Mister Romance (Masters of Love #1)

I give him my best shocked face. “Toby! I resent the implication that our friendship is based entirely on favors.”


He spins around and leans back in his chair as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Oh. Okay. Then you don’t want something?”

I scoff. “No, I don’t. Only the pleasure of your sunny disposition and the sight of your handsome face.” I flash my most dazzling smile.

He raises his eyebrows and waits.

I look around at the hive of activity around me and say “Soooo ... I’ll just be ... you know, going to my cubicle now.” I roll back onto my heels. “Yep. Nothing more I want to talk to you about.”

I take a step away from him, and he cocks his head expectantly, maintaining his stony silence.

“Soooo, yeah.” I take another step. “Talk to you later, Tobes.” He watches as I reach the edge of his cubicle and play with an errant thumbtack. “Byeeee.”

I let out a sigh as I head into my office space and collapse into my chair. Within seconds, his head appears above our shared wall. “You’re not fooling anyone, you know. What do you want?”

I lean forward onto my desk. “You’re the best, Tobes. I don’t know who else I can ask about this stuff.”

He rolls his eyes and gives me the ‘get on with it’ gesture.

“So,” I say, “I need to find out more about Max, AKA Mister Romance, but the dude isn’t exactly forthcoming. I have to get inside that warehouse we found in Greenpoint, but it’s locked up tighter than my sister’s thighs.” I pull out my phone and bring up the picture of the digital keypad I snapped when I was there. “This is guarding the one accessible door, and it’s right below a camera that feeds to Max’s phone the second anyone activates it. Is there a way to disable it? Or work out the passcode?”

Toby takes my phone and studies the photo. “This looks like a pretty standard six-digit system.” He hands the phone back to me. “Hang on a second. I may have something.”

He disappears for a few seconds then pops up again and shows me a high-tech-looking stainless-steel rectangle that has a small digital display on one side. He looks around to make sure no one is listening before holding out the device like it’s the Holy Grail. “Take this. When you get it close enough to the keypad, press the black button. It will emit a high-density electronic pulse that should be powerful enough to knock out the lock and the camera in one fell swoop.”

I widen my eyes and reach for the device. “Holy shit, Tobes. Really?”

He slaps my hands away and laughs. “No, not really. Jesus Christ, Tate, I’m not James fucking Bond. What the hell do I know about covert warehouse infiltration?”

I point to the thing he’s holding. “Then what’s that?”

“It’s my portable phone charger.” He tosses it back onto his desk and laughs when he sees my crestfallen face. “Aw, don’t pout. You look ridiculous. Forgive me for not being a superhero security expert.”

I flop into my chair. “But you know so much about really obscure crap, I thought you might have had a clue.”

“Nope. Zero clues about these sorts of things. Hacking I can do. Anything else you see in spy movies, not so much. Couldn’t you just ask Max what’s inside the warehouse?”

“Sure, but then he’ll just tell me what he wants me to know, and I’m after the stuff he wants to keep hidden. If he has that much security, there must be valuable info inside, right? I just need to find a way to get to it.”

“Oh, you know I have your back as much as I can. If you can give me any solid facts about this guy, I can go to town tracking his real identity, but I need a place to start.”

“I know, Tobes. Thanks. I’ll see what I can find.”

Toby goes back to his computer, and I pull my hair back into a rough bun as I think about where to go from here. I need biographical info on Max, as well as testimonials from his clients. Then I’ll be able to start painting a balanced portrait that can serve as the jumping-off point for my story.

My computer beeps as an inter-office message pops up on my screen.



I want your first 800 words on Mister Romance on my desk by next week.

Derek.



Oh, goody. Right now, that will be eight-hundred words of filler and bullshit, and I don’t think Derek would be pleased with that.

I type my reply.



Sure thing, bossman! I’m on it!



I sign it with three happy faces, just to piss him off.

I’m still wracking my brain for a solution ten minutes later when my phone lights up with Max’s name.

I answer with, “Unless you start being more forthcoming, I’m going to give you a very unfavorable review on Yelp, Mister Romance.”

There’s an amused chuckle before he says, “Well, good morning to you, too. Would you like some cheese to go with that whine?”

“I’m serious, Max. I agreed to your conditions, and you promised me full disclosure, but so far all I’ve gotten is a lot of talk and a night with a non-existent musician. I need more.”

“Such as?”

“Your history. A list of your clients. Testimonials. Interviews. You know, the usual stuff a journalist needs for a story. I have so many questions about why these ladies are so dedicated to you and how they feel about the whole situation. You telling me how they feel and me hearing it from their own mouths are two totally different things.”

“I’ve told you before, my clients won’t divulge anything to a journalist. Apart from the non-disclosure agreements they all signed, talking to you will jeopardize their identities.”

“Then you’d better come up with something that will help me, because I’m on a deadline, and I need to start showing results. If I get kicked from this story, I have no doubt Derek will put someone else on it, and you’ll lose whatever leverage you’ve gained with the whole being nice and taking care of me routine.”

“You honestly can’t comprehend I did that because I care, can you?”

“Pure intentions from a man who manipulates women for a living? Sure. That makes perfect sense. Now, about my story ...”

He pauses then says, “I have an idea that might work, and coincidentally, it meshes with the plans I had for our second date.”

“I’m listening.”

“I want to do an immersive date with you, which means you’ll also play a character.”

“Oh, Max, I don’t know. I’m not much of an actress. The only theatrical experience I’ve had is playing second turnip from the left in my third-grade nativity scene, and even then I was so nervous, I almost peed.”

“There’s nothing to be nervous about. None of my clients are actresses. You’ll be fine. Although, if you still have that turnip costume somewhere, let me know. I can always find a way to work it in.”

I laugh, and it’s a real, pure, girly laugh. I throw my head back and everything. Oh, Lord. What’s become of me?