I shoot him a look of mock disapproval. “Are you going to make fun of me now?”
“I would never.” He smiles innocently, and it’s that get-away-with-murder look he’s so good at. “Can I get you something to drink?”
I’ve already decided that Betty’s signature drink is an old-fashioned (of course) served in a highball glass (obviously), but for the sake of making a low-maintenance first impression (Don’t be too fussy!), I tell him wine’s fine.
I let my eyes roam over the buffet while the bar attendant is pouring. Lasagna and sliders and éclairs, oh my! I was too nervous to eat much of anything this morning and I’m paying the piper for that poor decision now. Saliva pools in my mouth.
Jack catches me ogling the food. “You hungry?”
Now there’s a loaded question. Obviously I’m hungry, Jack, but even if Betty were allowed to have an appetite, I couldn’t possibly force a single calorie past this ridiculous corset. I’m sorry—girdle.
“Oh, I’m fine,” I say blithely, as though I couldn’t possibly be bothered by such a basic human necessity as hunger. I’ll just have a few heaping mouthfuls of air, thanks.
“Let me know if you change your mind.”
I CHANGED MY MIND, my Cassidy-brain screams, but I mute her and paste on a demure smile as he hands me a plastic cup of wine, then accepts a bottle of water for himself.
“Hey, wait,” I protest. “I can’t drink if you’re having water.” A lush, Betty is not.
“I’ve actually been drinking since ten a.m., so you need to catch up.” He winks, and I send him a petulant look, but ultimately decide it’s not worth pushing back. Above all, be agreeable!
He motions toward the open-air seating and I let him lead me outside, where three descending rows of seats provide the suite’s guests with an enviable view of the court. I pause for a moment at the top of the stairs, taking in the eye-popping grandeur that is Arthur Ashe Stadium, the most storied court at New York’s premier tennis venue. The arena rises four tiers high, but it feels like forty, with stands climbing into the sky as far as the eye can see. Our suite is down low and center court, and I have to admit: as far as “first dates” go, this one is pretty impressive.
Jack’s watching me with a crooked smile. “Pretty great, huh? This job does have its perks.”
The Brawler reminder is a bit of a buzzkill, but I brush it aside and smile up at him—and this time, it’s not even fake. While I may be here as a guest of the enemy, nobody said I couldn’t enjoy myself. In fact, I get an evil thrill knowing that I’m profiting at their expense, not unlike the righteous satisfaction I feel when I shop local instead of on Amazon. If I’m going to debase myself for the cause, courtside seats are a great sweetener.
“No kidding. So what exactly did you do for the USTA? Hide a body?”
He laughs. “Well, it’s not exactly charity. They’re an advertising partner, and during the tournament we work with them to produce some additional content. Native ads and viral videos, things like that. Since tennis viewership tends to skew older, they’re trying to tap into a younger fan base.”
I nod; I’m intimately familiar with #sponcon. “What sort of viral videos?”
“This year, we filmed a spot where Tom tried out to be a ball boy.”
I snicker. “Seriously?”
“I kicked those kids’ asses, too,” a voice booms from behind us, and I instantly recognize the thick Boston accent I’ve heard in so many interviews: Jack’s cofounder, asshole extraordinaire and the man who puts the “brawl” in Brawler, Tom “the Tomcat” Bartlett. I turn, plastering on a smile to disguise the sneer lurking just beneath the surface.
“Cassidy, right? Tom,” he says, holding out a hand. He’s even more dressed up than Jack, in a dark suit and tie with a matching pocket square in a shade of lavender.
“No need for an introduction,” I tell him as I accept his handshake. “Your reputation precedes you.”
If he catches my veiled insult, he doesn’t let on. “It often does, for better or worse,” he says without a hint of apology. “As does yours, by the way. I’ve been anxious to meet the Siren spitfire.”
Guess that answers my question of whether Jack relayed the details of my outburst. Tom’s tone is casual enough, but I don’t miss the unspoken challenge in it, or the sharp assessment in his gaze. He’s testing you, trying to determine if you’re friend or foe. Prove you’re not a threat.
I look him dead in the eye, instinctively knowing the only way to deal with a guy like Tom is head-on. “I’ve earned myself a nickname already, huh? Let’s see if I can live up to it.”
There’s a brief pause—before Tom barks a loud laugh. I exhale, relaxing a little. Advantage: me.
“I think you and I are going to get along just fine, Cassidy.” He raises the beer bottle he’s dangling by the neck and clinks it against the side of my cup. “And to think I was warned you might rip me a new asshole.”
“I never said that.” Jack turns to me, his expression pained. “I never said that.”
I pat his arm reassuringly. “I wouldn’t blame you if you had. Besides, I think we established that the Siren-Brawler feud is all in good fun, right?” My voice is spun sugar, double-dipped in honey. I’m the amiable arm candy of their dreams.
“We’ve had a lot of fun with Siren over the years,” Tom admits, rocking back on his heels. “Your boss is a good sport.”
“Well, she’s certainly had plenty to be a good sport about.”
It slips out before I can censor myself, and when Tom’s eyes narrow, I curse silently. No sassing the menfolk! You have got to learn how to hold your tongue. More Betty, less Cassidy.
I’m preparing to backtrack when Jack steps in to save me. “Alright, no work talk. We’re off the clock.” I feel his hand flex against my back.
“I promised him I’d be on my best behavior,” Tom confides conspiratorially.
“And you’re failing miserably,” Jack snaps back, annoyed.
I laugh in spite of myself, instantly diagnosing the Odd Couple dynamic between the two of them: Jack is the straight man, and Tom his outlandish foil. Jack’s the Felix to Tom’s Oscar; the Spade to his Farley.
“Oh, he’s fine,” I reassure Jack. “If you dish it out, you’ve got to be able to take it, right, Tom?” I toss him a wink.
“A girl after my own heart.” He nods at Jack. “Think you might be punching above your weight with this one, bud.”
I’m feeling pretty smug about how quickly I’ve won Tom over. Didn’t even break a sweat. He also just handed Betty a prime opening: Compliment your man in front of his friends.
“I think it might be the other way around,” I coo sweetly, placing a possessive hand on Jack’s arm and giving it a squeeze. When I glance up at him adoringly, I’m rewarded by his look of surprised pleasure, twin spots of color blooming on his cheekbones. Honestly, the aw-shucks routine from a guy this attractive is both absurd and adorable. Is it possible that this cheesy, blatant flattery actually works?