It’s like he can read my mind. “This is sweet,” he says, toying with the bow at my neck. “Like a present.” He casts me a naughty look, then starts tugging on one of the ends.
I smack his hand away like a nun with a ruler. “Undressing me is definitely not second-date material,” I scold in the primmest, churchlady-est tone I can muster, and he throws his head back and laughs at the sky.
I can’t deny it: I’m enjoying myself. Everything about this “date”—this whole night, really—has been a pleasure. In a shocking twist I never saw coming, Jack is proving to be—dare I say it?—a gentleman. Sure, I may have started with rock-bottom expectations, but if I’d randomly matched with him on some dating app I’d be rating it five stars, writing a glowing review, and forcing all my friends to join.
Looking at him now with fresh eyes—his face crinkled in laughter, his mood contagious, the summer air causing his hair to curl up and wing out a bit at the ears—I can’t help but wonder if my sister is right, if I like him more than I’m willing to admit to myself, if I’m missing what’s right in front of me. If I’m making a huge mistake.
I can practically hear Gran’s prodding voice in my ear: Give him a chance. What do you have to lose?
Everything, I lament silently. My job. My credibility. My pride. The idea that my judgment could be so off—that I could have gotten him this wrong—is terrifying, and my blood runs ice-cold despite the late-summer heat.
The song winds down, and as the crowd—some of whom have joined us in our spur-of-the-moment dance-off—begins to applaud, Jack bends me back in an exaggerated dip. I’m forced to tighten my grip on his biceps—whoa, someone’s been eating his Wheaties—and when he pulls me back up, we’re awash in a chorus of Awww’s. Everyone’s a romantic.
As the spectators disperse, Jack holds me in his arms for an extra beat, and here it is, the picture-perfect fairy-tale movie moment: our first kiss, bodies silhouetted against the iconic backdrop of a glittering New York City skyline. It couldn’t be more perfect if I’d scripted it myself.
Jack’s watching me intently, eyes aflame, and when his gaze drops to my mouth I know at just the slightest hint from me—if I leaned forward even a fraction of an inch—his lips would be on mine.
I absolutely cannot allow it to happen.
Panic sets in, and for once I’m sending out a Betty Bat-Signal, begging her to rear her retro head and offer me some of her heirloom pearls of wisdom—but of course, now that I actually need her, she’s nowhere to be found.
Why buy the cow
Modest is hottest
Pet your dog, not your date
Learn where to draw the line, but do it gracefully. That’ll have to work.
I move to step back, but his firm grasp—and this damn pencil skirt—won’t allow it, so I raise my eyes to his and give my head the slightest hint of a shake. His hands flex on my hips as he exhales a ragged breath, his eyes briefly closing, and I have to wonder when he’ll hit his breaking point, if there’s a limit to this man’s patience.
And if there’s a limit to my resistance, as well.
“When can I see you again?” His voice is a husky scrape, like loose gravel on an unpaved road. “Alone?”
I have no idea how to respond. I’m so sick of lying, but I can’t admit the truth: that I want to see him again.
“It’ll be our third official date, you know,” he adds before I can answer. There’s an unmistakable gleam in his eye, and unfortunately, I know exactly what he’s getting at.
“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?）