He holds up a hand. “Don’t apologize. Obviously, I can relate.”
I almost laugh out loud.I just bet Jack Bradford sits home alone, lamenting his singledom and crying into his beer.“Somehow I doubt that.”
He looks affronted. “Whose friends do you think all your friends are marrying?”
This time I do laugh, though my face still stings with embarrassment. I look around the room for a weapon I could use to put myself out of my misery. The aged-concrete lamp on the credenza looks heavy enough to do some damage.
There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. “But seriously, you think men never have these kinds of thoughts? The things we worry about might look a little different, but I can assure you, we have insecurities too.”
“Oh yeah? Let’s hear ’em.”
He tilts his head, considering. “Just trying to figure out what women want is a huge source of stress. How do we show we’re interested without coming on too strong? What if we say the wrong thing? What if we misinterpret intent? Does she want someone better-looking, more athletic, smarter, funnier? Can we afford the life she wants? What if you don’t end up as successful as you’d hoped?”
“Well,youobviously don’t have to worry about that.”
“No, I get to worry about the opposite. Is she onlyinterested in me for my money? Or because of this job and who I know?” He pauses. “Or in this case, will my job be a deal-breaker?”
Oh boy.He’s giving voice to the question I’ve asked myself countless times since this whole charade began—and despite my soul-searching, I’m no closer to an answer. I decide to give that last part a football field–sized berth and focus on the first part of his statement (and mess with him while I’m at it).
“Hmm.” I pretend to think about it. “For me it was mostly about your looks, but now that I know you know famous people, why don’t you hit me with a list of names and I’ll let you know how interested I am?”
He shakes his head sadly. “Terrible. You’re terrible. Making fun of a guy who just admitted to being insecure.”
“Oh please, you’re the least insecure man I’ve ever met. You’re about as insecure as the Dos Equis guy.”
He casts me a sidelong glance. “You’d be surprised.” It’s the second time he’s said that tonight.
“Prove it.”
He eyes me for a minute, as if weighing the wisdom of whatever he’s considering revealing, before nodding once. “Okay. Are you seeing someone else?”
It’s a good thing I finished that wine, because if I’d had any in my mouth, it would now be soaking the front of his T-shirt (which, come to think of it, would be a highly appealing visual indeed). “I’m sorry,what?”
“And look, I realize you don’t owe me an answer. You’d be well within your rights to tell me it’s none of my business. But I’d just like to know what I’m up against.”
Am I seeing someone else?!If he only knew how preposterous that idea is! I can barely keep my current multiplepersonalities straight without addinganotherhuman being to the mix. Honestly, I’d think he was kidding if he didn’t look so serious. Jack Bradford—he of the model-perfect bone structure, certified alpha male, a literal leader among men—is insecure aboutme?
“What you’re... Am I... Jack, you’re...” I can’t form sentences. I’m stuttering through the alphabet. I stop and start again. “May I ask where this is coming from?”
He exhales a breath. “You’re very hard to read. You wait days to text me back. In fact, I’d just about decided you were ghosting me when you called and offered to cook me dinner. I couldn’t figure out if I should be taking the hint or trying harder.” He’s ticking them off on his fingers. “I tried to pin you down all week but you said you needed a rain check, then very specificallydidn’tsay what you were doing. Not that I’m entitled to an explanation of your whereabouts, but it makes a guy wonder. Wouldn’t be the first time I assumed the wrong thing and paid for it later.” Whatever he’s referring to seems to disturb him, and he shakes his head. “I guess I thought we were on the same page after Times Square, but this past week I felt like I was back to chasing my tail. It’s messing with my head.” He swallows and I watch a muscle tic in his jaw, tight as a drum. I’m tempted to trace it with my index finger. “This is going to sound obnoxious and I don’t mean it to be, but I’m not used to having toguessif a woman is into me.”
Whoa. I blink a few times, caught off guard as much by his honesty as by my own tangle of emotions. My heart’s doing something funny in my chest, leaping and fluttering against my ribs like a butterfly on a sugar high.Jack is jealous! He doesn’t want you seeing anyone else! He’s a knight mounting his steed, ready to vanquish the enemy for your heart!
Despite my vow to hold him at arm’s length, I can’t pretend I’m not flattered by his attention any more than I can pretend I’m notwildlyattracted to him. Every cell in my body is begging to touch him, to taste his lips, to bury my face in his neck long enough to identify that scent once and for all. But almost as quickly as I acknowledge that startling truth, my giddiness is replaced by something else entirely:guilt.
I’ve been so desperate to paint Jack as the bad guy that I’ve managed to rationalize away all my lies and misbehavior, but that heartfelt speech just held up a mirror, and I donotlike what I see. I’ve taken a man who’s treated me with nothing but kindness and respect, who’s opened up to me in good faith, and what have I done in return? Plotted against him, scoffed at his decency, toyed with his feelings, and abused his trust. Trust that clearly isn’t freely given.
Gah!Could I have picked a worse time for an attack of conscience? I should feel triumphant. I should beelated. Jack just said it himself: I’m messing with his head. I’m drivinghimcrazy. After all the times and ways Brawler has gotten under my skin, I’ve finally given him a taste of his own medicine. I’ve beaten him at his own game! I should be taking a victory lap around this cavernous living room.
But all I feel is shame.
No matter what I used to believe of Jack, I now know that he’s more than his work, more than some petty website. He’s a real person with bruises and battle scars and a beating heart—a heart I came dangerously close to exploiting for my own gain.
Who exactly is the bad guy here?
The realization is a kick-ball-change to the gut. I let my eyes roam over his face, registering the earnestness of hisexpression and the sincerity in his eyes, and I suddenly know with deep certainty:I am not writing this story.I think I’ve known it for a while. I may have known it all along.
I let out a shallow, shaking breath, desperate to stabilize my heart, which feels simultaneously like it’s being squeezed and about to swell right out of my chest. At the same time, I feel instantly lighter, the weight of my deception melting away—and taking what’s left of my resistance with it.
