“Why definitely no? Don’t you want him to kiss you?”
Quinn tore off a bite of her corndog. “Maybe.”
“So why act like I’m criminally insane for speculating there might have been a good night kiss?”
“Because he’s not into me like that,” she said, still chewing like the lady she was. “He sees me more like some other dude than a chick you make out with.”
Clue. Less.
For ten thousand please, Alex.
“What makes you think that?” I asked, realizing if Quinn was incapable of picking up Justin’s signals, she was going to die alone.
“I don’t know. I just don’t seem like his type?” She shrugged.
“The sports aficionado who has so much to offer it makes heads spin and is a beauty that doesn’t require the aid of face spackle and paint to make her so?” I waved at my best friend, wondering on what planet she didn’t consider herself a high-ranking candidate to just about every straight, red-blooded male out there.
“The Justins of the world end up with the Jessicas.” She twirled her corndog like it was a wand before ripping off another bite.
“The Jessicas?” I slid my lunch aside because no amount of hunger could get that brick down.
“You know, the hair-flipping, eye-batting girls who came out of the womb with the talent to accessorize and abstain from anything containing sugar.” She frowned. “The Jessicas.”
My hands flattened on the table. “Justin is not looking for a Jessica.” I blinked at her, wondering when her wires had crossed. “Justin is looking for a Quinn Rivers, a.k.a. you.”
Half of her face pulled up with a doubtful look, which left me flabbergasted. How could she be so blind to the obvious? To what was literally right in front of her, practically flashing in neon lights?
Suddenly, her eyes focused on something over my shoulder. “Um. Fan club alert.” She cracked open her can of Sprite after finishing her last bite of corndog.
“Fan club?” I repeated, twisting in my seat.
It took me a moment to process what I was seeing through the windows of the cafeteria. A group of people had their faces pressed to the glass, phones raised, chattering excitedly to one another. They were tourists—the comfortable walking shoes, backpacks, and newly done nails gave it away—but I couldn’t figure out what they were doing standing outside this building instead of the one where the Today show was filmed.
“Those shirts are new. I’m going to have to pick myself up one of those.” Quinn waved at the spectators with Sprite in hand.
“‘I’m With Her’?” I read.
“Except for that chic. She’s with him.” Quinn’s pinkie finger indicated one of the younger woman whose shirt was a different color—blue, and it had exchanged the her for him.
“People still hanging onto those after the election?”
Quinn shook her head at me. “Those have nothing to do with politics. At least not the governmental kind.”
Someone might as well have clocked me across the face for the realization I had then. “They’re talking about us, aren’t they?” I gaped at the shirts. “‘I’m With Her’ means they’re with me, and ‘I’m With Him’ means they side with Brooks.”
Quinn banged an invisible drum. “Next, the street vendors will be selling dolls with a lifelike resemblance to Ms. Romance and Mr. Reality, and let’s not forget about scrapbooks for signatures and photos taken in the same locations you two had your dates.”
Silence settled in, winding deep. I’d been kept abreast of the rising number of viewers and advertising spaces being sold thanks to Conrad’s manically gleeful updates. I’d even been recognized a couple of times on the subway, though one person thought I just looked a lot like Ms. Romance and wasn’t really her.
My life had taken no direct hit due to the show, other than having to carve out the time—and dignity—to attend the dates.
Until now.
When a dozen tourists with shirts showing their support watched me pick at a rubber corndog across from my best friend, whom I’d been lecturing on her own love life disasters.
“I don’t know what to do,” I whispered to Quinn, as though they could hear me through the glass.
“I don’t know. Just smile, wave, and evacuate the premises.” Quinn’s chair screeched across the tile floor as she rose.
Doing as suggested, I plastered on a smile and moved my hand back and forth in a way that made a robot seem personal before following her out of the cafeteria.
“Might I suggest evacuating swiftly?” She nudged me as her pace picked up. “Before those fangirls bust into the building to tackle you. That one chick with the feather earrings is tipping the stalker scale of considering skinning you to make into a handbag.”
My heels had no problem keeping up with her sneakers after that warning. “I’m a writer, not a celebrity. If I wanted fame and phones in my face, I wouldn’t have gone into a career where I get to hide behind my computer screen for a living.”
“Better get used to it.” Quinn punched the elevator button a few more times, eyeing the front entry doors. “Because I don’t see viewership going down anytime soon.”
“Now every time I leave the house, I’m going to be paranoid I have lipstick on my teeth or my dress tucked into my tights.”
When the elevator doors whirred open, we both jumped inside.
“You’re going to have to hire one of those big, beefy security guys with a dark suit and sunglasses. The kind of guy who can crush you with his stare.” Quinn chugged what was left of her Sprite. “My best friend is a celebrity, tearing up the Twitter trending models.”
“Your best friend is not a celebrity, and the only thing I’m tearing up is the Chinese takeout menu at Lee Ching’s tonight to self-soothe my anxiety.”
I trudged out of the elevator, feeling overwhelmed. Brooks aside, the real dates, the fake dates, all of that I’d figured out a way to deal with. In my own quirky way. But this? The public scrutiny and not being able to go out for milk in my jammies at midnight without fearing recognition made me downright spastic with stress.
“Don’t freak. You’ve got six more weeks before you prove to the world love lives, slide into your dream job, and say goodbye to Brooks Who? forever.” Quinn made a face in the direction of Brooks’s cubicle. He wasn’t there, but I could make out my coffee resting on the cube wall between us.
“You sound so certain it’s all going to work out,” I said.
“That’s because it is going to all work out. This is you we’re talking about. You set your mind to something, I fear the person who tries to stand in your way.”
My neck cracked. “What if—”
“Don’t you even think about dropping a what if on me. That’s the gateway to failure.”
“What I was going to say before you jumped in is . . .” I paused to see if she was going to be so bold as to interrupt a second time. “What if we’re both right? What if he has a point as much as I do?” My teeth worked at my lip from hearing myself out loud. “You’ve said so yourself a few times.”
Quinn tossed her Sprite can in the closest garbage can before grabbing my shoulders and giving me The Look. “I’ve changed my mind. Taken a total one-eighty in light of new evidence brought to light. If you’re right, he can’t be right. If he’s right, you can’t be right. One person can’t say the sky is blue and another claim it’s orange and both of them be right.”
I sighed, feeling more confused than I had before this conversation. “But depending on the time of day, the sky can be blue. Or orange.”
Last night’s “date” had brought in a staggering number of viewers. Or if you were me, a paralyzing amount. So much so, I could not make myself repeat the figure out loud or in my head. As popularity spread, street teams had assembled, blasting out on social media any sightings of Brooks or me, some so hardcore they could be found waving posters on the sidewalks outside the World Times building, showing support for whichever side of the love debate they
found themselves on.
I’d even heard whispers that advertisers were spending upward of six figures for a fifteen-second advertising spot parsed in at the bottom of the screen during the live dates. It was a circus, and Brooks and I had become the main attraction. Merchandise had gotten out of control, expanding beyond T-shirts and pins and bleeding into every department imaginable. When I’d caught sight of cupcakes in a local bakery that had leapt onto the Romance Versus Reality bandwagon, I considered boycotting them. Until I noticed the fresh lemon bars being placed into the display and sidelined my principles for five minutes.
It had gotten to the point where I’d actually considered asking for a body guard or some surly-looking giant who would flank me whenever I took to the streets, because mixed in with the harmless diehard fans were a few who gave off the psycho vibe. Or as Quinn had put it, the ones who’d rather skin me and carry me as a handbag than ask for a photo with me.
“You about ready in there, Hannah?” A staccato of knocks sounded outside my bedroom door as I pulled on my last boot.
“One sec,” I replied before swiping on a fresh coat of lipstick and raking a brush through my hair. When I threw open the door, Brooks was standing right outside it, which made me flinch.
He chuckled. “You’d think you’d have gotten used to that by now.”
“Used to what? Having someone plastered against my door with a creepy look on his face?” I waited for him to step aside, but he didn’t budge. Discreetly, I shifted back.
“You can’t go out like that.” His brows pulled together when he took a good look at me.
“Excuse me? I can go out however I want.” My eyes skimmed down my outfit. A light jacket, jeans, and boots. It was casual at its best, but it wasn’t like we were heading to the Four Seasons.
“If you do, we’re not going to make it two steps outside the door before being recognized.” He retrieved a paper bag from the floor before coming inside and upending the contents onto my bed. “Incognito in a bag.”
He selected a pair of wide-rimmed glasses from the stash and slid them on. When he held out his arms and did a slow spin, I collected a few other items for his disguise. It was like taking Superman and putting dorky glasses on him though; not exactly a convincing disguise.
“Are you sure this is a good idea? Going out in public like this?” I stepped into him, lifting onto my tiptoes to position a ball cap on his head. “We’ve always done these things in private.”
“These things?”
“You know what I mean.” Shuffling through the pile of goods, I found something I couldn’t resist.
“It will be fine. That’s why I went to the costume store and stocked up like I was considering a career change into the secret agent field.” He frowned when I tore off the sticker backing of the fake mustache.
“What? It’s not like you bought this for me,” I said, pressing it into his upper lip before smoothing it out. Even pasting a fake mustache onto him, my body wasn’t immune to the warmth of his breath on my wrist or the way his throat moved when I touched him.
“How do you know? Plenty of women have mustaches.”
My hands dropped when I realized they were frozen against his jaw. “Yeah, except red-haired women usually don’t grow black mustaches.”
“Case of the drapes not matching the carpet?” He shot me a wink, twirling his fake mustache.
My hand shoved his stomach. “Stop acting like a pubescent boy. It’s too predictable.”
“Who said I’m acting?” He nudged me as he passed by to sort through what was left on my bed. “Okay, my turn.” Grabbing an emerald-green silk scarf, he wound it behind my neck before knotting it tight.
“Because my neck is so recognizable.” My fingers rolled across my hip as he gathered up a few more things. When he held up the dark brown wig styled straight with a blunt cut, I stepped back. “I don’t think so.”
But he was already gathering up my hair, twisting it on top of my head. “You put a predator stache on my face. You’re getting off easy with a wig.”
“I hate wigs. They make my head itch like crazy,” I argued, though I stood still when he slid the heinous thing into place. “And I don’t look good with short hair. Makes my cheeks look like two balloons about to pop.”
Brooks exhaled, moving the wig around a bit before stepping back. “Nah, you can pull off short hair.” He plunked a pair of huge sunglasses on my face, fighting a smile when he took in his masterpiece. “Though I do like you better as a redhead.”
“Yeah, and I like the non-predator look on you better too,” I grumbled as I grabbed my purse from the doorknob. “Actually, no, you look more like an 80s porn star with that stache.”
Brooks followed me toward the front door, a wicked smile creeping into place. “And how would you know what an 80s porn star looked like?”
“Oh, please. Nice attempt at entrapment there, Hugh Cox.” I tipped my cat-eyed sunglasses at him. “For your information, I’ve never watched 80s porn. I’m more a fan of the 70s era.”
The keys in his hand dropped as he was about to lock the door.
I played it cool, waiting for him at the elevator bay.
He was jogging, from the sound of his footsteps.
“You look flushed,” I noted.
He recovered instantly, that unfazed expression going into place. “It’s not every day a man comes across a fellow aficionado of the golden age of porn.”
We were both holding back laughter as we climbed onto the elevator.
“Your apartment still going to be ready to move into tomorrow?” Brooks asked as we watched the floor buttons light up in descending order.
“So long as my upstairs neighbor doesn’t forget to turn off her bath again tomorrow, it’s all set.”
“Yeah. That’s good,” he said, but there was no conviction in his voice.
I knew the feeling.
Spending the past few weeks in the same living space as Brooks had been eye-opening. Not only that, it had been easy; both of us had settled into a pattern that I’d never experienced before when living with a roommate. Usually, increasing one’s level of tolerance was required for sharing a space with another human being, but this felt less about tolerance and more about harmony. We moved through our daily lives as though it were a dance we’d learned in another life and were performing unconsciously in this one.
“Like I said before, don’t feel like you have to help me get settled back in. It’s only a few bags of stuff. I can manage on my own no problem.” When the doors opened, Brooks waited for me to get off first. “Besides, with all of the time we’ve been spending together, you could probably use a break from me.”
Brooks tipped his baseball cap an inch lower before he shoved open the outside door. “A break from you? What would I do with myself then? I don’t like all of that peaceful, quiet stuff.”
I glared at him through the dark lenses. “Not sure insulting your date is the best approach to getting her to view you as something more evolved than your ape ancestors.”
He made a few blaring ape calls, swinging his arms around like a brute.
“I thought the idea was to not draw attention to ourselves,” I said, indicating the people wandering the sidewalk with us.
“You make a good point.” His arms went back at his sides. “This one time.”
My eyes lifted. He was already getting on my nerves and we hadn’t even arrived at our destination. “Where are we going?”
“Not far.”
“Not far as in a few blocks or a few miles?” I motioned at my boots. “Because I am not the superhuman triathlete who doesn’t break a sweat until mile ten.”
His mustache pulled at the corners from his smile. “Good of you to finally acknowledge my superhumanness.”
“I meant super more in the vein of abnormal.”
“Thank you again.”
“Can a person say anything to you without you taking it as a compliment?” I asked, my fingers twitching from the urge
to itch my head.
“Doubtful.”
“I guess I know where everyone’s lack of self-confidence got filtered to.”
He shrugged without a hint of shame before dodging in front of me to swing open a door. “Not far,” he repeated, waving me inside the bustling joint.
“McGregor’s?” I said, reading the rusted metal sign hanging above the door. I’d never heard of the place, but rowdy Irish pubs weren’t the worst place to spend an evening.
“Trust me. You’ll love it.”
“As who? Hannah Arden or Trixie Derriere?” I stepped up to the door, the scent of beer and fried fish rolling over me.
“Would you get your stuffy little derriere inside before I throw you over my shoulder and volunteer you to stand on the bar and recite a limerick after chugging a car bomb?” He nudged me inside just enough so the door could close.
“Whatever. Hugh.”
As I made my way inside, it was refreshing to find no one really paying attention to anyone else. Everyone was too occupied with their own conversations, their beers, or their games of darts.
It was a unique mix of people stuffed in a place that looked and smelled like it had been around since before any of the skyscrapers. McGregor’s appeared to be the watering hole for just about every breed of person one could find on the diverse island of Manhattan.
“Quick!” Brooks had to shout above the noise, pointing at a small table in the back where a couple were getting up and leaving.
“It’s just a table. Not the cure to cancer,” I shouted back.
“Yeah, well, finding an open table at this place on a Friday night runs about the same odds as finding that cure.” Brooks pumped his fists as we barreled into the empty seats.
“I’m kind of regretting keeping this date a secret.” When I went to lift the sunglasses onto my head, he slid them back over my eyes. “It would do the world good to see just how imbalanced you really are.”
He pointed into the crowd of people acting more like it was the last night on Earth instead of a Friday night in April. “Makes me relatable. They’ll only love me more.”
I ignored him and scanned the crusty menu. I wasn’t a snob when it came to places I’d visit, but I had standards for hygiene. “This does not seem like your kind of place.”
Dating the Enemy Page 17
