“Oh-kay.” He folds his arms across his chest—quit noticing his arms!—and trains his vision back on the match, his voice aloof. “Let me know when you’re ready to come clean.”
I huff in disapproval, but I know when I’ve been bested. He’s clearly not going to let this go, so I’m prepared to make a concession.
I sigh dramatically, as though chagrined to be giving in. “Fine, it was on purpose. Happy now?”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” he notes dryly, his gaze lazily wandering back to my face. “Like, for example, why did you take him out?”
“It was for a story,” I admit, offering up the alibi Nat and I concocted for just this scenario. Why lie when you can tell the truth? “We were testing out some extreme pickup lines.” The partial truth, anyway.
He raises a dubious eyebrow.
“You know, like ‘Worst Ways to Meet a Guy’? Crash into him and drop your purse. Get lost on a golf course or a military base. ‘Accidentally’ take a shower in a men’s locker room. Play dumb at a shooting range. Pretend to be drowning at the beach.”
He looks alarmed. “Pretend to drown? What kind of pickup lines are these?”
“The ridiculous kind, obviously.”
He snorts. “No kidding.”
“So ridiculous, in fact, they worked on two men.” I smile with all my teeth.
He opens his mouth like he’s going to dispute my version of events, then seems to accept he has no leg to stand on. “Not sure I can argue with that. Which brings me back to my original point, which is that the reason I knew you intentionally knocked that poor sap on his ass was because I noticed you well before I came over.” He clears his throat. “From the second you walked in, in fact.”
“You mean you noticed Nat in her fire-engine red dress,” I joke. I’m used to her antics drawing attention wherever we go; frankly, she’s hard not to notice.
He pulls his glasses off again, fully this time, revealing his deep blue eyes—indigo, they’re definitely indigo—and pins me with his gaze. I couldn’t look away if I tried.
“No, I noticed you.” The intensity in his voice makes something roll over in my stomach. “Some try hard to stand out, while others stand out without trying.”
Chapter 7
My heart stalls in my chest, heat stealing over my skin like the creeping glow from a fire. I blink at him from behind my sunglasses, at a loss for words, all my typical snappy comebacks completely deserting me.
It could be a line. In fact, it sounds exactly like a line some slick Don Juan wannabe would use to try to pick me up at one of those overpriced and overly trendy rooftop bars Nat’s always dragging me to.
And yet . . .
It didn’t sound like a line coming out of his mouth. It sounded honest and sincere and . . . earnest, even. It sounded like he meant it. I mull it over as an unsettling swirl of emotions begins to gather in my gut.
You’re supposed to hate this guy.
He’s supposed to be awful. He’s supposed to offend me with his bad takes and worse behavior, not give me warm fuzzies with his thoughtful, genuine compliments. I expected crass and shameless, not attentive and sensitive. I can hear Cynthia’s voice ringing in my ears: Don’t underestimate him. Don’t let him derail you.
Is acknowledging that I’m flattered the same as being derailed? Seems like a gray area.
Before I can untangle my tongue, Jack gets a tap on the shoulder—saved!—and I train my gaze on the court, letting out a slow, unsteady breath.
Thankfully, the rest of the afternoon passes uneventfully. I’ve never been on a date to a sporting event before—like Rose DeWitt Bukater, something about me must scream “indoor girl”—though it occurs to me that it’s actually an ideal setting for a first date. Having the match as a distraction takes the conversational pressure off while also providing me with a convenient escape hatch: If there’s ever an awkward silence, I can just pretend to be enthralled by the on-court action. Easy-peasy.
Though I find I never need to pull that rip cord. Jack’s exceedingly easy to talk to, our conversation effortlessly skipping from one topic to the next like a smooth stone across a lake. Sharing the same industry means we speak a common language, and even I’m surprised by how quickly we fall into a natural shorthand. Frankly, if this was a real first date, it’s the kind I could imagine spawning sappy, gag-inducing wedding toasts like It was meant to be! or We kept finishing each other’s sentences!
If we’re not chatting or watching the match, Jack’s introducing me to other Brawler guests, which includes a seemingly endless array of investors, colleagues, and friends who stream in and out of the suite throughout the afternoon. While in any other context I might find the experience draining (the plight of the true introvert), I’m surprised at how easy it all feels.
We get along so well, in fact, that I’m surprised when I check my watch and see I’ve been here more than four hours. Knowing that a damsel of the fifties would Leave him wanting more—and let’s face it, because another second in this girdle and I might pass out—I decide it’s time to make my exit.
When I tell him, Jack immediately reaches for his jacket. “I’ll call us a car.”
Trapped in a car with him, alone, for a forty-five-minute ride into the city? Abort!
“Oh no, you stay,” I insist, praying he won’t push the issue, because on this, the tips are clear: Let your man take the lead! “I heard some of them talking about going on to get drinks, and I’m sure they want their fearless leader there. I’d feel terrible making you leave early.”
He looks like he wants to argue, but whatever he must see on my face makes him reconsider.
“I probably should stay,” he pivots seamlessly, granting me that gift, and I let out an internal sigh of relief. “But you can’t stop me from walking you out.”
I rearrange my features into a winsome smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I say my farewells to the group, and a few minutes later we’re outside the stadium, a black SUV idling beside us on the curb as he tells the driver we’ll be just a minute. I face him and swallow, my nerves a riotous mess at what I’m deathly afraid is coming.
He steps back onto the sidewalk and raises his eyebrows at me, a playful smile on his mouth. He’s got to be the most confident man I’ve ever met, relaxed and unruffled even in the face of the dreaded end-of-date awkwardness. “Did you have a good time? I know it was a lot, meeting everyone.”
“I had a lot of fun,” I respond honestly—and I’m shocked to realize that I mean it. “Everyone was . . . really great, actually.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “You sound surprised.”
That’s because I am.
“No, I’m . . .” I shake my head, then groan-laugh in embarrassment. “That came out wrong. Rewind.”
“No offense taken.” He winks, lifting his chin. “I’d like to see you again.”
Whoa. Startled by his directness, I rock back a step, nearly tripping over my own espadrilles. “Oh! Wow, okay. Sure.” Betty frowns at me in my mind’s eye. “I mean, I’d like that too,” I stammer, attempting to course-correct. Better.