I don’t know what to do. I’m bewitched, bothered, and bewildered by him, and the laugh is definitely on me.
“Are we at all worried that this is taking things too far?” I ask in a low voice, mindful of our coworkers within earshot. “Invading his home sort of feels like crossing a line.”
Without a word Nat reaches over my shoulder, tilts my monitor in her direction, and starts typing, her fingers flying over the keyboard. When she angles the screen back toward me, I see she’s pulled up the Brawler home page.
She points at a headline midway down the page and starts reading aloud. “？‘Rate my rack! Who’d you rather motorboat? Cast your vote!’ Shall we click through the gallery?”
I wince and cover my eyes.
“Or how about this lovely blog post: ‘How to hook up with your friend’s sister without losing a limb.’ And let’s not forget the Meme of the Day: ‘She’s a 10 but she expects me to watch women’s sports.’？”
I wave my hands in front of the screen as if to block it out.
Her smile is gloating. “Still feeling guilty?”
I sigh in resignation and pick up the magazine again. “Engagement Chicken, huh?” I rock back in my chair, scanning the article. “This is so ridiculous.” So ridiculous, in fact, it just might work.
“Ridiculously genius, you mean. Emily Blunt even used this on John Krasinski! And we both know Emily Blunt can do no wrong.”
Well, that much is certainly true.
Nat leans a hip against my desk. “Come on, what guy doesn’t love a home-cooked meal? Just ply Jack with some food and booze and he’ll be singing like a canary.”
I bite my lip. “You really think so?”
She nods definitively. “Be a good little Suzy Homemaker and roast your man a chicken.”
I snort and toss the magazine back on the desk. “I think we’re overlooking one minor detail here: I can’t cook.”
“What are you talking about? You make great break-and-bake cookies.”
I narrow her a look.
“Fine, I actually had the same thought, but this recipe literally has five steps. It’s so easy, not even you can screw it up.”
“Gee, thanks.” My calendar dings and a reminder pops up on my screen. “Oh my gosh, I forgot to tell you! I’m interviewing this woman from Nebraska I found on YouTube who—get this—lives her entire life like she’s in the 1950s. We’re talking everything from retro hair and makeup to a full vintage wardrobe. She only uses recipes from vintage cookbooks. Every bit of her home is authentic to the era, down to the appliances. Her husband even drives a classic muscle car.”
Nat’s eyebrows have shot up to her hairline. “This whole trad wife trend has gotten totally out of hand.”
“She said she believes the fifties were an ‘idyllic time in history,’？” I explain as I pull up my interview questions. “And apparently, she’s not the only one out there doing this. I found a whole bunch of TikTok accounts devoted to ‘vintagecore.’？” I don’t mention that I lost several （very entertaining） hours of my life to #VintageTok under the guise of said research. The song “Mr. Sandman” has been stuck in my head all day as a result.
“They’re so committed to authenticity that they’re on social media, huh?” Nat says with an eye roll, and I shrug. “I suppose life might feel idyllic if the most stressful part of your day was choosing what to cook for dinner,” she muses as she slides off my desk. “Never mind the fact that you couldn’t open a bank account or get a credit card without your husband’s permission.”
“Or work outside the home as anything other than a secretary,” I add.
“Maybe you two can exchange fashion tips,” she ribs me.
“You know, that’s not a bad idea. I’d love to know how she manages to walk in a pencil skirt,” I mutter, making a mental note.
She gives me a dead-eyed stare. “I was joking.”
I avoid eye contact as I unplug my laptop and set off for an empty conference room. “Uh, yeah. Me too.”
* * *
AS PREDICTED, JACK immediately accepted my offer to cook him Engagement Chicken （which I innocuously framed as “dinner”）， and if he thought this was a peculiar activity for a third date, he didn’t let on. Honestly, he sounded so relieved that I finally called him back that he probably would’ve said yes to BASE jumping. He even had me send over the list of ingredients so his assistant could stock his kitchen in preparation. I wanted to ask if his assistant could recommend a dry cleaner that specializes in vintage clothing, but figured that might raise a red flag.
Jack lives in a brand-new, luxury high-rise condo building overlooking Central Park, which, I’ll admit, is a wee bit intimidating. Most of my colleagues are like me: barely scraping by, living paycheck to paycheck while eking out a living doing the noble but financially unrewarding job of journalism. Although I’ve dated men with income levels all over the spectrum （and grew up comfortably middle-class myself）， Jack’s wealth is in a different echelon altogether. And I don’t know, there’s just something about the “old family money” crowd that’s always made me uncomfortable, with their Nantucket summer homes and needlepoint belts and upper-crusty, seemingly impenetrable Ivy League caste system. It all seems designed to make you feel less than, like even if I became super-successful in my own right, I’d never really be accepted into their exclusive club.
But I force myself to set those feelings aside as I enter his building, politely greeting the uniformed doorman holding open the wide double doors. The lobby is just as grand as the posh exterior: soaring ceilings, a tastefully appointed sitting area with high-backed chairs and plushly upholstered couches flanking a sleek double-sided fireplace, an imposing gold-and-crystal chandelier that casts a perfectly flattering shade of light on the room. My heels click across the marble floors as I make my way toward the older gentleman manning the concierge desk. He’s got thick eyebrows and hair that’s more salt than pepper, and I watch his eyes brighten as I approach.
He smiles warmly at me, a gold nameplate reading CLIFF winking at me from his chest. “Miss Sutton?”
Now that’s what I call service. “Now how could you possibly know my name, Cliff?”
He laughs at my dumb joke, and I fall in love with him instantly. “Mr. Bradford let me know a beautiful woman would be arriving, though I’m afraid he didn’t do you justice.” He comes out from behind the desk and offers me an arm. “Right this way.”
He leads me to an elevator bank, and once he keys in a special code for Jack’s apartment—he’s got the entire floor, gulp—and I’m zooming upward, I attempt to shake off my nerves by recapping my goals for the night:
Get him talking and see what he’ll let slip.
Don’t fall under his spell no matter how good he smells or how twinkly his eyes.
Less Betty, more Cassidy. He seems to open up more when I’m myself.
The pressure’s on because this is it—my last-ditch attempt to find something incriminating. If I can’t get anywhere tonight, I’m out of ideas and out of time. I need to pin him down and peel away his layers—and prevent him from Houdini-ing his way out of sharing anything personal.