“Just for that, you’re not going home with a gift bag.” He turns to me and flashes his signature megawatt smile. “Hi, I’m Eric,” he says, holding out his hand.
“Cassidy,” I say, smothering a laugh. Like I don’t know who you are. “Would you mind if I asked you a couple of questions?”
“That’s what I’m here for, so shoot.”
“Fantastic. First of all, congratulations on the cologne launch,” I tell him, getting that out of the way. “It smells”—awful—“great. Very . . . potent.”
“Some might even call it . . . forceful,” he says, straight-faced.
“Right.” I huff a laugh and make a mental note: Eric Jessup makes puns! “I was actually hoping to learn a little more about your recent engagement.”
He grimaces. “Ah, sorry, we’re not—”
“I know you’re keeping things private, and I totally respect that,” I barrel ahead, talking faster before one of the publicists circling us like sharks catches wind of my line of questioning and whisks him away. “It’s just that our readers are dying to know more about Olivia and how you two reconnected.”
I watch his face go carefully neutral. “Sure. Well, I’m very happy and looking forward to settling down.”
I nod like he’s said something groundbreaking while suppressing an eye roll. That kind of rehearsed, generic quote isn’t exactly the headline catnip I’m after—and it won’t win me any bonus cash, either. I rack my brain for another way to draw him out.
Jack breaks in before I can. “Oh come on, you can give her more than that.”
I lock eyes with Jack and beam him a silent message: Alright, you’ve earned that date. He shoots me another wink.
Eric groans. “Look, I’d love to help you out, but Liv’s really adamant about privacy.” I file that little detail away, the casually intimate way he uses her nickname.
“How about this—if I give you my card, would you pass it along to her? I’m sure you’ve experienced this yourself, but sometimes saying nothing just encourages more speculation. It can be better to just tell your own story rather than let others tell it for you.”
“I have tried explaining that to her,” Eric admits. “I don’t see her changing her mind, but I’ll take your card.”
“I appreciate it. In the meantime,” I press, pushing my luck, “is there anything you feel comfortable sharing? Like what are you most looking forward to about married life? Will you stay in New York or move back to Louisiana? Is there anything you wish the public could know about Olivia?”
When he eyes me warily, I add, “Trust me, no woman would be upset to hear her fiancé publicly gushing about her.”
Eric looks at Jack. “She’s good.”
Jack splays his hands like, What can you do?
He sighs. “Alright, here’s what I’ll say: I’ve been in love with Olivia basically my whole life. She’s the most beautiful woman you’ll ever meet, inside and out. I would’ve married her a long time ago, but life got in the way a bit. I feel very fortunate that we were able to find our way back to each other.”
You mean you decided you were ready for kids and needed a broodmare, I think to myself, but I’m not about to quibble. It’s a quote I can use, and Siren readers will eat it up.
“Would you say she was the one that got away?” Jack says seriously, and I nearly snort.
“Well, she didn’t get away, now did she?” Eric replies with a smug If you know what I mean expression, and I watch them laugh and swap those cocky guy head-nods. Ugh. Another minute and I’ll be witnessing a dick-measuring contest.
“Thanks, man. I know you’re busy here, we appreciate it,” Jack says and claps him on the shoulder.
“Sure thing. Though if Liv gets pissed at me, I’m blaming you,” he says with a laugh, then turns to me, jerking a thumb in Jack’s direction. “How long you been working for this guy?”
“Oh, we don’t work together,” I quickly correct him.
He looks surprised. “No? Sorry, I just assumed.”
“I’m with Siren,” I tell him, handing over my card, and Jack goes very still beside me.
“Ah, now things are making more sense. Couldn’t figure out why Brawler would care about my wedding. Thought you were goin’ soft on me!” He punches Jack in the arm.
My jaw drops just as one of the hovering publi-sharks gets tired of treading water and appears at Eric’s elbow, apologizing to us before murmuring in his ear.
“Duty calls,” he tells us regretfully. “It was great to see you, man. And say hi to Tom for me. We should all go out for a drink, it’s been too long.”
“Absolutely. Name the time and we’re there.”
“Nice to meet you, Cassidy,” he calls over his shoulder as he’s led away, and he’s swallowed up by the crowd before I can answer—which is probably a good thing, since I’m currently stunned silent.
As soon as he’s out of sight, I spin around to face Jack accusingly, my face a flaming ball of fire. In fact, my entire body blazes with indignation.
“You’re with Brawler?” I spit out the words like they’ve scalded my tongue.
He takes his time answering. “Well, actually . . .” he says slowly, “I own Brawler.”
My temperature spikes; mercury showers everywhere. “You what?” I cry, barely recognizing the shrill sound of my own voice. “You’re telling me you’re Jack Bradford? Founder of Brawler?”
“Cofounder, but yes.” He looks annoyed. “Is there a problem?”
My mouth opens but no sound comes out; my brain still hasn’t quite caught up to the fact that the human embodiment of that god-awful hellsite is standing before me with a name and a face (a nauseatingly attractive one, at that). I’m simultaneously speechless and shaking with the need to hurl an insult at him that’s both cutting and clever. I’m Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail, holding Tom Hanks at knifepoint after he’s just compared books to vats of olive oil.
Before I can formulate a response, Nat pops up at my side, cheeks flushed and gripping a blue-tinted cocktail. “I cannot believe you just got a private audience with Eric Jessup! I tried to get over here but security kept holding us back.” She sticks her free hand out to Jack. “Hi, I’m Natalia.”
“Ja—” he starts to respond before I cut him off.
“This is Jack Bradford, founder of Brawler.”
Her eyes go silver dollar–wide. “Whaaat? Seriously?”
“Wish I was kidding.”
Jack’s starting to look pissed now. Good. We’ll match. “I’ll repeat—is there a problem?”
“Yeah, Brawler’s my problem. And by extension, you are now my problem.” Natalia hoots and takes a noisy slurp of her cocktail.
I am righteously indignant. I’m standing up for wronged women everywhere. He has no idea what’s about to hit him. I might even break out my Z-snap.
He stares at me impassively, a parent humoring a tantruming child. “So this is about the history between us and Siren? How is my friend Cynthia, anyway?”