashion police?! “First of all, comparing me to Doris Day is not the insult you think it is.” I want to clarify that this particular outfit was actually inspired by Brigitte Bardot in Come Dance with Me, but I refrain. Not the time. “And I don’t know what you’re getting at with this, but since you’re clearly desperate for me to admit to something, then fine—I love my new wardrobe. There, I said it! These clothes are classy and feminine and wearing them is an instant mood booster. Happy now?” I grab my martini and start guzzling it like water.

She presses her lips together in amusement, covering my hand with hers. “I’m not giving you a hard time for the sake of giving you a hard time, okay? I’m just looking out for you. Are you doing this to fit some mold for him? Because you think that’s what he likes? I just want to make sure Jack’s getting to know the real you.”

“Oh. Of course he is,” I assure her, softening a touch at her concern. “Sure, I’ve said some silly things in service to this story, but I’ve been truthful about all the stuff that matters. My family, my job, my frustrations . . . I even unloaded on him about wanting to get married. I don’t think it gets more brutally honest than that.” A fresh wave of humiliation washes over me at the memory. I wouldn’t mind getting that one back. “This?” I motion to my clothes. “Is just window dressing. I’m still me. If anything, I think I’m just finally starting to understand what my grandmother’s been talking about all this time.”