“I’m with Siren,” I tell him, handing over my card, and Jack goes very still beside me.
“Ah, now things are making more sense. Couldn’t figure out why Brawler would care about my wedding. Thought you were goin’ soft on me!” He punches Jack in the arm.
My jaw drops just as one of the hovering publi-sharks gets tired of treading water and appears at Eric’s elbow, apologizing to us before murmuring in his ear.
“Duty calls,” he tells us regretfully. “It was great to see you, man. And say hi to Tom for me. We should all go out for a drink, it’s been too long.”
“Absolutely. Name the time and we’re there.”
“Nice to meet you, Cassidy,” he calls over his shoulder as he’s led away, and he’s swallowed up by the crowd before I can answer—which is probably a good thing, since I’m currently stunned silent.
As soon as he’s out of sight, I spin around to face Jack accusingly, my face a flaming ball of fire. In fact, my entire body blazes with indignation.
“You’re with Brawler?” I spit out the words like they’ve scalded my tongue.
He takes his time answering. “Well, actually...” he says slowly, “I own Brawler.”
My temperature spikes; mercury showers everywhere. “Youwhat?” I cry, barely recognizing the shrill sound of my own voice. “You’re telling me you’re JackBradford? Founder of Brawler?”
“Cofounder, but yes.” He looks annoyed. “Is there a problem?”
My mouth opens but no sound comes out; my brain still hasn’t quite caught up to the fact that the human embodiment of that god-awful hellsite is standing before me with a name and a face (a nauseatingly attractive one, at that). I’m simultaneously speechless and shaking with the need to hurl an insult at him that’s both cutting and clever. I’m Meg Ryan inYou’ve Got Mail, holding Tom Hanks at knifepoint after he’s just compared books to vats of olive oil.
Before I can formulate a response, Nat pops up at my side, cheeks flushed and gripping a blue-tinted cocktail. “I cannot believe you just got a private audience with Eric Jessup! I tried to get over here but security kept holding us back.” She sticks her free hand out to Jack. “Hi, I’m Natalia.”
“Ja—” he starts to respond before I cut him off.
“This is Jack Bradford, founder of Brawler.”
Her eyes go silver dollar–wide. “Whaaat? Seriously?”
“Wish I was kidding.”
Jack’s starting to look pissed now.Good. We’ll match. “I’ll repeat—is there a problem?”
“Yeah, Brawler’s my problem. And by extension,youare now my problem.” Natalia hoots and takes a noisy slurp of her cocktail.
I am righteously indignant. I’m standing up for wronged women everywhere. He has no idea what’s about to hit him. I might even break out my Z-snap.
He stares at me impassively, a parent humoring a tantruming child. “So this is about the history between us and Siren? How is my friend Cynthia, anyway?”
I bristle. “She isnotyour friend.”
He grins, clearly enjoying ruffling my feathers. He jutsout his chin, and I have to talk myself out of socking his perfectly chiseled jaw. “Oh come on, we all benefit from this little feud. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Cynthia knows that better than anyone.” His eyes light in recognition. “Wait, I know who you are now. Cassidy Sutton. I’ve read your work.” He nods approvingly, like I’ve passed some sort of test I didn’t know I was taking. “It’s good.”
“Thanks, I’ve been awaiting your validation,” I say sarcastically.
“You know, you should run a photo with your byline,” he says, bypassing my hostility completely, and I narrow my eyes. “You’d get a lot more clicks.”
Oh, gross. “Maybe I don’t want those kinds of clicks.”
He raises a finger. “Now, that statement would be a fireable offense at Brawler. Clicks are king. I would think you’d know that.”
“I’ll take my dignity over clicks, thank you.”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself. Of course, that kind of emotional decision-making is probably why Siren’s traffic has stagnated.”
“Hey!” Natalia is affronted.
