“A girl after my own heart.” He nods at Jack. “Think you might be punching above your weight with this one, bud.”
I’m feeling pretty smug about how quickly I’ve won Tom over. Didn’t even break a sweat. He also just handed Betty a prime opening: Compliment your man in front of his friends.
“I think it might be the other way around,” I coo sweetly, placing a possessive hand on Jack’s arm and giving it a squeeze. When I glance up at him adoringly, I’m rewarded by his look of surprised pleasure, twin spots of color blooming on his cheekbones. Honestly, the aw-shucks routine from a guy this attractive is both absurd and adorable. Is it possible that this cheesy, blatant flattery actually works?
“Well, he’s . . .” I trail off as Jack guides us to our seats, trying to come up with an appropriate adjective to describe that encounter.
“Insane?”
“I was going to say a lot, but your way works too.”
“Tom is . . . an acquired taste.” Yeah, acquired like a bad rash. “Trust me, there’s nothing you could say about him that I haven’t heard before.”
He seems eager to change the subject, so I go with it, peppering him with questions about the match currently underway, the players’ records, what the morning session was like. I play dumb about the rules of the game whenever possible （Why do they call zero “love”？ Is “deuce” a tie?）， which actually stings quite a bit, considering the couple of years I spent on my high school tennis team. Allow him to shine and feel smart! Le sigh.
I’m also melting. September heat in New York is oppressive, and within a few minutes I’m seriously regretting thumbing my nose at that parasol. I can’t even imagine how Jack is surviving in his blazer. I go to dig my sunglasses out of my purse and catch a glimpse of my phone, noticing I’ve gotten a few texts from my sister. I scroll through them quickly, laughing at a couple of pictures she’s sent of my nieces at some kid’s birthday party, cake smashed all over their faces. Ugh, I’d kill for some of that cake. I wish I could teleport it through the phone, Wonka-style.
Jack leans over to peek at my screen, the fabric of his blazer brushing my bare shoulder. “Friends of yours?”
“My nieces,” I tell him, angling the phone toward him so he can see better. “My sister’s kids, Ella and Adeline.”
He smiles at the screen. “Well, they’re adorable.”
“An adorable handful,” I say wryly. “Honestly, they’re a couple of holy terrors. But I love ’em to pieces.” I give the pics a couple of heart tapbacks and slide the phone back into my purse.
“So you’re the cool aunt, then?”
“Oh, absolutely. And I take my role very seriously. Not to brag, but I’m their favorite babysitter,” I boast with exaggerated importance. “And just to annoy my sister, I buy them the most obnoxious toys I can find, like a microphone that only plays songs from Frozen and dolls that won’t stop crying.”
“So you have an evil streak.”
“I think of it more as payback for a lifetime of big-sister torture.”
He grins and cracks open his water bottle, draining half of it in a single impressive gulp. How do guys do that? “So you two are close?”
“We are. She lives in Connecticut, so I’m able to see her regularly. On the flip side, it’s nearly impossible to have a phone conversation without being interrupted by the girls forty-seven times, so ninety percent of our interactions these days are via text.” I shrug, accepting the stage of life we’re in. “What about you, do you have any siblings?” I feel a pang of guilt asking him a question I already know the answer to, but I suppose that minor fib is the least of my transgressions right now.
“Just one. My older brother John.”
“Two boys,” I observe, sipping my wine.
“Yep. We even get along sometimes, too.”
“Ouch.” I grimace good-naturedly. “That doesn’t sound too good.”
He shrugs, though there’s a resigned air to it. “It’s mostly competitive brother stuff, but I think some people are just destined to butt heads. We worked together for a time, too, and that didn’t help.” He squeezes the water bottle, the plastic protesting his grip with a loud cracking noise. “There’s just a lot of water under that bridge.”
“Well, high tide eventually becomes low tide,” I say reflexively.
He tilts his head, brow furrowed in question.
“Sorry, it’s just something my grandma always says about the ebb and flow of relationships. Basically, all relationships have seasons, and sometimes people just need a little time and space. If you’re patient, they usually come back around.”
“Your grandma, huh?” he teases, not unkindly.
“I know, right? I’m really a ninety-year-old stuck in a twenty-eight-year-old’s body.” If he only knew. I let out a high-pitched giggle that resembles a horse’s whinny. Nope, I don’t sound suspicious at all.
He doesn’t seem to notice. “Well, your grandmother sounds smart. What advice do you think she’d have if the rough patch had lasted, say, thirty-two years?”
“Hmm.” I pretend to think about it. “She’d probably say . . . you need a therapist.”
He coughs a laugh. “Touché.”
He stands and shrugs off his blazer, draping it over the back of his chair before setting to work unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling the sleeves to his elbows. I keep my eyes trained forward, as though thoroughly engrossed by the rousing display of athletic prowess before me, but I hardly think I can be expected to ignore the forearm foreplay unfolding mere inches from me. Show me a woman who isn’t turned on by that bare expanse of skin and I’ll show you a liar.
“So are you happy at Siren?” Jack asks, interrupting my forearm fantasy.
“I am,” I tell him, sitting up a little straighter. “I get to write what I want for the most part, and my pieces typically get a strong response. Each day and story are different, so I don’t get bored. I’ve moved up to the point where I’m managing quite a few contract writers, and Cynthia’s really great about seeking our input on the growth and direction of the site.”
He nods, listening intently—and then I realize what I’m doing and give myself a mental kick to the shin. This isn’t a real date. Stop giving him real answers.
I need to quit fixating on his foxy forearms and JFK Jr.–like charisma and remember why I’m here. What would Betty do? Never let him believe your career is more important to you than marriage.
I lean in and drop my voice. “But actually, my real dream is to be a stay-at-home mom.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”
“I mean, not tomorrow, of course, but eventually. Once I meet the right person.” I cast my eyes briefly away, faux coy, before sliding them back, doe-eyed once again. “Don’t get me wrong, I like working. But don’t you think raising a family is the most important work a woman can do?”
I’ve teed it up perfectly; all he has to do is agree. I’m giving him permission to say aloud what a man like him surely believes: that a woman’s place is in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant. Let’s hear those misogynistic thoughts in all their unvarnished glory.