I laugh in spite of myself. “Well, honestly, I’ll need to be Andie Anderson–level adorable if I even have a prayer of keeping Jack wriggling on the end of my hook. Don’t forget, this whole thing hinges on him finding me irresistible, and I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if I never heard from the guy again. I mean, you were there—I was aggressively hostile to him. Frankly, I’m shocked he even stuck around long enough to get my number.”
It’s a head-scratcher that prolonged my insomnia last night, as a matter of fact. Why did Jack hang around to be berated by a random stranger? I can’t say I would have done the same in his position. In fact, the more I think about it, the more impressed I am that he stood there and took my verbal beatdown. Actually, scratch that, he didn’t take it. He fought back, proving he must be just as headstrong as I am.
“Pfft, I’m not surprised,” Nat says. “You’re the ultimate challenge. You basically spit in his face. You treated him like crap and now he wants—no, he needs—to conquer you to set the universe at rights. It’s how men like him work. He won’t rest until he’s won you over. Besides, he was clearly into you. I nearly choked from that fog of sexual tension when I walked up.”
I cringe internally as Cynthia’s eyes sharpen like a hawk’s. “So you liked him, then?”
Thanks a lot, Nat.
“No!” I think of how I admired his bone structure and feel a stab of shame. “I mean, I didn’t like him, like him.” Now I sound like I’m in junior high. “I thought he was, you know, fine. Nothing special, really.” I’m definitely making it worse. It’s like a spray of word vomit I can’t suppress. The two of them exchange a look and I fight the urge to fan my armpits. “I was just grateful that he made the introduction to Eric Jessup,” I say desperately.
Cynthia holds up her hands. “Relax, I’m not judging you. He’s a good-looking guy. But he’s also a smooth talker and didn’t get where he is by being dumb, so don’t underestimate him. And don’t let him derail you.”
“I won’t,” I assure her firmly. “He’s a story to me, nothing more.” See? I’m absolutely not attracted to him. I haven’t thought at all about whether I’d classify his eye color as sapphire or indigo.
She holds eye contact for a long beat. “You know, if he’s as into you as Nat says, he’ll be trying to impress you. He’ll share things he otherwise wouldn’t, so listen carefully. You may uncover things about Brawler. Damaging things we can use to twist the knife even deeper.”
A cold fear arrows through me at her villainous tone, and I have to wonder if I’m in over my head with this. She’s like a bloodhound that’s caught the scent of a fugitive. I half expect her to cage her fingertips and cackle like Dr. Evil.
She dismisses us, but the second we’re out of her office Natalia grabs me by the elbow and hauls me into an empty conference room.
“Ow, what’s your deal?” I ask once she shuts the door behind us.
“Didn’t you hear what she said in there?” Nat hisses. “About how this could make your career?”
“Uh, yeah. No pressure, right?”
She flicks me on the forehead. “Gah, you are asleep at the wheel. Cass, this is your book idea!”
I blink at her, trying to catch up . . . and a little pissed at the flicking. “How is this my book idea?”
“Don’t you see it? People love this shit! ‘I’m tired of my life, so I did this wacky thing to shake it up.’ I made every recipe in Julia Child’s cookbook. I went backpacking in ill-fitting boots. I meditated in India, ate pasta in Rome, and fell in love in Bali. I got tired of modern dating and decided to live like a 1950s housewife.” She squeezes my arm excitedly. “This is your Pacific Crest Trail!”
“In all those books they learn something deep and meaningful about themselves,” I protest, massaging my arm pointedly. “I’m just trying to take down some sexist jerk. Hardly the warm and fuzzy aha moment people are looking for.”
“You’re underestimating this idea,” she insists. “Think of how many women are completely disillusioned with modern dating. You should know; you’re one of them! Men put in no effort because they know another woman’s just a swipe away. I’m telling you, there are plenty of women out there who wonder if life would’ve been easier if they’d just been born in a different era. Who wonder if women had it better back then. Speak to those women.”
I squint at her as I consider it. As crazy as it sounded at first, she does have a point. For all the ease and convenience modern technology’s offered my generation, online dating seems to have brought out the worst in men—or the ones I’ve matched with, at least. Like my Hinge date who showed up smelling like mothballs, admitted he’d lied and hadn’t actually earned an architectural degree, then relayed his aspirations of becoming a “shoe-preneur.” My expectations of men are so low that even a mediocre, ho-hum date counts as a smashing success. And while we may not need them to protect us or pay our bills, aren’t we all looking for a man who dresses well, opens doors and pulls out chairs, and reaches for the check as a matter of habit? Who’s actually interested in us, and not just a casual hookup? Don’t we all wish chivalry would make a comeback? I’m not asking for a Disney prince or a carriage ride through Central Park, but would it kill a guy to give up his seat for me on the subway?
“I see the potential,” I acknowledge, and she grins smugly. “I’ll start thinking on it, but right now I need to focus on this story. And on that note . . .”
I motion for her to follow me, then push open the door and make my way down the hallway, the heels of our shoes clacking on the polished concrete floor.
“I decided I need an alter ego,” I explain in a low voice as we walk, “so I started putting together a character profile.” At my workstation, I start searching through the piles of printouts littering my desktop.
“What is all this?” Nat asks, lifting the top sheet off the nearest stack.
“Research.”
She starts reading aloud. “?‘Things to do with your hands that men like.’ Written in 1962. Huh. Maybe I should try these out on Gabriel.” She skims for a moment. “?‘Feel his muscles. Write him a love letter. Toy with his belt.’?” She wags her eyebrows, then snorts. “?‘Do needlepoint while he watches.’ Yeah, that’ll turn him on.”
She twists to lean on the edge of the desk. “?‘Massage him with baby oil. Tie him up and tickle him.’ Getting a little kinky here in the swingin’ sixties.” She falls silent for a minute as she keeps reading, then straightens. “Wait, hold up. ‘Pumice his calluses’? ‘Powder between his toes’? ‘Frolic in his chest hairs’? What the hell am I reading?” She drops the page like it’s blistered her fingertips. “Seriously, where are you finding this stuff?”
“I swear, these lists are finding me at this point. And you’d be surprised how much bizarre dating advice you can find on the internet. Apparently ‘be yourself’ is too logical,” I mutter as I riffle through the papers. “Aha! Found it.” I whip the page out of the stack and present it to her with a flourish. “Meet Betty.”
“Betty?”