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“Deep enough for a first date,” he said, looking pointedly at her. “It’s your turn.”
She took a deep breath. It had been a long, long time since she’d done this sharing shit.
“You want food first?” he asked, opening one of the bar menus.
“That’d be great,” she said, realizing she was a little hungry. She’d really thought she’d be on her way home by now. She’d figured they’d tolerate each other for one drink and twenty min
utes of small talk before they both headed home to write up their respective story notes while the evening was still fresh.
Or at least she’d planned on going home.
This one had probably planned on cheese-plating some poor girl.
“Calamari?” he asked. “Bruschetta?”
“Either,” she said.
“They do have a cheese plate,” he mused, “but I don’t think we’re there yet. Although with that dress, a guy can never know.”
Grace let out a little laugh. “Trust me, the dress was for first impressions only. It will not be seen again after this night.”
He glanced up. “Why the hell not? It’s a knockout.”
Grace ignored her blush. “It’s just … not me.”
“So why are you wearing it? Just to throw me off?”
Her blush grew deeper. “Guilty. I knew you’d be expecting something a little more bland. I wanted to catch you off guard.”
Jake gave her an approving look. “A good technique. And for the record, if you really want to advise women how to pique the guy’s interest, a dress like that is the way to go. Although they’d need that body to go with it …”
“Don’t start that again,” she said.
“I can’t compliment you?” he asked, looking confused.
Not unless you mean it.
Greg had complimented her all the time. About her new boots. Her makeup when they were going out for the evening. He’d even complimented the dumb stuff, like how she always put just the right amount of cream cheese on his morning bagel.
Once upon a time she’d thought that was sweet.
She’d thought that compliments meant something.
She knew better now. Compliments from men were about as reliable as the relationships on The Bachelor.
And Grace was particularly wary of compliments from a man who occasionally wooed women for a living. So far her mental notes for this story looked a little like this: Don’t trust a word out of Jake Malone’s mouth.
Not exactly the makings of a great article. Then again, it would certainly be a useful article. Because if Grace Brighton could give one bit of tangible advice to women, it would be just that: Don’t trust men. Any of them.
Nodding approvingly was 2.0.
“Uh-oh,” Jake said, his eyes locked on her face.
“What?”
“I know that look. That’s a man-hater look.”
Grace took a sip of her drink. A big one. “I am not a man-hater.”
