“Your grandma, huh?” he teases, not unkindly.
“I know, right? I’m really a ninety-year-old stuck in a twenty-eight-year-old’s body.”If he only knew.I let out a high-pitched giggle that resembles a horse’s whinny.Nope, I don’t sound suspicious at all.
He doesn’t seem to notice. “Well, your grandmother sounds smart. What advice do you think she’d have if the rough patch had lasted, say, thirty-two years?”
“Hmm.” I pretend to think about it. “She’d probably say... you need a therapist.”
He coughs a laugh. “Touché.”
He stands and shrugs off his blazer, draping it over the back of his chair before setting to work unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling the sleeves to his elbows. I keep my eyes trained forward, as though thoroughly engrossed by the rousing display of athletic prowess before me, but I hardly think I can be expected to ignore the forearm foreplay unfolding mere inches from me. Show me a woman who isn’t turned on by that bare expanse of skin and I’ll show you a liar.
“So are you happy at Siren?” Jack asks, interrupting my forearm fantasy.
“I am,” I tell him, sitting up a little straighter. “I get to write what I want for the most part, and my pieces typically get a strong response. Each day and story are different, so I don’t get bored. I’ve moved up to the point where I’m managing quite a few contract writers, and Cynthia’s really great about seeking our input on the growth and direction of the site.”
He nods, listening intently—and then I realize what I’m doing and give myself a mental kick to the shin.This isn’t a real date. Stop giving him real answers.
I need to quit fixating on his foxy forearms and JFK Jr.–like charisma and remember why I’m here. What would Betty do?Never let him believe your career is more important to you than marriage.
I lean in and drop my voice. “But actually, my real dream is to be a stay-at-home mom.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”
“I mean, nottomorrow, of course, but eventually. Once I meet the right person.” I cast my eyes briefly away, faux coy, before sliding them back, doe-eyed once again. “Don’t getme wrong, I like working. But don’t you think raising a family is the most important work a woman can do?”
I’ve teed it up perfectly; all he has to do is agree. I’m giving him permission to say aloud what a man like him surely believes: that a woman’s place is in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant.Let’s hear those misogynistic thoughts in all their unvarnished glory.
“You don’t think you’d get bored?” he says instead, tilting his head. “You’re so talented, and your career is just taking off. You’d really be okay giving all that up?”
I’m totally thrown by his response; I have to scramble to regain my footing.
“It’s just that I’ve had a front-row seat to how difficult it is for my sister and her husband to juggle everything as a two-working-parent household,” I explain, thinking fast. “She feels like she doesn’t see the girls enough, she’s only working to pay the nanny, she struggles with mom-guilt. I always thought if I had the financial means, it’d make more sense to commit myself fully to wife- and motherhood, keep things running smoothly on the home front. You know, have dinner on the table when my husband gets home, help the kids with their homework, make sure everyone’s needs are met, that sort of thing.”
I can’t believe how easily this crap is falling out of my mouth. Honestly, I’m surprised the big man upstairs hasn’t struck me down for such blasphemy. But Jack’s not reacting how I expected. In fact, he’s gone silent.Did I take it too far?It’s hard to read him with his eyes hidden behind sunglasses—but judging by the crease in his brow, he’s not buying it.
“What about your needs, though?”
I blink.Okay, this is officially not going how I thought it would.
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging your decision,” he adds hastily, holding up his hands. “Staying home is certainly a selfless choice. I guess I’m just surprised. Can’t you do both? From what I know about you, you seem really passionate about your work.”
“I am, that’s true,” I say slowly, my mind grappling for ways to salvage this. “I guess I just see it as a different kind of work. You know, like the CEO of the household. And is there really anything you could bemorepassionate about than your children?”
I hear the words like they’re coming out of someone else’s mouth. I’m used to advocating for women balancing careerandfamily, not choosing one over the other. And now he’s forcing me todefendthis drivel? He’s got me twisted up like a pretzel.
“I hear what you’re saying, and I respect that.” Herespectsthat? If I had a desk handy, I’d thunk my head against it. “I suppose my opinion on this is colored by personal experience. My mom stayed at home, but she was never very happy.” He clears his throat, shifting his gaze back toward the court. “Though I suppose there were a variety of reasons for that,” he mutters.
I eye him from behind my sunglasses and stay quiet, unsure how to react to that unexpected swerve toward the personal.
He seems to catch himself, casting me a wry grin. “Hoo, boy. That got a little heavy, huh? Guess my first-date etiquette’s a little rusty.” He lets out a stilted laugh.
I could let him flail, but I can’t resist the urge to throwhim a life raft. “I could tell you some more about chaperones?”
He laughs again, though I can tell by the tense set of his shoulders that he’s still embarrassed.Diversion needed.
I reach out and brush an imaginary hair from his sunglasses. “Oops, I smudged the lens. Here, let me fix it.”
I hold my hand out expectantly and he passes them over, a faint smile curving his lips—and I pluck out the cleaning cloth I tucked into my bag for just this purpose.
