Love the One You're With (7 page)

“Why?” she asked, not even glancing at him. “Are you wearing dirty underwear again?”

He hid a smile before giving a quick scan of the bar. No sign of his
Stiletto
date.

“What's with the Catwoman outfit?” he asked, turning back to the stunning brunette.

“I thought we just established I have a date.”

“With who, Batman?”

She ignored him as she ordered something called a sidecar. She was apparently in no hurry to leave, and Jake felt the first prickle of nervousness. She might not care about being seen with him, but he really didn't need Ms.
Stiletto
seeing him with another woman. Not exactly the first impression he was going for.

“Is this your usual after work haunt?” she asked, turning toward him slightly.

Jake shrugged. “Not sure I have any usual places. I tend to let my date or the people I'm interviewing do the picking.”

“Interviewing?”

“I'm a journalist. Which you would know, if you hadn't been so determined to have the last word upon exiting the cab that day.”

She took a small sip of her drink. “Explain.”

He gave her a slow smile. “Well, see, had you turned around, you would have seen me climbing out of the cab behind you. I work at Ravenna headquarters too.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I want my twenty bucks back.”

Jake gave a small laugh. “How about I use it to buy your drink?”
Shit. Where had that
come from?

“This is the Lambs Club. I'm not sure twenty bucks will cover the drink, but have at it.”

Jake looked at her curiously. “On second thought, maybe you should let your date pay. Guys like that sort of thing. Particularly when the woman's wearing a dress that's too tight to allow for underwear.”

“I believe it's too soon to give out details on panty status,” she said, running a finger along the stem of her glass. “You work at
Oxford
, yes?”

“I do,” he said, unsurprised by her assessment. “And you work at
Swank
.”

She lifted one eyebrow. “Do I?”

Jake's hand faltered as he lifted his drink to his lips. Didn't she?

“There are about twenty magazines under the Ravenna brand,” she said. “What made you assume I was with the snotty interior design one?”

“Uh …”

“Care to make another guess?” she said, glancing at him over the rim of her cocktail. “Maybe another female-targeted magazine that I could possibly work for?”

Oh
shit
.

Jake gave a last panicked glance around the bar. No newly arrived female. Just her.

“You're a
Stiletto
woman.”
The
woman.

“Grace Brighton,” she said, rotating her bar stool to face him completely as she extended her hand. “A pleasure.”

“
Such
a pleasure,” he grumbled, atypically foolish and off balance. Why had it not occurred to him what was going on when she'd walked into the bar?

He wasn't usually so dense.

Nor was he often so intrigued.

She gave him a saucy little wink. “Well,
this
should make a nice start for our article.”

It took his brain a second to catch up.
Damn
. Too late, he realized that the stupid article had been the last thing on his mind ever since she walked in the door.

He'd been thinking about her, and her legs, and that damned dress. Taking the damned dress off her …

Pull it together, Malone
. It was show time.

It was going even better than she'd imagined.

The dress had been genius. Grace had initially determined to avoid black since she had about a dozen LBDs in her closet already, but in the end, she'd gone with Riley's judgment.

And this black dress was
nothing
like any of the conservative sheath-style dresses she had at home. Somehow the dress managed to be subtle and provocative at the same time. The draped cowl neck gave the impression of being demure at first, but the second glance revealed a rather dramatic drop. One that showed off the twins quite nicely, if she did say so herself.

Sure, the poor girls were maybe just a
little
uncomfortable being shoved up to her collarbone this way, thanks to a push-up bra that had cost almost as much as the dress itself. But it had been worth it for the flash of admiration in Jake Malone's brown eyes.

And he hadn't even seen the back of the dress yet.

She felt a bit scandalous. And just the
tiiiiiiniest
bit slutty.

She was loving it. This was a 2.0 dress.

“So you're Grace Brighton,” he said, mostly to himself.

Grace pretended to jot her story notes on her hand. “First impression of Jake Malone—
super
quick on the uptake.”

He leaned back in his chair and breathed out a long breath. “I'm going to need another drink.”

“Have at it. We've got all night,” she said in a sultry voice.

His eyes snapped to hers, and Grace felt her belly tighten. What the hell was she doing? Where was this come-hither version of herself coming from?

It wasn't her usual routine.

This vampy, sex-kitten routine had always belonged to Riley. And the flirty “gotcha” vibe had been Julie's.

So what had been Grace's shtick?

Hell, she couldn't remember.

Had she even had one? Somehow she didn't think that accidentally dropping your pencil
in college and then planning to marry the guy who picked it up just because he had a nice smile counted as a shtick.

It was mostly just pathetic.

“So how do we do this?” Grace asked, tearing her eyes away from Jake's. “How are we supposed to evaluate the other when we both know the other's evaluating us?”

“We forget about all that.”

Impossible
. “I don't think so,” she muttered.

“You know, in some ways it's actually fortuitous that we've met before,” he said cheerfully. His brief discomfort over her little surprise was seemingly a thing of the past. “Now we can pretend that this is happening organically. We can just forget that this is business, and think back to that taxi ride. Think about the goose bumps you got when I touched your hand before you went scampering out.”

She pursed her lips. How had he known?

“I did
not
have goose bumps,” she lied.

He continued as though she hadn't spoken, slowly reaching out a hand to wrap his fingers around her wrist.

“Now, let's pretend that instead of running away, you'd stayed,” he said huskily. “Let's pretend that you gave me a chance to do what I wanted to do in that taxi. Let's say I asked you out. Can you envision it?”

“No,” she breathed. “No,” she repeated, louder this time. God, was she
sweating
?

“I would have said, ‘Have drinks with me. Say, Lambs Club? Thursday?' ”

Grace found she couldn't look away. His hand found hers, and his thumb was moving over her wrist just as it had in the cab that morning.

Damn
, he was good.

But this was exactly why she'd accepted this gig. To show the world that she was good too. And nobody's fool. Grace 2.0 gave her a little slap.
Get back on track. He's playing you
.

Grace leaned in just the tiniest bit, savoring the way his eyes dipped briefly to her chest. “Let me guess,” she said. “That little thumb across the pulse routine lands the date nine out of ten times, am I right?”

His eyes flickered in confusion before they dropped to their joined hands, as though surprised to see that he was still touching her. But he recovered quickly. “My turn to guess. This
is going to be the one time out of ten that I fail, isn't it?”

“Oh, I'll go out with you again,” she said with a sassy little smile. “For work. The boss is insisting that we do at least five dates for this little charade.”

“Gee, I'm having a hard time containing my enthusiasm. You seem so enamored with me.”

Grace took a sip of her cocktail to avoid admitting that she just might be well on her way to being enamored. “So, Jake Malone. Tell me about yourself.”

“Thought you'd have it all figured out by now.”

“Oh, I do,” she replied. “But we're supposed to be mimicking the real deal, remember? Your rules. Just pretend you're interviewing me for the role of your bedmate or girlfriend.”

“The dress alone would have landed you the first one,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “But your personality is making it a little hard to envision the second …”

“Gosh, I can't wait to get that in writing. You know, after I write this article, I wouldn't be at all surprised if women are lining up around the block to get a date with you so they can be constantly insulted.”

“And my male readers will be leaving twenties on the dresser when they hear about that dress.”

“Twenties, Malone? Really? Surely this is more of a triple-digit kind of dress.”

He smiled at that and rolled his shoulders, as though prepping to get his head in the game. “Okay, so you want real first-date chatter, is that it? Here we go … I was born and raised in Green Bay, Wisconsin, the only boy among four sisters, and you know what that means—”

“Gay?”

“Packers fan,” he continued, unperturbed. “And I suppose I was one of those pretentious, driven kids who knew what he wanted, even from a young age—”

“Herpes?”

Again he continued as though she hadn't spoken. “My eighth-grade teacher is really the one to blame. A couple buddies and I broke into the school one Saturday with the intention of stealing the third-grade class's hamster. We got caught, naturally, but instead of standard detention, we were assigned to random extracurriculars, which was the newspaper for me. I got hooked.”

She couldn't keep herself from smiling. The story was kind of … cute. She could totally
picture a mini Jake Malone, all messy black hair and curious eyes, running around with one of those old-school reporters' spiral notebooks. “What was it exactly that hooked you?” Grace asked. “The student council elections? Science fair coverage?”

Jake smiled back. “Nah, I was banned from the science fairs after sixth grade when I took that exploding volcano trick a little too seriously. My writing beat back then was mostly sports. Although my junior year in high school I
did
get to interview the mayor. After that, I kind of branched out. The sky was the limit and all that.”

“Mmm-hmm, and at what point did you start researching for your riveting article in last month's
Oxford
? ‘Five Little Words That Get Any Woman into Bed'?”

Jake gave an unrepentant grin. “I'll have you know, I had four of those words figured out by the time I graduated from University of Florida with a journalism degree. The girls there made
excellent
research subjects. The fifth one is a more recent discovery, though.”

“Do tell.”

“You didn't read the article?”

She lifted her brows. “Have you ever read one of
my
articles?”

“I should have. Maybe then I'd have known who you were,” he muttered.

“What's the fifth word?” she prompted.

Jake leaned forward just slightly, not enough to touch her, but enough so that she was leaning in to hear whatever he was going to say. Really, the man was good at this. Good at women.

“Cheese plate,” he said.

Grace blinked.
“Cheese plate?”

“I know, I know … technically, that's two words. But ‘Six Little Words That Get Any Woman into Bed' didn't have quite the same ring for the headline, and since ‘cheese plate' really just refers to one concept, I gave myself a free pass.”

Grace stared at him. “
That's
your secret word? ‘Cheese plate'? Good Lord, no
wonder
your readers are writing angry letters.”

“Not
my
readers, Ms. Brighton. It's
your
readers sticking their noses into their husband's magazine that's causing all the ruckus.”

“Because you're way off base.”

“Or,” he said, holding up a finger, “is it because I'm
on
base, and women hate knowing
that they have such easy buttons to push?”

“The only women whose buttons get pushed by ‘cheese plate' are dairy maids. So feel free to take that little tidbit of a sex tip of yours right on back to Wisconsin.”

“Now hold on,” he said, wiggling his finger in her face like an obnoxious schoolboy. “Do
you
like cheese plates?”

Grace bit the inside of her cheek in irritation. “Yes, but—”

“Do all of your friends like cheese plates?”

“Yessss …”

“And is said plate not the focus of many a girls' night? Do you not stake out wine bars with cheese plates and those little dishes of weird olives?”

“Sure, but—”

“Cheese is the new chocolate,” he said smugly, sitting back as though he had just identified the solution to world hunger.

“Um, no,” she said, doing a little finger waggling of her own. “There is no replacement for chocolate.”

“A sweet tooth. Noted,” he said, batting her finger away. “But at least admit that if a guy suggested that you split a bottle of wine and a nice cheese plate on the third date, you'd be pleasantly surprised.”

“I … I don't know,” she said, thrown off.

“See, that's where guys always make their mistake,” he replied, shaking his head in dismay. “They think the third date still requires the full fancy-dinner routine. They suggest splitting an appetizer, then salads—because guys think
all
women want a side salad, and women let them think this. By this point both parties are well on their way toward full, but they order two big old entrees anyway. Then of course, there's the dessert that she pretends she doesn't want, and he pretends he
does
so he can feed her a bite … And then everyone's too full to feel sexy. He's dropped a ton of money and has just become like every other man who's asked her out. Boring.”