“And speakers in the ceiling, huh? I totally have that at my apartment too.” I mouth “Fancy” at him while he laughs. “Now stop distracting me or we’re never gonna eat.”
I locate the requisite cooking utensils with Jack’s help, then lay the recipe printout on the island and survey the ingredients again, making sure everything’s present and accounted for. Okay fine, I’m stalling. Why couldn’t this recipe have been for something simpler, like “Engagement Pasta” or something?
It’s like he can hear my thoughts. “Do you make this often?” he asks, leaning his forearms on the island.
“Oh sure, all the time. It’s one of those recipes that seems difficult, but is actually really easy,” I bluff, as if the single Ina Garten YouTube video I watched last night makes me some kind of expert. Even with her bound and gagged, I can feel Betty’s silent judgment for this dereliction of my feminine duties.
Come on, you can do this. You’ve seen Julie & Julia countless times. “If you can read, you can cook,” right?
If you say so, Julia.
I follow the recipe exactly. I start by preheating the oven, then wash the chicken in cold water, taking out the gizzards （gross） from its cavity （grosser）， then stuffing it with lemons （grossest）。 I season the whole thing with salt and pepper, then baste it with more lemon juice. I even truss it, tying the legs up with string, before adding the sliced-up veggies to the roasting pan. By the time I’m done, I’m strutting around Jack’s kitchen like a MasterChef contestant. Gordon Ramsay’s got nothing on me.
While I’m meal-prepping, Jack’s serving as my personal peanut gallery, providing running commentary and peppering me with questions about my childhood, college experience, and early years in the city. It doesn’t escape my notice that yet again, he’s learning more about me than I am about him, but this time I have a plan to turn the tables.
I pop the chicken in the oven and set an alarm on my phone （I’m not even going to try to locate the timer on this futuristic contraption）， then say a prayer to the cooking gods that everything turns out okay. Rachael, Giada, and Martha, don’t fail me now. I even throw one up to Snoop for good measure.
“It has to cook for ninety minutes,” I inform him, untying the apron and setting it on the island. “So we have some time to kill.”
Jack’s face immediately turns mischievous. “Hmm. Whatever shall we do to pass the time?” He rises from his perch on the barstool and saunters over, leaning a hip against the marble countertop, his body angled toward mine meaningfully. He’s invading my personal space now, and if he thinks that’s going to unnerve me . . . then he is absolutely right. Damnit.
I place a hand on his chest. Time to flip the script. “Oh, I know exactly what I want to do.”
Chapter 12
His brows shoot up and his face goes slack. I’ve surprised him.
“You do?” His gaze briefly flicks south, snagging on my mouth. “And what’s that?”
I pause, drawing out the suspense. “I want to kill you at F?R?I?E?N?D?S Trivial Pursuit.”
There’s a beat of silence before a shocked laugh bursts from his chest. “Is that right? Well, I have to warn you—I’m not the type who’ll let you win just because you’re a girl.”
Aww, his overconfidence is cute. Misguided, but cute. “And I’m not the type who’ll let a guy win just to boost his ego.”
His eyes glimmer with amusement. “The wager?”
I think for a minute before a light bulb blinks on. “If I win, Brawler has to print something complimentary about Siren.”
He lets out a low whistle, nodding approvingly as if to say, Well played. “Ruthless. And if I win . . .”
“You won’t.”
The corner of his mouth hooks up. “When I win,” he amends, and when he reaches out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear, it takes all my willpower not to shiver. “You let me kiss you.”
This time I’m the one letting out a strangled laugh. “Jack, come on.”
“What? That kiss is happening and you know it. Third date, remember?” he says and wags his brows, like I need to be reminded of this looming disaster.
I narrow my eyes. “Sounds like a waste of a wager, then.”
“Call it insurance.”
Our gazes lock and he lifts his chin, a determined glint in his eye. He’s daring me to back down, even as his lips curve into the confident smirk of a man who knows he’s irresistible. And I’m sure history’s on his side, because what woman could ever resist those eyes, that face, these lips?
I break eye contact first, sighing dramatically. “Fine. This whole thing is moot anyway, because when it comes to Friends trivia, I can’t be beat.”
“And by that, I assume you mean it’s a ‘moo point.’ Also known as a cow’s opinion.”
Shit, I may have underestimated him. “I see what you did there, but I’m still not afraid of you.” I follow him back into the living room while he pulls the game box from the cabinet.
“？‘There’s such a thing as too cocky,’？” he tosses over his shoulder, using my own words against me.
“So you watched a lot of Friends growing up?” I ask him, kicking off my kitten heels and getting comfortable on his couch—and holy moly, is this thing comfortable. It’s not cold or stiff like the leather couches I’m used to, but soft and supple and beautifully broken in. I sink into it like a cloud and suppress the urge to yawn. Whoever said money can’t buy happiness never met this couch.
“Actually, no. I probably caught an episode or two growing up, but I really hadn’t seen it much until college, when Tom got me into it. I guess his sisters were obsessed with it, so he always had it on, said it reminded him of home. Did you know he has three sisters?” He takes a seat next to me on the couch and starts pulling out the game pieces.
“He does?” I exclaim much too loudly, and Jack casts me a funny look. “I mean, no.”
How can a guy with three sisters be so crude and sexist? Make it make sense!
“Huh,” I comment blandly. I don’t get it. When it comes to Tom, I have more questions than answers.
Once we’ve picked our game pieces （Chandler’s vest for me, Monica’s turkey head for him） and gotten our cheese wedges ready, Jack hands me the dice.
“Ladies first,” he offers generously.
I roll the special dice and it lands on blue, which apparently corresponds to Seasons 7–8, and I shake out my neck. I’ve got this.
Jack draws a card. “In the episode where Rachel is pregnant and feeling ‘erotically charged,’ she goes to a doctor’s appointment and flirts with her OB-GYN. What is the doctor’s name?”
I blanch. “Are you serious? How is anyone supposed to know that? He was a minor side character! Does he even have a name?”
He smiles condescendingly. “Do you need to forfeit?”
Grr. “No. Um, let’s see, he had brown hair. I can picture him, that cute guy. It’s the Evander Holyfield episode.” Jack pointedly checks his watch. “Uh, Dr. . . .” I hem and haw, hoping for a lightning strike, but I’m coming up empty.