I can’t deny it: I’m enjoying myself. Everything about this “date”—this whole night, really—has been a pleasure. In a shocking twist I never saw coming, Jack is proving to be—dare I say it?—a gentleman. Sure, I may have started with rock-bottom expectations, but if I’d randomly matched with him on some dating app I’d be rating it five stars, writing a glowing review, and forcing all my friends to join.
Looking at him now with fresh eyes—his face crinkled in laughter, his mood contagious, the summer air causing his hair to curl up and wing out a bit at the ears—I can’t help but wonder if my sister is right, if I like him more than I’m willing to admit to myself, if I’m missing what’s right in front of me.If I’m making a huge mistake.
I can practically hear Gran’s prodding voice in my ear:Give him a chance. What do you have to lose?
Everything, I lament silently.My job. My credibility. My pride.The idea that my judgment could be so off—that I could have gotten himthiswrong—is terrifying, and my blood runs ice-cold despite the late-summer heat.
The song winds down, and as the crowd—some of whom have joined us in our spur-of-the-moment dance-off—begins to applaud, Jack bends me back in an exaggerated dip. I’m forced to tighten my grip on his biceps—whoa, someone’s been eating his Wheaties—and when he pulls me back up, we’re awash in a chorus ofAwww’s. Everyone’s a romantic.
As the spectators disperse, Jack holds me in his arms for an extra beat, and here it is, the picture-perfect fairy-tale movie moment: our first kiss, bodies silhouetted against the iconic backdrop of a glittering New York City skyline. It couldn’t be more perfect if I’d scripted it myself.
Jack’s watching me intently, eyes aflame, and when hisgaze drops to my mouth I know at just the slightest hint from me—if I leaned forward even a fraction of an inch—his lips would be on mine.
I absolutely cannot allow it to happen.
Panic sets in, and for once I’m sending out a Betty Bat-Signal, begging her to rear her retro head and offer me some of her heirloom pearls of wisdom—but of course, now that I actually need her, she’s nowhere to be found.
Why buy the cow
Modest is hottest
Pet your dog, not your date
Learn where to draw the line, but do it gracefully.That’ll have to work.
I move to step back, but his firm grasp—and this damn pencil skirt—won’t allow it, so I raise my eyes to his and give my head the slightest hint of a shake. His hands flex on my hips as he exhales a ragged breath, his eyes briefly closing, and I have to wonder when he’ll hit his breaking point, if there’s a limit to this man’s patience.
And if there’s a limit to my resistance, as well.
“When can I see you again?” His voice is a husky scrape, like loose gravel on an unpaved road. “Alone?”
I have no idea how to respond. I’m so sick of lying, but I can’t admit the truth: that Iwantto see him again.
“It’ll be our third official date, you know,” he adds before I can answer. There’s an unmistakable gleam in his eye, and unfortunately, I knowexactlywhat he’s getting at.
“Not that you’re counting,” I quip, trying to sidestep that land mine.
“Oh, I’m counting.”
My blood pressure ratchets up.
“But it’s interesting,” he says, catching my hand before Ican think to snatch it away, and I have no choice but to stare up into his eyes. They’re dark as a roiling sea and just as deep. “I’ve realized there’s something to be said for delayed gratification.” He strokes his thumb across the back of my hand and I barely suppress a shiver. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve anticipated anything quite this much.”
He sounds as surprised as I feel—and just like that, this doesn’t feel like a game anymore. This relationship no longer feels fake. The stakes are too high and I’m inwayover my head.
And later, when I’m lying in bed without the bright lights of Times Square to distract me, I no longer know if I’m doing this for a story... or if I’m doing it for me.
Chapter 11
Thwack.
The magazine lands on top of my knuckles, forcing me to stop typing. When I glance up to see the source of the interruption, I find Nat, looking triumphant.
“What’s this?” I slide off my noise-canceling headphones and pick up the magazine.
“Your next date idea,” she announces. “You’re going to make Jack ‘Engagement Chicken.’ ”
“I’m going to dowhatnow?”
