The Rom Con

“That you’re a huge nerd.”

He barks a laugh and palms the nape of his neck self-consciously, and I can’t help but notice how the pose makes his bicep bulge. He’s a male pinup poster come to life, like the kind my girlfriends and I would have clipped from the side of an Abercrombie shopping bag and tacked up in our dorm room. Silhouetted against the window with the city at his back, it’s the second view I’m salivating over tonight.

“You are. You’re a giant nerd and this whole ‘big shot’ persona of yours is just a cover for your severe nerdiness.”

He’s laughing. “Not doing so hot tonight, am I? So far we’ve established that I’m boring and a nerd. And to think, this whole thing”—he motions to his cabinet of wonders—“was supposed to impress you.”

I mimic his serious nod. “I am impressed. By how you’ve managed to fool everyone into thinking you’re cool.”

His eyes narrow playfully. “Keep it up and I’ll be forced to tickle you again.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

He raises his eyebrows in challenge as tension and anticipation and unspoken thoughts neither of us is willing to voice dance in the air between us.

Eventually, he clears his throat. “Shall I show you to your domain?”

“My domain?”

He quirks an eyebrow. “The kitchen?”

I’m instantly offended, steam shooting out of my ears cartoonishly before I remember—Duh, Cass, you’re supposed to be making him dinner.

My swell of righteous indignation deflates like a leaky balloon. “Oh, right. Sure, of course.”

I follow him back down the hallway, through a door—and into a kitchen that would make Nancy Meyers weep. When Jack flicks on the overhead recessed lights, bathing the room in a soft glow, I nearly swoon. Dark soapstone countertops extend along the room’s perimeter and climb up the wall in a dramatic coordinating backsplash. A marble island stretches as long as a football field; I could turn cartwheels across it. The live-edge wooden barstools look like they were carved from a five-hundred-year-old tree trunk. Every appliance is stainless steel or shiny chrome and unnervingly high-tech. The overall effect is modern, striking, and sophisticated . . . and totally intimidating. Like a museum—and not the cool, hands-on kind my nieces are obsessed with. The look but don’t touch kind.

You can cozy it up, Betty urges. Make his house a home! I banish her to a locked room in my brain. You’re not welcome here.

“Wow, Jack,” I say, running my palm along the cool soapstone. “This is . . . incredible.”

Somehow, he hears what I’m not saying. “But?”

“But nothing!” I quickly chirp. Don’t insult him! Betty squawks. “It makes my place look like a hovel. My entire apartment could fit in your kitchen. With room to spare.” I fiddle with the handle of an expensive-looking brass pepper mill and think of my own tiny, cluttered apartment, with its hodgepodge of mismatched IKEA furniture cobbled together over the years courtesy of my revolving door of roommates. They move on up to deluxe, dual-income apartments with fresh-off-the-registry furnishings while I shelter in place, the “lucky” recipient of their unwanted castoffs. Jack can never see my apartment.

And he never will, because this is your final date, remember?

He leans back against the island, crossing his feet at the ankles. “But?” he prompts again, a half smile playing on his mouth.

I hesitate, debating. Remember, more Cassidy. “I guess it’s just not what I expected? Not that I necessarily expected anything. It’s just . . . I don’t know. Fancy.” I press a button on his Jetsons-esque coffeemaker, and when it makes a chorus of angry-sounding beeps, I shrink back. “You just seem like a simpler guy.”

“Well, I am a poor little rich boy,” he says pointedly, and I wince.

“I’m sorry about that. I shouldn’t have—”

He waves me away, pushing off the island to navigate around me. “It’s fine. It’s not untrue; I did have a privileged upbringing.”

I catch his arm to stop him, looking him straight in the eye. “No, it’s not fine. It was unkind, and I shouldn’t have said it.”

He blinks at me, something passing between us wordlessly before he drops his gaze to where my hand grips his forearm. When his eyes rise to meet mine again, he nods once. I’m forgiven.

“I’ve been called worse,” he admits. “Today, even.” He wags his eyebrows good-naturedly. “Anyway, you’re not wrong that this place is a bit ‘fancy,’ as you put it, though it’s not really my doing. I hired a design firm that handled everything.”

“I sort of figured.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “I only have so much bandwidth for nonwork stuff, and home decor is definitely not one of those things, so I was happy to outsource it. I think they just decorated it how they imagined a single bachelor would want it? So I’m not offended if you hate it.”

“I don’t hate it!” I insist, and he chuckles. “It’s just a little intimidating compared to the shoebox I live in. But I can work with it.” I mime pushing up my sleeves.

He leans in conspiratorially. “Can I tell you a secret? I’m intimidated by it too.”

“Oh stop it, you are not,” I say with a laugh, then start unloading the sack of groceries that’s set out on the island: a bag of lemons, onions, red potatoes, carrots, olive oil, salt and pepper, plus bunches of fresh rosemary, sage, thyme, and parsley. Gang’s all here!

“I’m serious! It’s not like I’m some Michelin-starred chef. I think the most I’ve done in here is reheat takeout? In fact, I’m pretty sure this is the inaugural run for this oven, which is why I’m so excited to see you do your thing.” He grins, and I feel his pleasure like sunlight, warming my skin.

I think we’re all excited to see what magic’s about to happen here, Jack. “Right. Well, let’s dive in, shall we?” I say brightly, doing my best to project a confidence I don’t feel.

I remember my surprise, the good-luck charm I’m hoping will carry me through tonight’s gambit: a ruffled, cherry-print hostess apron with a sweetheart neckline and edged in red rickrack that I scored at Hamlet’s Vintage, where Nat and I stopped in last night after work. When we spotted it mixed in with a bin of scarves, we both agreed it was an essential ingredient on tonight’s menu. My favorite part: the monogram embroidered on one of the slanted side pockets, LSH, a detail I find utterly endearing. As I loop it over my head, I channel L’s (Lucille, Lettie, Loretta’s?) spirit—and, hopefully, her culinary skills.

I glance over at Jack as I start tying the back straps and his face is priceless—so priceless, in fact, I nearly break right then and there. To hide it, I quickly spin around so I can mask my expression, but he takes the gesture to mean I need his help managing the backward tie.

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