He throws his head back and laughs, the rich sound washing over me, fermenting in my bloodstream. There’s something intoxicating about this guy that I can’t quite put my finger on. I want to like him, despite my gut sending up warning flares.
“Guess I’ll have to work on changing your mind,” he says, smiling like he’s harboring a secret. “So what brings you here tonight, Cassidy?” He takes a swig of his drink, though his eyes don’t stray from my face.
“Isn’t it obvious? The free men’s cologne.”
He laughs again and I award myself another flirt-point.
“I’m covering this event for work. Though our readers are a little more interested in Eric’s love life than how he smells,” I confess.
“Ah, of course.”
“So what do you think, is their relationship real or for the cameras?”
He raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Why would Eric Jessup need to fake a relationship for the cameras?”
“Oh, I don’t know, because he could use an image overhaul? Maybe he’s not getting the family-friendly endorsement deals he was hoping for.”
He snorts. “He made twenty million a year for more than a decade. Pretty sure his bank account is just fine.”
“Then why’s he shilling cologne?” I counter.
He shrugs. “They’re paying him millions to slap his name on something and make a couple of appearances. I’d take the money and run, too.”
“So you believe he’s been carrying a torch for his high school girlfriend for the last fifteen years? Sorry, I’m just not buying it.”
“What’s so hard to believe about that? Maybe he never got over her. Maybe she’s the one that got away.” His eyes glimmer in the dim light and I know he’s enjoying our sparring.
“Oh yeah, I’m sure he was crying himself to sleep every night while his supermodel of the week slept beside him.”
He shakes his head sadly. “So cynical. And here I thought women were the ones who wanted to believe in the fairy tale.”
“Remind me again, which fairy tale was it where the hero went off to sow his wild oats while his jilted ex-girlfriend pined away for him at home?”
“You know, we should ask Eric. And I think we’re about to get our chance.” He nods toward the door.
A current of energy ripples across the restaurant as the previously low din of voices builds to a fever pitch, and before I can blink, the crowd surges toward the front door like a tidal wave, nearly flattening Jack and me in the process. Eric Jessup has arrived, and I’m not ready.
I curse under my breath and try to join the throng, but before I can, a heavyset guy in a backpack elbows past me, clipping me on the shoulder and sending me hurtling to the side. Before I’ve even registered what’s happened, Jack’s grabbed a fistful of his backpack and shoved him away.
“Excuse you,” he barks in a menacing Clint Eastwood–esque growl. I half-expect to hear him snarl, Get off my lawn. Backpack guy mumbles an apology, avoiding my eyes as he skitters away.
“Damn,” I mutter once I’ve regained my balance for the second time tonight. I abandon my wine on a nearby table and attempt to muscle my way into the mob, but I’m hopelessly boxed out, the wall of men now blocking my view even more intimidating than the one standing next to me.
“Can you see if he’s arrived with anyone?” I ask Jack, hopping up on my tiptoes and craning my neck, but it’s futile; I can’t see a thing. I pray that Nat—wherever she is—has a better view.
“Nope,” Jack says, looking amused.
“You didn’t even look!”
He chuckles as he sets his empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter and thanks him.
“Come on, you said you wanted me to change my mind about you? Here’s your big chance. Just throw a couple ’bows and get us to the front of that pack.”
His grin grows wider. He’s enjoying this. “How about we raise the stakes a little?”
I arch a brow while simultaneously keeping my other eye trained on the crowd. One of the guys in the back is manspreading; I might be able to army-crawl through his legs.
“I help you secure an exclusive quote from Eric Jessup, and you . . .”
He pauses for dramatic effect and I brace myself for some crude sexual favor he’d like me to perform. Wouldn’t be the first time.
“. . . let me take you to dinner,” he finishes.
I slow-blink at him. “You want to take me out? The woman you suspect of being a con artist?”
He waves a hand. “That was so ten minutes ago.”
I laugh out loud. “Gotta say, I didn’t see ‘blackmailing me into a date’ coming.”
“Not my usual approach, I’ll give you that, but life is all about opportunity and timing. You gotta shoot your shot when you see an opening.”
“My professional pain is your gain, huh?” Which brings me to my next question. “How do you even plan to get his attention? Are you going to create a diversion or something?”
“Maybe I’ll take a dive,” he says, wagging his brows. “Now come on, clock’s ticking. Who knows how long Jessup’s contractually obligated to stay?” He sticks his hand out, letting it hang in the air. “Do we have a deal?”
I eye him warily, sizing him up. I don’t know how he’s doing it, but it feels like this guy’s been one step ahead of me since the second I spotted him in that shadowy corner. It’s disconcerting that I can’t get a good read on him. In fact, I’m nearly certain he’s still messing with me, but what else can I do? It’s not like I have a better option.
“Fine.” I clasp his outstretched hand and his eyes flame like I’ve struck a match. “We have a deal.”
“We have a date.”
“Easy, tiger. I don’t have my quote yet.”
He grins rakishly and releases my hand. “I’ll be right back.”
I expect to see him shoulder his way into the fray, so I’m surprised when he heads in the opposite direction, toward the back of the restaurant where I saw the PR folks huddled earlier. I watch him exchange a few words with a woman dressed all in black, and when he points at me, I lift my hand in an awkward wave. She nods once, then starts speaking into an earpiece.
Jack strolls back looking so smug, he’s practically spitting canary feathers.
“Who was that? And what’d you tell her?”
He shrugs innocently, but before I can follow up, the crowd parts and a different woman in all black emerges—this time, with Eric Jessup in tow.
How the hell did he pull that off? I start fumbling for my phone, but Jack brushes my elbow to stop me.
“He’ll be chattier if you’re not recording him,” he murmurs in my ear, then puts his hand up to wave. “Rick!”
“You know him?” I hiss. Great, and I sat here going on about what a womanizing sleazeball he is. Smooth move, Ace.
“We share a publicist.”
“You could’ve told me you know him!”
“Now where’s the fun in that?”
Eric’s upon us before I can answer. “Jackie boy!”
I watch them perform an intense bro-greeting ritual: hand-gripping pulled into a tight hug with a dash of aggressive backslapping. My shoulder spasms just watching them.
“Thanks for coming, man,” Eric says.
“Wouldn’t miss it. You know I’ve always dreamed of smelling like a jockstrap.”