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“Know what I hate?” she said, watching him rip off several paper towels. “People who dab the grease off their pizza. If you don’t want junk food, don’t order a pizza.”
Mitchell ignored her. “I hate when women tell men to pick a movie, because one of two things invariably happens. Either they make some sort of passive-aggressive comment once he’s happily made his choice, letting her know that she’s disappointed with a capital D. Or they just complain outright the whole damned time.”
She chewed. Considered. Swallowed. “That’s true. Good point. Want me to pick?”
“Hell, no,” he muttered, selecting some war biopic. “I’d rather listen to you whine than suffer through that romantic comedy I skipped.”
Julie glanced at his profile, pleased to see that he looked as relaxed and happy as she felt.
“Can I ask you something?” she said, feeling gutsy as she took a sip of her wine.
“Great, yet another gem from the female set,” he muttered.
“You like sports, right?”
He shot her a startled look. “Sure, most of ’em. Baseball, mostly.”
“Right, that’s what you told me that first night. You love baseball. But in the time we’ve been … dating”—she said the word hesitantly—“I’ve never seen you watch a game. Or even suggest
watching a game. And I’m not the biggest sports geek out there, but I’m pretty sure we’re in the middle of the Yankees season right now.”
Something sharp passed over his face at the mention of the Yankees, but it disappeared before she could identify it. He slid another piece of pizza onto each of their plates as he seemed to be pondering her question. Julie sipped her wine and let him work it out. At first his pregnant pauses and apparent need to have every word selected before opening his mouth had bothered her. But she’d gotten used to it. Liked it, even. No wasted words ever escaped Mitchell Forbes.
“I record the games,” he said finally. “And watch them when I have free time.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And Saturday night doesn’t count as free time?”
“Okay, honestly? If we’re going to be all sharey and shit? Evelyn hated baseball. So have all my previous girlfriends.”
Julie shook her head in bafflement. “Sugar, I’m thinking half the women in America fall somewhere between hate and lukewarm on the subject of the New York Yankees. But I’m pretty sure there’s such a thing as compromise in relationships.”
He shot her a knowing look. “Did you read that in one of Grace’s articles?”
Julie gave a guilty smile. “I proof all her stuff; I guess I picked up a few things.”
“I’d say you have a natural knack for it,” he said, taking a bite of degreased pizza. “You seem to be doing pretty well in this relationship.”
Julie was in the process of bringing her pizza to her mouth, and at his words she nearly fumbled the slice. She forced herself to take a bite despite the launch of butterflies in her stomach.
Was this it? He’d said relationship. They were having movie night. And he’d slept over last night.
Had she just taken things to the next level?
Did this mean she could be done with her undercover assignment? And the most important question of all … did she want to be done?
The pizza felt stuck in her throat, and she washed it down with a swallow of the excellent wine.
“You okay?” he asked, completely oblivious to the firestorm of confusion he’d just unleashed.
“Yup!” Julie desperately wanted to lunge for the remote and start a movie, any movie, to avoid this conversation.
But then again … weren’t these types of conversations exactly the purpose of her article? To coach women how to have the “relationship” talk with the man they were kinda sorta seeing, she had to have one first.
God, this sucks.
Julie mentally slapped on her big-girl panties and turned to face him. “So, Wall Street, what made you change your mind about movie night?”
He set his own plate aside and leaned forward to refill their wineglasses—generously. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who was nervous.
