The Rom Con

“You’re pretty good,” I tell him, trying to distract myself from my illicit thoughts. It only half works. “Did your mom teach you how to dance, too?” There you go, talk about moms.

He does some complicated spin move that tangles our arms up like a pretzel. “Not quite, but she’d be pleased to know all those years of cotillion didn’t go to waste.”

I glance over at our competition, and if I’ve felt self-conscious about “showing them up,” I shouldn’t have—they’re lost in their own world, with eyes only for each other. For a moment, my mind flashes to Gran and how tickled she’d be to see me doing something so spontaneous and carefree. She always says she sees herself in me, but the truth is, she’s bolder and braver than I’ve ever been. I’m a rule follower, a type A stickler who rarely colors outside the lines, while she’s always done whatever strikes her fancy—and she’s never cared who’s watching.

I have to pause that train of thought, though, to address a more pressing concern: this pencil skirt, which is so fitted that it’s actually restricting my range of motion. Not a huge deal when I was sitting at a table, able to disguise the slight wiggle-walk it forced me to adopt; a much larger issue, however, while trying to be the Ginger Rogers to Jack’s Fred Astaire. I’m forced to cling to him like a second skin or risk toppling like a tipsy penguin. For someone playing the purity card, it’s a mixed message I do not want to be sending.

It’s like he can read my mind. “This is sweet,” he says, toying with the bow at my neck. “Like a present.” He casts me a naughty look, then starts tugging on one of the ends.

I smack his hand away like a nun with a ruler. “Undressing me is definitely not second-date material,” I scold in the primmest, churchlady-est tone I can muster, and he throws his head back and laughs at the sky.

I can’t deny it: I’m enjoying myself. Everything about this “date”—this whole night, really—has been a pleasure. In a shocking twist I never saw coming, Jack is proving to be—dare I say it?—a gentleman. Sure, I may have started with rock-bottom expectations, but if I’d randomly matched with him on some dating app I’d be rating it five stars, writing a glowing review, and forcing all my friends to join.

Looking at him now with fresh eyes—his face crinkled in laughter, his mood contagious, the summer air causing his hair to curl up and wing out a bit at the ears—I can’t help but wonder if my sister is right, if I like him more than I’m willing to admit to myself, if I’m missing what’s right in front of me. If I’m making a huge mistake.

I can practically hear Gran’s prodding voice in my ear: Give him a chance. What do you have to lose?

Everything, I lament silently. My job. My credibility. My pride. The idea that my judgment could be so off—that I could have gotten him this wrong—is terrifying, and my blood runs ice-cold despite the late-summer heat.

The song winds down, and as the crowd—some of whom have joined us in our spur-of-the-moment dance-off—begins to applaud, Jack bends me back in an exaggerated dip. I’m forced to tighten my grip on his biceps—whoa, someone’s been eating his Wheaties—and when he pulls me back up, we’re awash in a chorus of Awww’s. Everyone’s a romantic.

As the spectators disperse, Jack holds me in his arms for an extra beat, and here it is, the picture-perfect fairy-tale movie moment: our first kiss, bodies silhouetted against the iconic backdrop of a glittering New York City skyline. It couldn’t be more perfect if I’d scripted it myself.

Jack’s watching me intently, eyes aflame, and when his gaze drops to my mouth I know at just the slightest hint from me—if I leaned forward even a fraction of an inch—his lips would be on mine.

I absolutely cannot allow it to happen.

Panic sets in, and for once I’m sending out a Betty Bat-Signal, begging her to rear her retro head and offer me some of her heirloom pearls of wisdom—but of course, now that I actually need her, she’s nowhere to be found.

Why buy the cow

Modest is hottest

Pet your dog, not your date

Learn where to draw the line, but do it gracefully. That’ll have to work.

I move to step back, but his firm grasp—and this damn pencil skirt—won’t allow it, so I raise my eyes to his and give my head the slightest hint of a shake. His hands flex on my hips as he exhales a ragged breath, his eyes briefly closing, and I have to wonder when he’ll hit his breaking point, if there’s a limit to this man’s patience.

And if there’s a limit to my resistance, as well.

“When can I see you again?” His voice is a husky scrape, like loose gravel on an unpaved road. “Alone?”

I have no idea how to respond. I’m so sick of lying, but I can’t admit the truth: that I want to see him again.

“It’ll be our third official date, you know,” he adds before I can answer. There’s an unmistakable gleam in his eye, and unfortunately, I know exactly what he’s getting at.

“Not that you’re counting,” I quip, trying to sidestep that land mine.

“Oh, I’m counting.”

My blood pressure ratchets up.

“But it’s interesting,” he says, catching my hand before I can think to snatch it away, and I have no choice but to stare up into his eyes. They’re dark as a roiling sea and just as deep. “I’ve realized there’s something to be said for delayed gratification.” He strokes his thumb across the back of my hand and I barely suppress a shiver. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve anticipated anything quite this much.”

He sounds as surprised as I feel—and just like that, this doesn’t feel like a game anymore. This relationship no longer feels fake. The stakes are too high and I’m in way over my head.

And later, when I’m lying in bed without the bright lights of Times Square to distract me, I no longer know if I’m doing this for a story . . . or if I’m doing it for me.





Chapter 11

Thwack.

The magazine lands on top of my knuckles, forcing me to stop typing. When I glance up to see the source of the interruption, I find Nat, looking triumphant.

“What’s this?” I slide off my noise-canceling headphones and pick up the magazine.

“Your next date idea,” she announces. “You’re going to make Jack ‘Engagement Chicken.’?”

“I’m going to do what now?”

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