I’m totally thrown by his response; I have to scramble to regain my footing.
“It’s just that I’ve had a front-row seat to how difficult it is for my sister and her husband to juggle everything as a two-working-parent household,” I explain, thinking fast. “She feels like she doesn’t see the girls enough, she’s only working to pay the nanny, she struggles with mom-guilt. I always thought if I had the financial means, it’d make more sense to commit myself fully to wife-and motherhood, keep things running smoothly on the home front. You know, have dinner on the table when my husband gets home, help the kids with their homework, make sure everyone’s needs are met, that sort of thing.”
I can’t believe how easily this crap is falling out of my mouth. Honestly, I’m surprised the big man upstairs hasn’t struck me down for such blasphemy. But Jack’s not reacting how I expected. In fact, he’s gone silent. Did I take it too far? It’s hard to read him with his eyes hidden behind sunglasses—but judging by the crease in his brow, he’s not buying it.
“What about your needs, though?”
I blink. Okay, this is officially not going how I thought it would.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging your decision,” he adds hastily, holding up his hands. “Staying home is certainly a selfless choice. I guess I’m just surprised. Can’t you do both? From what I know about you, you seem really passionate about your work.”
“I am, that’s true,” I say slowly, my mind grappling for ways to salvage this. “I guess I just see it as a different kind of work. You know, like the CEO of the household. And is there really anything you could be more passionate about than your children?”
I hear the words like they’re coming out of someone else’s mouth. I’m used to advocating for women balancing career and family, not choosing one over the other. And now he’s forcing me to defend this drivel? He’s got me twisted up like a pretzel.
“I hear what you’re saying, and I respect that.” He respects that? If I had a desk handy, I’d thunk my head against it. “I suppose my opinion on this is colored by personal experience. My mom stayed at home, but she was never very happy.” He clears his throat, shifting his gaze back toward the court. “Though I suppose there were a variety of reasons for that,” he mutters.
I eye him from behind my sunglasses and stay quiet, unsure how to react to that unexpected swerve toward the personal.
He seems to catch himself, casting me a wry grin. “Hoo, boy. That got a little heavy, huh? Guess my first-date etiquette’s a little rusty.” He lets out a stilted laugh.
I could let him flail, but I can’t resist the urge to throw him a life raft. “I could tell you some more about chaperones?”
He laughs again, though I can tell by the tense set of his shoulders that he’s still embarrassed. Diversion needed.
I reach out and brush an imaginary hair from his sunglasses. “Oops, I smudged the lens. Here, let me fix it.”
I hold my hand out expectantly and he passes them over, a faint smile curving his lips—and I pluck out the cleaning cloth I tucked into my bag for just this purpose.
Yes, I planned this. Do little things to show him how you’ll make his life easier, the list instructed. Catering to his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.
“Good as new,” I announce once I’ve finished buffing—but instead of handing them back, I slide them onto his face myself, then squint at him while pretending to check the lenses for dust. “Perfect.”
It’s a shamelessly flirtatious move, one that brings our faces within millimeters of each other, our mouths just a hair’s breadth apart. I feel ridiculously obvious, brazen to the core, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care because he holds my gaze, completely ignoring the scattered applause marking the end of a particularly spirited point. The corner of his mouth hooks up in a half smile and I mirror his expression, half smiling back at him.
He tilts his head. “You’re different.”
No shit, Sherlock! I want to scream. I’ve practically given myself a lobotomy!
“Oh yeah?” I say instead, feeling my stomach muscles constrict. Is the jig up? Has he seen through my facade? “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
I wish I could see his eyes. “Neither, really. Just an observation.”
I wait, but nothing else is forthcoming. “Well, you can’t just leave me hanging like that!”
He chuckles and shifts in his seat, angling his body toward me. “I think I just expected more . . .” He stops, searching.
“Ball-busting?” I supply after a beat.
He barks a laugh. “Kind of, yeah.”
“I told you, you just caught me on a bad day.”
He hums. “Wasn’t all bad.”
I stare at him. “Wait a minute. Did you like it when I was mean to you?”
He purses his lips, considering.
“You did!” I smack my forehead.
“Well, not exactly mean, per se,” he says, still chuckling. “Though I suppose there was a novelty to it. I’m used to taking hits at my job, of course, but it’s not often a woman calls me out to my face.” He shrugs, a bit sheepish. “I guess I found your candor . . . refreshing.”
Translation: He loves a challenge. Boy, am I tired of being right all the time. Ugh, men. So transparent. So pathetically easy to manipulate.
I toy with the string of pearls Nat insisted I wear, running my fingers over the smooth beads. “You like to be treated poorly,” I say with a tsk and a mournful shake of my head. “I’m sorry, but that’s a red flag.”
He plays along. “Uh-oh. Any others you’ve noticed?”
Another golden opportunity for Betty: Tell him he’s handsome.
“Too good-looking. Sorry, but I have a rule about dating men who are prettier than me.”
“Ha! That’s a funny one.” He slaps his leg like I’m a real hoot.
I side-eye him to see if he’s serious. “Um. Do you own a mirror?”
“Do you own a mirror?” he parries back.
“Uh, yes I do. And it’s not the fun-house kind that distorts your body or plays tricks on the eye, either. Just a regular old mirror that shows my actual reflection.”
He slides his sunglasses down his nose and peers at me over the rims. “Do you have Ugly Duckling Syndrome or something?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You know, like were you a late bloomer? Go through a prolonged awkward stage? Buck teeth? Ears that stuck out?”
I regard him suspiciously. “How’d you get ahold of my teenage photo albums?”
“Fascinating,” he murmurs. “I’ve finally spotted one in the wild.”
I smack his arm—then have to smother my reaction to the unexpectedly firm bicep hidden beneath his shirt sleeve. Is he flexing? “How dare you.”
“The point is,” he says, laughing, “I get the sense you don’t know how other people see you. Remember the bar, when I came up?” I shrug in assent. “How do you think I knew you purposely took that guy out?”
I groan and let my head fall back, shaking a fist at the sky. “I fell!”