Cynthia considers me thoughtfully. “Or maybe you’ve just never had the right role.”
I’m pretty sure she’d say whatever I need to hear right now; visions of page views dance in her head.
“The point is, this could all blow up in our faces. And I’d never want to do anything to hurt Siren.” Or my own career, I add silently.
She hears what I’m not saying. “There’s an element of risk in all undercover work. You’d have to be comfortable . . . misrepresenting certain facts.”
I flop onto the couch next to Nat. “Misrepresenting is one thing; lying and publicly shaming someone is another. I was prepared to do some ridiculous things for this piece, but that was when they’d only embarrass me. I’ve never taken a story this far.” Guilt churns in my gut; I’m not used to trafficking in deception. “Do we think this is crossing an ethical line?”
“Did Brawler have an ethical line when they ranked ‘Sports’ hottest side pieces’?” Nat sputters, indignant. “Or how about when they body-shamed that cute sideline reporter who ended up being pregnant? Or when they congratulated that prick golfer who jilted his fiancé at the altar? Or what about that Locker Room Report where they described which Packers were packing the most heat?”
I cock my head at her.
“Fine, so I was a little interested in that one, but the others were highly offensive!” She waves a hand. “The point is, they’re certainly not operating under any sort of journalistic honor code. You need to start thinking like them.”
“She has a point,” Cynthia says. “Maybe it’s time we started fighting fire with fire. ‘When they go low, we go high’ is a nice idea in theory, but it sure hasn’t stopped them from coming after us. I think they’ve earned a little duplicity on our part.”
“They’ve more than earned it,” Nat confirms.
“Besides, it’s not like you’re trying to hack into his bank account. A little fake dating?” Cynthia waves a perfectly manicured hand. “It’s harmless.”
“Totally harmless,” Nat parrots. “Plus, Jack already knows you work at Siren. He’s entered Taylor Swift territory now.”
I look to Cynthia for help decoding that reference, but she seems just as mystified. “I’m sorry, in layman’s terms?”
Nat sighs in impatience. “Any guy who dates Taylor Swift knows she’ll eventually write a brutally vindictive yet insanely catchy pop hit that drags his name through the mud and trashes his reputation. Jack pursued you even after he knew you worked for the competition. You may as well have Date at your own risk tattooed on your forehead!”
“Gee, thanks.”
She smacks my arm. “You know what I mean. The point is, Jack knows what he’s getting into, and if he falls for it, he deserves whatever he gets.”
“She’s not wrong.” Cynthia pushes out her chair and stands, navigating around the desk to perch on the edge. “And before you start feeling guilty, remember that Jack’s in control of this whole thing. No one’s forcing him to react a certain way. If he behaves like a Neanderthal,” she says with a sniff, “he’ll only have himself to blame.”
I expected this, both of them egging me on; frankly, it’s why I came to them. As I lay in bed last night second-guessing myself, wondering if I was crazy to think I could pull this off, I knew dangling the opportunity in front of Cynthia would make it impossible to back out. Still, this is way outside my comfort zone, and no matter how noble the cause or how much Jack and Brawler deserve their comeuppance, I know this whole scheme is morally murky at best.
Cynthia’s watching me closely. “Listen, I would never pressure you to do this. It has to be your decision. But if it were me? I absolutely would do it. This could be a career-making opportunity for you, and you know as well as I do those don’t come around very often.”
In my periphery I see Nat suddenly straighten, like a ventriloquist dummy that’s been jerked upright. I shoot her a look: What? Her widened eyes bore into mine, but she just shakes her head slightly.
Cynthia’s waiting for an answer. She’s right, of course—by a stroke of luck and good timing, this once-in-a-lifetime story has basically been handed to me on a silver platter. Like her George and Amal piece, it could put me on the map. Is there even a choice here?
“Alright, I’m all in. Operation Rom Con is officially a go.”
“Yee-es!” Nat jumps up, pumping a fist in the air. “This is giving me life already. I’ll coach you up! I’ll be in the ring with you every step of the way. We’ll get in his head. We’ll go ten rounds if we have to!”
I can’t help laughing. “I don’t actually think a coach is allowed to be in the ring with a fighter. And isn’t it twelve rounds?”
“Okay, so I don’t know anything about boxing. But good news, you’re now dating someone who does!” She snaps her fingers at me. “Make a mental note: something to ask Jack about.”
Cynthia’s chuckling as she winds her way back around the desk. “We’ll keep this one off the books. You can update me directly, and we won’t mention it at the weekly meeting. We can’t risk any leaks on this.”
“I was going to suggest the same thing.”
“Great.” Her phone buzzes and she frowns down at it, then turns her attention back to me. “Dare I ask what you have planned first?”
“I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve,” I hint, dangling the carrot. “I plan to let the 125 tips be my guide.”
“Make sure you agree with everything he says,” she advises. “Laugh at all his jokes, even the unfunny ones.”
“Especially the unfunny ones,” Natalia pipes up.
“Flatter him constantly. Never complain.”
“Offer to cook for him! And make sure to wear an apron.”
“Act helpless. Always defer to him. Oh, and no cursing,” Cynthia orders. Shit, that’ll be a hard one.
“Should I buy him Knicks tickets and a love fern, too?” I joke.
Nat sucks in a breath. “I just thought of the perfect headline: ‘How to Dupe a Guy in 10 Days’!” She throws her head back and cackles, slapping the arm of the couch. Even Cynthia cracks a smile.
“Alright, laugh it up, you two, but I’m the one who actually has to pull off this little charade, okay? This is real life, not some cheesy rom-com.”
Nat lets out a gasp. “You did not just call Kate Hudson’s tour-de-force performance cheesy.”