Page 16 of The Perfect Rom-Com

I raise a finger. “How did you—” I pause. Restart. “How did you know—” Pause again. “And you were about to bang on my door?”

It’s no use.

I’m in a dream missing a bunch of crucial bits of information, and there’s just no way to start this conversation.

Jack, for his part, looks like he’s ten pounds lighter than he was four hours ago.

He actually looks like the only thing keeping his feet on the ground are weights in his shoes.

In fact, it’s suspicious.

He’s staring at me right now like this is exactly where he wants to be and I’m exactly the one he wants to be with.

Here. In an elevator.

He nods at me. “Funny. For the chatterbox you were four hours ago, I thought you’d have at least two pages worth of words to throw at me now. Well, I’ll just take the lead then. I’m talking about the flight we’re about to go on.”

He’s said the word flight as though this should make perfect sense.

“You’re in my elevator,” I say. “At my hotel.” I press my lips together when he doesn’t respond to this. “Are you . . . staying at this hotel?”

“Oh no,” he says with a half chuckle as though of course he wouldn’t be caught dead in a place that uses cowboy and cowgirl hats for labeling the restrooms. “No, but you had a lot of handy information in that folder you gifted me today—”

Accidentally left behind on the table in the whirlwind of adrenaline and extreme disappointment and would rather die than walk back in that room one more time to get it, more like.

“—which made it incredibly easy to spot you now.”

My brows crease. “Track me, you mean.”

“Spot,” he corrects with a raised finger. “I prefer the word spot when you’re finding someone who wants to be found. And you did—at least you did four hours ago—want to be found. If I recall correctly, you actually tried to staple yourself to my side.”

My nose wrinkles. “It wasn’t that bad—”

“Were it not for the annoying bell girl, I think you would’ve trotted along after me home—”

“That is absolutely false—”

“Probably would’ve moved next door to me if you could—”

“Hang on—”

“Anyway, according to your very organized folder system”—he pulls out the folder and taps the color-coded tags—“I like this tab system here. It’s handy, even if it smells of desperation. We have a flight to Newark leaving in an hour and forty five—”

“We? You’re on the same flight?”

“It took a while to get the flights rearranged, but I am now. Because obviously”—his hand makes a rolling motion as he elongates this word—“I have a very busy schedule, and I can think of no better way to start off this relationship than by spending six hours squeezed together on a plane, through two plane rides, a handful of layovers, at least two airport Starbucks, and one Cinnabon—do you like Cinnabon? You seem like the type of girl who likes Cinnabon—going over everything. We’re going to hit the ground running, so I hope you don’t mind me assuming—particularly given your eager, some would say fanatic, display today—that I won’t be holding you up.”

Relationship.

As in, Jack and me.

Tied together in a working relationship that lasts, presumably, far more than fifteen minutes. Because . . . and then it hits me with a thud . . . he liked my book.

I left the folder.

He took the folder.

My chapters were in the story. (Along with pages and pages of character descriptions.)