I swallow this setback as I step closer to the window to take in the incredible multimillion-dollar view of Central Park, which looks like a lush carpet of green treetops from this height. “Wow,” I murmur. So this is how the other half lives.
I can feel him come up behind me, my skin prickling with awareness. “Right? It’s the reason I chose the place. Hard to feel sorry for yourself with this view.”
I swivel my head one hundred and eighty degrees just so I can give him some side-eye. “And what possible reason might you have to feel sorry for yourself?”
He raises and lowers a shoulder. “You’d be surprised.”
I tuck that vague answer into my back pocket for the time being, then continue to turn in a slow circle like I’m surveying the room . . . but what I’m actually doing is casing the joint, mwa-ha-ha. I have no idea what I’m expecting to find—a file folder left unattended on his coffee table conveniently labeled Brawler Top-Secret Blackmail Material?—but it’s intimidatingly clean in here. Spotless, actually, like he’s stashed a live-in housekeeper under that ginormous couch of his. Argh. What’s the point of infiltrating enemy territory if I’m forced to retreat empty-handed?
My brain sparks with an idea, and I saunter over to the sideboard, skimming my fingertips over his coffee table books. “So are you always this neat? Or did you stuff all your skeletons in the closet before I came over?”
He gives me an Aw, shucks expression. “I’m afraid you’ve uncovered my dark secret: I’m actually quite boring. I don’t have anything to hide.” Ha! I’ll be the judge of that, mister.
I cast him an impish look and reach for one of the cabinet knobs menacingly. “So if I opened up this cabinet right here, I wouldn’t find anything incriminating? No Spice Girls or Barry Manilow CDs? No notebooks full of angsty teenage poetry? No collection of Beanie Babies or blow-up dolls? No creepy taxidermy?”
“Nah, I keep that stuff at the office.”
I snort a laugh.
“But now I’m kinda wishing I had something in there that would shock you.” His eyes dance with amusement as he nods his head. “But let’s live dangerously—go ahead and see what’s behind door number one.”
I keep my eyes trained on him, slow-playing it for dramatic effect, before throwing the door open with a flourish. “Board games?” I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle my laughter.
It’s a lot of board games, too. Neat stacks of everything from Sorry! to Scattergories to Boggle to Operation fill the cabinet to bursting. I feel like I’ve stepped back in time to the childhood playroom in my parents’ house. I crouch down to get a closer look and laugh when I see there’s even a Trivial Pursuit: F?R?I?E?N?D?S edition.
“Oh, my . . .” I pull out Rummikub as a steady stream of memories washes over me. “This one takes me back. We used to play this for hours at my grandparents’ house when they’d babysit us.” I replace it on the top of the stack and shudder at Perfection, a game that always terrified me. It’s a panic attack in a box. “Why do you have all these? Do you host a lot of game nights?”
“Not exactly.” He presses his lips together like he’s trying to decide how much to divulge. “I’m a bit of a board game enthusiast.” He says it seriously, like it’s an academic pursuit akin to pursuing a PhD.
“A board game enthusiast? Oh, wow. Geez, okay. I only just realized.”
“Realized what?”
“That you’re a huge nerd.”
He barks a laugh and palms the nape of his neck self-consciously, and I can’t help but notice how the pose makes his bicep bulge. He’s a male pinup poster come to life, like the kind my girlfriends and I would have clipped from the side of an Abercrombie shopping bag and tacked up in our dorm room. Silhouetted against the window with the city at his back, it’s the second view I’m salivating over tonight.
“You are. You’re a giant nerd and this whole ‘big shot’ persona of yours is just a cover for your severe nerdiness.”
He’s laughing. “Not doing so hot tonight, am I? So far we’ve established that I’m boring and a nerd. And to think, this whole thing”—he motions to his cabinet of wonders—“was supposed to impress you.”
I mimic his serious nod. “I am impressed. By how you’ve managed to fool everyone into thinking you’re cool.”
His eyes narrow playfully. “Keep it up and I’ll be forced to tickle you again.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
He raises his eyebrows in challenge as tension and anticipation and unspoken thoughts neither of us is willing to voice dance in the air between us.
Eventually, he clears his throat. “Shall I show you to your domain?”
“My domain?”
He quirks an eyebrow. “The kitchen?”
I’m instantly offended, steam shooting out of my ears cartoonishly before I remember—Duh, Cass, you’re supposed to be making him dinner.
My swell of righteous indignation deflates like a leaky balloon. “Oh, right. Sure, of course.”
I follow him back down the hallway, through a door—and into a kitchen that would make Nancy Meyers weep. When Jack flicks on the overhead recessed lights, bathing the room in a soft glow, I nearly swoon. Dark soapstone countertops extend along the room’s perimeter and climb up the wall in a dramatic coordinating backsplash. A marble island stretches as long as a football field; I could turn cartwheels across it. The live-edge wooden barstools look like they were carved from a five-hundred-year-old tree trunk. Every appliance is stainless steel or shiny chrome and unnervingly high-tech. The overall effect is modern, striking, and sophisticated . . . and totally intimidating. Like a museum—and not the cool, hands-on kind my nieces are obsessed with. The look but don’t touch kind.
You can cozy it up, Betty urges. Make his house a home! I banish her to a locked room in my brain. You’re not welcome here.
“Wow, Jack,” I say, running my palm along the cool soapstone. “This is . . . incredible.”
Somehow, he hears what I’m not saying. “But?”
“But nothing!” I quickly chirp. Don’t insult him! Betty squawks. “It makes my place look like a hovel. My entire apartment could fit in your kitchen. With room to spare.” I fiddle with the handle of an expensive-looking brass pepper mill and think of my own tiny, cluttered apartment, with its hodgepodge of mismatched IKEA furniture cobbled together over the years courtesy of my revolving door of roommates. They move on up to deluxe, dual-income apartments with fresh-off-the-registry furnishings while I shelter in place, the “lucky” recipient of their unwanted castoffs. Jack can never see my apartment.
And he never will, because this is your final date, remember?
He leans back against the island, crossing his feet at the ankles. “But?” he prompts again, a half smile playing on his mouth.
I hesitate, debating. Remember, more Cassidy. “I guess it’s just not what I expected? Not that I necessarily expected anything. It’s just . . . I don’t know. Fancy.” I press a button on his Jetsons-esque coffeemaker, and when it makes a chorus of angry-sounding beeps, I shrink back. “You just seem like a simpler guy.”