“Me? I usually plan a trip. If I stay in town, I get guilted into a formal dinner at my parents’ country club. My brother and I used to have a bet to see who could eat and escape the fastest.” He grimaces and shakes his head, as if to rid himself of the memory. “How about you?”
“I go home to Connecticut. Stay with my parents, celebrate Christmas morning with Christine and Greg and the girls. Nothing like watching kids rip through gifts their parents stayed up half the night wrapping to make you feel better about being single and childless.” I grin, thinking of how bleary-eyed and haggard Christine and Greg always look, their tight smiles when I gift the girls things like karaoke machines and slime. Good times. “My mom makes a huge breakfast: eggs, pancakes, waffles, Danish, sausage and bacon, mimosas. And everyone goes to Gran’s on Christmas night, all my aunts and uncles and cousins. There’s caroling if people get drunk enough. My Uncle Rich tripped once and ended up in the hospital with a broken ankle. Ahh, memories.”
Now he looks wistful. “That sounds so normal. Maybe that’s my fantasy. You think your parents would adopt me?”
I pretend to think about it. “They have been known to take in strays, but I think it’s generally frowned upon to date someone you’re related to.”
We pause to appraise a stoop with thick cobwebs stretched across the railings and shrubbery. Two pirate skeletons in eye patches sit in chairs on the landing, goblets raised toward passersby in cheers. I give the tableau two very enthusiastic thumbs up.
“Tell me more about your parents,” he says once we’re walking again. I wave at a toddler being strollered past who’s grinning up at us with a gummy smile.
“My parents? Let’s see. First of all, it was a very cookie-cutter upbringing. You know, white picket fence on a dead-end cul-de-sac, the whole nine. In fact, I like to hassle them that my childhood was just too darn stable and happy for me to be able to do any gritty, serious literary writing. But then I remember that I hate stuffy literary writing, so it all works out.”
He chuckles, shifting me over slightly as a delivery guy whizzes past on a bike.
“My mom loves nothing more than having all her kids and grandkids surrounding her. Like if there was a way she could force us all to relocate and live together on a compound, she would absolutely do it. She tries to bribe me to come home more by offering to do my laundry, even though she knows my apartment has a washing machine.” He laughs again. “She hosts a family dinner every Sunday, a standing invitation for anyone who can come. I try to make it as often as I can, but someone’s been monopolizing my time lately.”
Jack gives me a Who, me? face. “And your dad?”
“Oh, he’s fun. Always in a good mood, never has a bad day. He’s constantly stuffing twenty-dollar bills into my purse when I’m not looking. Loves doing crosswords. He’s also Siren’s most dedicated reader. He reads every article I write, then sends me emails highlighting his favorite parts. And he’s a big guy, so it’s extra funny to think of him reading makeup tips. He was very intimidating for past boyfriends. But he loves sports, so you might be okay,” I tease.
We reach the street corner and he pushes the button for the crosswalk, then flashes me his most dazzling smile, the one he knows I can’t resist. “You should invite me home to meet them. I make a really good impression.”
I should be thrilled by the offer—it’s what I’ve wanted this whole time, isn’t it?—but instead, his words trigger an unwelcome flashback and I stiffen.
His smile slips. “Is it something I said?”
I let out a caustic laugh. “In a word? Yes.” His brows draw together. “The last time I invited someone home to meet my family, I was told ‘Saturdays are for the bros.’ And now here I am, dating Mr. Saturday himself.” There’s no mistaking the bitterness in my voice. “So you’ll have to forgive me for being a little gun-shy.”
A look of resignation slots into place on his face. “Ah.”
I cross my arms and look away, intently studying the street traffic over his shoulder. Who needs the rugged landscape of his chiseled jawline when I can stare at some rusty old taxis?
“Maybe we should clear this up, since it’s obviously something that’s still bothering you.”
“It’s not bothering me,” I mutter, scuffing the toe of my bootie into the pavement.
He takes a step toward me, tilting my chin up with a finger, and I’m forced to meet his eyes, which are somehow both soft and imposing. “Cassie.”
And that’s another thing: He’s started calling me Cassie. He’s the only person who’s ever shortened my name that way—I’ve always been called Cassidy or Cass, never Cassie. The first time he did it, my heart leapt in my chest; I worried I’d need a defibrillator to get it back in rhythm. It lit me up like the Griswold family Christmas tree. But right now, it grates. Like he’s trying to butter me up.
The light changes and he clasps my hand firmly in his, leading me across the street and into a nearby park. All around us the world is exploding with color, the sky painted in oranges and golds; it’s the romantic, stylized version of New York you see in the movies. I only wish I was in a better mood to appreciate it.
Jack plops me down on a bench before taking my hand again and twining our fingers together. “Now, why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking but not saying? I’d rather you just be honest with me.” When I don’t immediately speak, he nudges me. “I’m a big boy, you know. I can take it.”
I blow out a breath. “Fine, it does bother me. I don’t like the site. I don’t like what you do.”
There. My not-so-secret feelings are out. Betty may be fanning herself on a fainting couch, but damn, does it feel good to finally say that out loud.
His lip twitches. “You don’t say.”
“And I know how hard you work. You’ve built a successful business and you employ a ton of people, which is an incredible thing, Jack. And I just want to be supportive of you and proud of what you do, but you make that really difficult sometimes.”
“You’ve been biting your tongue so hard I’m surprised it’s still in your mouth.” His expression takes on a lascivious edge. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad it is . . .”
I groan. “Come on, I’m being serious. This is a legitimate ethical dilemma for me. I’m exhausted by the mental gymnastics I have to do to separate you from the sexist crap on your site.” It’s so incongruent, how someone as chivalrous and respectful as Jack could run a site that’s so . . . well, not.
“You think I never have to do that for you? Why don’t you take a look at Siren’s home page and see how many times it refers to men as ‘toxic’? I could be offended by that, but I choose not to be because I know those articles aren’t for me.”