He barks a skeptical laugh. “You of all people know how futile that request is.”
Jack holds up a hand. “I ended it. And before you ask why, I’m fine to tell you.” He refolds the napkin on his lap before leaning forward and resting his forearms on the table. “When we first started dating, I was looking for someone who understood how demanding my job was and wouldn’t require too much of me. And she didn’t.” He laughs ruefully. “She gave me the space I asked for. Sometimes we wouldn’t see or speak to each other for days. And that was fine for a while, until I realized that I wanted someone to require more of me.”
He turns to lock eyes with me, the warmth in his gaze whispering across my skin like a tropical breeze. “I realized I could live without her. And I want someone I can’t live without.”
The din of the restaurant fades to the edges as he holds eye contact, the tension between us fogging thicker than vapor in a steam room. In fact, I may as well be in a sauna, the way I’m cooking under the heat of his gaze, the effort it’s taking to drag in a full breath. The look he’s giving me is charged and private and loaded with hidden meaning. This look needs to get a room.
“Now that’s a pickup line,” Greg declares, and the moment is broken by our laughter.
I finally tear my gaze away from Jack and reach for my water, needing to cool myself down (or plunge myself into an ice bath, one of the two), when I catch sight of Christine and I’m jogged out of my Jack-trance right quick. Her eyes are sharp on mine, narrowed, her penetrating expression the same one she used to reserve for interrogations about whether I’d borrowed her clothes without asking. I’m under the sister spotlight now, and she’s got twenty-eight years of experience in seeing right through me.
When she tilts her head and smiles meaningfully at Jack, I can pinpoint the exact moment I’ve lost her as my partner in this particular crime. “I’ve got just one more question for you, Jack.”
Dread trickles through me. What is she up to? “Christine, come on. Enough.”
“This is my last one, I promise.” She won’t look at me, instead keeping her eyes trained on Jack, and I’m seized with panic. Is she about to blow my cover? “Why are you interested in my sister?”
I let out my breath. That’s not so bad. Guess I misread her.
“Besides the obvious?” Jack says brazenly, and my cheeks flush red as a ripe tomato.
“Of course,” she says immediately, and I want to crawl under the table and expire. This must be what a show pony feels like.
Jack’s grinning. “The truth is, your sister captivated me.” He shifts his gaze and now he’s speaking directly to me, as though Christine and Greg aren’t sitting mere inches away, hungrily hanging on to his every word. “And the more I learn about her, the more I like. She’s smart and bold and intriguing, and as it turns out I seem to have a weakness for that exact combination. I knew about thirty seconds after meeting her that I needed to find a way to see her again.” His dark gaze drags slowly over mine and my stomach does a backflip. “And so I did.”
My throat is scorched dry. Christine and Greg are practically drooling.
“So did I pass your test?” Jack picks up his old-fashioned and nonchalantly brings it to his lips, and I have to admire this man’s swagger. He’s got them eating out of the palm of his hand.
“Uh, yeah,” Greg answers. “If Cassidy won’t marry you after a speech like that, I will.”
Chapter 10
An hour later we’re outside on the sidewalk, saying our goodbyes so Christine and Greg can make it to their show in time for curtain. The rest of the meal went fine—which is to say, the three of them got on like a house on fire while I silently smoldered over my total failure to get anything remotely damaging on Jack again.
“You’re a sweetheart, Jack,” Christine is saying, ignoring my icy glare. “I know I speak for Greg when I say we hope this works out.” She goes up on her tiptoes to give him a hug while I mentally draw a chalk outline around her body. “Take care of my sister, okay?”
She releases him to Greg, and while the guys do some macho backslapping routine, I squeeze her extra tight, not at all trying to cut off her air supply.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I hiss in her ear. “?‘I hope this works out’?”
“Hush, I did you a favor,” she says, speaking into my hair. “This guy really likes you, and I think you like him. If you go through with this story, I know you’ll regret it.” She pulls back and squeezes my hand. “Think about it, okay?”
Before I can formulate a response, she links her arm through Greg’s. “Let’s go, babe, I don’t want to be late. Love you, Cass. Be good, you two!” She winks at us, and with a final wave from Greg, they head off arm in arm and we’re left alone on the sidewalk.
I turn to face Jack, feeling a fresh wave of nerves now that my human shields are gone. Christine’s words ring in my ears like a skipping record: “I think you like him. I think you like him.”
“So have they permanently scared you off?” I joke as we start ambling down the sidewalk side by side. Part of me hopes they have; it would certainly make my life easier.
He laughs. “They’re a trip, you were right about that. But in a good way. Honestly, it’s refreshing to be around a family that genuinely likes one another.”
It’s the second time he’s referenced a less-than-ideal upbringing, so I put on my camo bucket hat and go on a little fishing expedition. “Oh yeah? What’s it like in your family?”
He makes a low humming noise in his throat. “More like . . . a lot of tense silences. Or shouting. Not much in between.” He attempts a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “We don’t really get together unless we’re forced.”
Yikes. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He shrugs like it doesn’t bother him, but his body language tells a different story. He may be a worse actor than I am. “I’m used to it, for the most part. But you’re very lucky. Not everyone has a family like yours.”
“But surely your parents must be proud of your success?” However ill-gotten it might be. “How often do you see them?”
“You could never be successful enough for my dad. Anyway, I’d rather hear more about your book,” he says, expertly dodging my line of questioning. It’s one of the things I’ve noticed about him, how adept he is at pivoting the conversation away from himself. And here I thought these hotshot types loved talking about themselves?
“I wish there was more to share,” I admit, deciding that if I want him to open up, I’ll need to take the first step. “My dream is to be a novelist, but I’ve started and stopped so many times, I’ve lost count. I can’t ever seem to get past the first few chapters. I can’t even decide on a genre. Should I write a thriller with a shocking twist? A sweeping family saga? An epic love story where the sexual tension is just steaming off the page?”
“I’d read it.” He guides me around a subway grate, correctly guessing it would be a problem for my stilettos.