Cynthia peers at me from across her desk with one eyebrow raised, her piercing laser-stare practically burning a hole through the chic acrylic and gold office chair I’m currently occupying. She’s intimidating on a normal day, but right now? Her midnight-black bob and blood-red lipstick are giving off serious Angelina Jolie in Maleficent vibes.
“I mean, not nothing.” I shift in my seat, the backs of my thighs sticking to the Pinterest-popular but decidedly uncomfortable plastic chair. “I made inroads with the Brawler team, for one thing. Granted, Jack didn’t take the bait on some of the things I thought he would, but I’ll just have to get more creative.”
She leans back in her chair, nonplussed. Cynthia’s used to instant gratification—understandable, considering Siren survives and thrives on tight timelines and quick turnarounds—but this story requires flexibility. Finesse. She needs to grant me some breathing room.
“Besides, he was on his best first-date behavior. Once he lets his guard down, I know his true personality will come out. I just need a little more time.” I think I’m trying to convince myself as much as her. “Plus, I was on his turf—his event, his scene, his people—and I have some ideas for the next date that’ll help tip the scales my way.”
She brightens. “So there is a next date, then?”
My gut pinches as I flash back to the cast-iron certainty in his voice: “I’m past the game-playing stage of my life. I won’t make you guess.”
“It’s not officially on the books yet, but he made it clear he was going to call.” Clearer than those sea-glass-blue eyes. Still, I can’t find it in me to disparage this particular personality trait of his—despite his unjustly pretty face, his directness might be the most attractive thing about him.
As if on cue, there’s a knock on the door and Talia, one of our receptionists, pokes her head in. “Cassidy, there’s a delivery for you.”
“For me?” I echo, accepting the large square box she hands me. Once I thank her and the door’s shut, I shoot Cynthia a tight-lipped smile as I open it up—then inhale a breath.
It’s one of those jumbo-sized souvenir tennis balls, emblazoned with the US Open logo and scribbled with an autograph, and it takes me a moment to realize: It’s signed by the winner of our match. Holy cow. I spot a note in the box and grab it to read, knowing Cynthia’s eyes are tracking my every move.
Cassidy,
This is my subtle way of letting you know I had a great time yesterday. Looking forward to more ball-busting on a second date (bad pun, sorry). I’ll call you tonight, but if you want to beat me to it, the ball’s in your court (worse pun, sorry again, can’t help myself).
Jack
I laugh out loud before remembering where I am and who I’m with, then wipe the smile off my face in a hurry.
Cynthia’s watching me closely. “Looks like whatever you’re doing is working.”
“It’s just how he is,” I stammer, stuffing the ball and the note back into the box. “You know, showy. Go big or go home.” You are a terrible liar.
She must hear something in my voice because she tilts her head, studying me appraisingly. “You still okay with this?”
“I am,” I respond firmly. I don’t need to give her any reason to doubt I can pull this off.
She eyes me for an extra beat before nodding. “Okay. Well, keep at it and let me know how it goes.”
I assure her I will, then escape her office, grateful to be out from under the glare of her spotlight and even luckier I was able to avoid admitting the truth:
She’s right, I got nothing.
I confessed as much to Natalia last night, who pounced on me the second I walked in the door.
“How’d it go?” she screeched before I could even kick off my espadrilles. I slingshotted the girdle at her in response.
She gasped. “Oh no. Don’t tell me he literally charmed the pants off you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. But I’d rather be drawn and quartered than wear that thing again,” I called over my shoulder as I swept past her into my bedroom to change.
“So what’d you think of him?” she asked a few minutes later, once I’d exchanged Betty’s straitjacket dress for my own buttery-soft sweats. I’d felt like a lizard shedding its skin.
“He’s different than I expected,” I admitted as I lounged on the couch, relishing the feel of my full, unrestricted stomach. I’d never take breathing for granted again. “Honestly, he’s hard not to like. Easygoing and funny; flirty without crossing the line into creepy. He clearly knows how to play the ‘charming’ card, but I saw glimpses of a more serious side.” I thought about the bits he let slip about his mom and his relationship with his brother, though I stopped short of sharing them with Nat. Something about dissecting the details of his family history felt off-limits to me. Well, would you look at that? I still have a conscience.
I yawned and stretched and started massaging the balls of my feet. The shoe designers of yesteryear had a lot to learn about arch support. “Now Tom, he’s definitely what I expected. Loud and obnoxious. Pompous and arrogant. There’s sort of a ‘good cop, bad cop’ dynamic going on between the two of them.”
“You think it’s an act?”
I considered that. “It could be. Who knows? Anyway, what does it matter? If Jack can be friends with someone like that—best friends, no less—how good of a guy could he be, really? You are who you surround yourself with.”
She grinned wickedly. “Did he smell good?”
“Did he—what? I don’t know! I was too busy trying to avoid getting close to him.”
Nat side-eyed me knowingly. “I bet he smelled like money. Rich guys always smell good.”
“Stop it.”
I intentionally left out the details of my car-ride epiphany, which I’d already begun recasting in my memory as a momentary lapse in judgment. Whatever fleeting attraction I may have felt toward Jack was likely just a result of proximity and pheromones, or chemistry, or whatever you want to call the inability of attractive, unattached adults to maintain a platonic relationship in the face of potential future nudity. I can hardly be held responsible for the thousands of years of natural human instincts baked into my DNA. Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal settled this debate thirty years ago.
“You want to know something that surprised me?” I offered instead. “How nice it felt to be out of the driver’s seat for once. Letting him make all the decisions and just following his lead was . . . pretty freeing, if I’m being honest.”
She stuffed a pillow under her arm, getting comfortable. “Explain.”
“I haven’t fully processed it yet, but I guess it just made me realize how often I’m the one doing all the work. Like with Brett, I made all the plans, I coordinated our schedules, it was always my job to pick a dinner place. And maybe that’s my fault or it was a red flag I missed, but . . . it’s like, you know that feeling when you’re talking to a guy and you’re stressing out trying to keep the conversation going? And you’re already queuing up your next question so there are no awkward silences?”