Jo hummed.
“I’ll probably make more than you if I start practicing again,” she continued. “Does that bother you?”
When they first met, Mal had found Jo’s directness comforting. But today, it wasn’t cute. It felt like he was being tested, and she was grading him in real time.
“Why are you interrogating me over dinner?” he asked, swirling a glass of wine.
“Why aren’t you answering my question?” she said, doing the same.
He held her gaze, stewing, for a full minute.
“My mom was the breadwinner in my house growing up. We moved around every few years for her jobs. My dad stopped working and stayed at home full-time when I was in third grade. Whatever hang-ups you’re assuming I have, I don’t. I think it’s great that you’ve got your life together. I also think it’s rude to guess how much I make, but all you need to know is it was enough to support two adults in a big city a couple years back, and I’m doing better now than I was then. Oh, and I’m paying today, not because of the patriarchy, but because I want to.” He placed his glass back on the table, a quiet checkmate.
Jo rolled her bottom lip into her mouth as if he’d just dropped the swooniest pickup line rather than put her in her place.
“Touché,” she said. “It is a little rude. But you like that.”
“I don’t,” Mal insisted.
Suddenly, something glanced up his leg—Jo’s bare foot, gliding slowly up to the crook of his knee. His face flushed instantly,and he held his breath, unsure of where it was headed, where this was going. They were far from alone. None of the tables in this room had cloths. If any of the other attendees were paying attention, they would trace the path her leg had taken, catch the way it had stopped just at the juncture of his thigh.
“You do,” Jo said confidently. She eased a bundle of noodles off her fork, then lowered it and her wandering leg all at once. “And why shouldn’t I interrogate you? We’re grown. I just want to know what your expectations are of”—she waved between them—“this.”
The light caught her pendant, and Mal’s eyes flickered to her chest at exactly the wrong time. When Mal looked up to her face again, she looked triumphant.
“I want the things most people want when they’re getting to know someone,” he said. “I want to spend time with you. See if we vibe...”
Jo laughed. “Is that what most people want?” she said. She nodded sagely, took another sip of wine, and then added, as plainly as if she were commenting on the color of his shirt, “Mostly, I want to sleep with you.”
Mal choked—quite literally—on his tagliatelle.
“Are you okay, my friend?” Emiliano said, sweeping over to him, clearly ready to deliver a Heimlich. Mal shook his head vigorously, pounding on his chest and trying not to heave. Jo didn’t get up from her seat, just pushed his cup of water toward him.
“You’re heartless,” Mal joked weakly when he finally recovered, dabbing the tears from his eyes. “I could’ve died, and you just sat there.”
“You were protecting your airway,” Jo observed, bemused. She tapped a finger next to his water, directing him to drink.
Mal took a swig, using the split second to collect his faculties. Okay, so he knew he was a good-looking guy. All that time in the gym post–cataclysmic breakup had given him a physique that got him the occasional appreciative glance. An old woman on the Red Line had told him he had a nice butt just last week. But he had never been the type to inspire primal urges. The women in his friend groups referred to him as “sweet.” No one was tagging him on #mancrushmondays.
And yet, nothing in Jo’s expression indicated that she was joking. If anything, her entire getup suddenly made sense, the sky-high heels, the dress that left little to the imagination, even her slight annoyance at his choice of first-date activity.
Oh my god. She’d intended to seduce him, and now she was wearing his sneakers. To thinkshewas the virgin here.
“I...” Mal said, gaping at his half-empty plate. “I don’t know what to say.” He dropped his voice to a whisper, suddenly hyperconscious that he’d be overheard, though he figured he needn’t be worried—the ladies to his right had already uncorked their second bottle.
“Don’t think too hard about it,” Jo said. Then, coyly: “Do you not want to sleep with me?”
“Of course I do,” he said, just a bit too enthusiastically. “It’s just. Ah. Um.”
Jo’s smile became feral. “You’re a writer, Mal, use your words,” she said.
Mal was laid-back. It was a quality he liked about himself, that he had the capacity to take things in stride, that, at least when he was spending time with someone one-on-one, he could carry himself with ease. Even Renata Kovalenko had commented on it, ending their conversation with aHas anyone told you that youhave a gentle aura?He could roll with the punches like the best of them, but right now he felt like he was taking a beating.
It was time to throw one himself.
“Okay, fine, since we’re using words,” he said, adjusting himself in his seat. “What’s going on with you and Adelman?”
If Jo was taken aback by his question, she didn’t show it. Instead, the corner of her lip twitched, and he realized that she was impressed.
