“I read your Jessup story,” he says suddenly, amid the quiet.
“Oh yeah? What’d you think?” I ask reflexively, then immediately hate myself for fishing for compliments.
“It was surprisingly sweet. Romantic, even. To read it, you wouldn’t even know what a jaded fairy-tale hater you truly are.”
I laugh, gratified by his praise in spite of the teasing. Damn that universally disarming trap, flattery. “Yeah, well, I know my audience. Gotta give the people what they want, right?”
“Not gonna lie, I was a little disappointed not to get a mention, but . . .”
I nearly snort. Be careful what you wish for, buddy. “Noted for next time. And contrary to popular belief, I’m not actually a romance hater,” I say, dropping the world’s most obvious hint.
He catches it seamlessly. “Oh no? Let’s see you prove it.”
“What’d you have in mind?” I volley back playfully, then clap a hand over my mouth to smother my laughter. This is almost too easy. And the best part is, he thinks he’s the one in control while I’m busy pulling his strings like Geppetto.
“So I know I mentioned taking you out to dinner, but I thought I’d throw you a curveball and see if you like tennis.”
Wait, what? My silent laughter cuts off like a record scratch. “Tennis, as in . . . a racket and a net?”
He chuckles, and the sound is deep and rich, like a smooth whiskey. “I was thinking more like tennis, as in the US Open.”
I blink a few times. That’s more than a curveball; it’s an overhead smash. “You want to take me to a professional tennis match?” Of all the potential date scenarios I mentally prepared for, I did not see this one coming.
“Full disclosure: Brawler partners with the U.S. Tennis Association every year to promote the tournament, and one of the perks is a box at Arthur Ashe. On Sunday I’ve got to entertain some investors during the morning session, but it would really help me get through it if I had something to look forward to.” He pauses, then clears his throat. “So if you’re free in the afternoon, I’d love for you to join me.”
There’s a hint of vulnerability in his tone and for a moment I forget all about Betty and my subterfuge as my heart beats a little faster, those familiar first-date butterflies fluttering to life in my belly.
And then I catch myself. This is not a first date. Jack is a mark, nothing more. I clench my abs, and butterflies: exterminated.
Betty slides back into the driver’s seat as I consider my response. He’s trying to impress you by throwing his money and connections around. He’s fanning his peacock feathers. Act appropriately impressed.
“Wow. Of course, I’d love to go,” I gush—and to my surprise, I actually mean it. “I’ve never been to the US Open before.” Flattery, flattery. I’m just a naive, blushing virgin, grateful to this big, strapping man for showing me the great wide world.
“Fair warning, there will be some other Brawler folks and their guests there,” he continues, and I nearly choke on the mouthful of wine I’ve just swallowed. Five minutes in and he’s already inviting me behind enemy lines to mingle among the Brawler inner circle? He may as well hand me the keys to his torture chamber right now. It’s almost too good to be true. Cynthia will shit a brick. “So you may cross paths with a few members of the executive team, if that’s, ah . . . I mean, if you’re—”
“You mean, can you count on me to keep any hostile work-related outbursts to myself?” I rattle off a laugh, like the very idea is preposterous and didn’t actually transpire a mere three days ago. “I promise, that was a one-off. I was just, um . . . hangry.”
“It’s more that I don’t want to put you in an uncomfortable situation,” he sidesteps neatly, neutral as a politician.
I decide to throw him a curveball of my own. “Actually, having other people around would be a relief for me. I typically prefer first dates to be with a group, rather than one-on-one.”
The pause is long. “I’m sorry?”
“You know, like built-in chaperones? I know it sounds a little old-fashioned, but it was something my dad insisted on back when I first started dating, and I guess it sort of stuck.”
There’s an even longer pause and I have to hold the phone away from my face because my silent laughter’s becoming not-so-silent. I’m practically wheezing.
“So . . . huh. Group dating. And that’s not, like . . . weird at all?” He’s incredulous, and at this point I’m seriously struggling not to lose control of my bladder.
“No, not really,” I respond airily. This whole acting thing might be fun after all. “Plus, having friends around helps with that first-date awkwardness, don’t you think?” I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to think of sad things: Military homecomings. Olympics montages. That song “The Christmas Shoes.” Marley & Me.
“Uh, sure,” he says haltingly. “I mean, yeah, I guess I see what you’re saying.” He clears his throat and I can practically hear him questioning my sanity. If this phone call had a soundtrack, the lyrics would be Oh, she’s sweet but a psycho. “Well, I’m glad I could deliver with the group date, however unintentionally.”
I’ve got to hand it to him, he’s making a valiant effort to act like this is a normal request and not some bizarre courtship monitoring ritual a la the Duggar family. Honestly, I’m impressed.
“Thank you for inviting me,” I say, getting us back on track and remembering one of the tips: Always end a phone call first. I soften my voice a little, making it appropriately shy. “I’m looking forward to it.” Betty’s laying it on real thick. Is there such a thing as too much fawning? I feel like a fluffer.
“Me too,” Jack says, and I imagine his ego expanding to fill the hotel room, escaping out the window and floating down the brightly lit Strip like a runaway parade float. “Looking forward to seeing you, that is.”
I giggle bashfully. “Well, aren’t you sweet.” Gag me. “Have a safe trip back tomorrow.”
“I’ll do that. And I’ll see you on Sunday.”
“You sure will.”
To your date with doom, I toast him silently and raise my glass.
Chapter 6
You cannot be serious.”
Natalia’s face lights up like a jack-o’-lantern. “It’s perfect! I am so good.”
I turn back to face the mirror. I wish I had a racket so I could smash it into a million spiderwebby cracks. “I cannot wear this.”
“You can, and you will. I had to hit three vintage stores to score this stuff. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“I look like a Stepford wife!”