by Lauren Layne
And it certainly wouldn’t get her that story.
Mitchell led her to a small Irish bar that she’d never heard of and opened the door for her.
“Thanks,” she murmured. He put his hand on the small of her back to guide her inside, and Julie froze.
Uh-oh. She’d been wrong about them not having any chemistry. Very wrong. The brief brush of his fingers against her spine gave her immediate goose bumps, and Julie had to resist the urge to turn and run. Being attracted to Mitchell was not part of the plan, yet here she was, quivering and wanting to rub against him.
Mayday, mayday! I want to hump my story subject!
Mitchell snatched his hand back too quickly, rapping it on the door jamb, and Julie felt a small measure of relief. At least he’d felt it too.
“So what do you do, Mitchell?” Julie asked, hoping to defuse the sudden shock of awkwardness as they settled at a cozy table in the corner
“Wall Street,” he said as though it needed no further explanation. And really, it didn’t. In Manhattan, you were either on Wall Street or not on Wall Street. If you were in the “not” category, you didn’t have the faintest idea what the hell happened down there, and you didn’t really care.
Or at least Julie didn’t care. Except this time she had to pretend that the topic didn’t bore her to death. If she was going to survive a month with this dud, she at least needed to be able to speak his language.
“How interesting,” she said, leaning forward slightly and casting her eyes up. “What’s that like?”
To her surprise, Mitchell snorted and sat back in his chair, watching her with a faintly incredulous look. “Does that usually work for you?”
Julie jolted out of her fluttering routine, blinking in confusion. “Does what work?”
He waved a dismissive hand over her. “This whole thing. The eyelashes and the cooing and the false interest.”
Julie sat back sharply in surprise, feeling stung. “Who says it’s false?”
He braced his forearms on the table as his eyes bored into hers.
Abruptly Julie realized her mistake. Mitchell Forbes might look harmless, but he was definitely not to be trifled with. She’d played her cards all wrong.
“Of course it’s false,” he said slowly. “You can’t honestly tell me you give a crap what I do from nine to five all day.”
“I care,” she peeped softly.
“I’m sure. Do you even know where Wall Street is?”
Shit. “Um … downtown?”
He gave her a small smile that let her know he knew it was a lucky guess. “You hungry?”
“Gee, I don’t know. Whatever I say might be fake.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry for rushing your game,” he said, not sounding sorry at all as he grabbed a couple of menus from the corner of the bar. “I’ll just be quiet for a few while you try to decide whether or not I want you to be hungry. In the meantime you can ask any questions you want.”
Julie’s surprised embarrassment at her transparency was giving way to anger. Nobody had ever talked to her this way before. And if anyone else had seen through her, they’d certainly never called her out.
“Okay, fine,” she snapped, snatching the menu out of his hand. “Where are you from?”
“Around here.”
She gave him a look over the top of the menu. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible after that ‘free drink’ dud, but your sad attempts at humor are actually going downhill.”
The dimples again. “There, now that’s what I’m talking about. Give me something real.”
“Something real?” she asked, gazing at the menu. “How about this … what I would usually order, and what I really should order, is this boring-sounding cranberry turkey salad. But what I really want is the fish and chips. I’m going with the latter. Just for you.”
She gave him a patently false grin.
He shrugged, not looking at all impressed by her foray into fried foods. “It’s a start.”
“I’m just trying to get to know you,” she snapped, losing patience. Just play along!
“Fine,” he said smoothly, leaning back and studying her. “I’ll be thirty-five on November eighth, my mother was a high school math teacher, my father was also on Wall Street, and yes, I did follow in his footsteps. I’m a middle child, with an older brother and younger sister. I’ve never done drugs, I love red wine. I ran the New York Marathon last year. Reading is my favorite hobby. And I like vanilla ice cream.”
Julie couldn’t resist the urge to roll her eyes. She could have written his bio for him. Vanilla ice cream, for God’s sake.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“Favorite color?” she asked sweetly.
“Blue. Now, my turn.”
“No, thanks,” she said, slapping her menu on the table. “Besides, it’ll take me a while to wake myself up from my nap. What a riveting life you’ve had.”
Mitchell gave her a slow, victorious smile.
“What?” she snapped. “You like being insulted?”
“No, but I like when you get all uppity like this. Be honest … you think all that small talk is garbage. You could barely keep yourself awake long enough to answer the questions.”
“Whatever,” she muttered. “Clearly you don’t date much.”
Julie thought she saw something dark flash across his face, but it was gone before she could name the emotion.
“My turn for the questions,” he said again.
“Fine,” she sighed wearily. “Let’s get it over with.”
“You work for Stiletto magazine.”
“Hardly a secret.”
He ignored her snotty tone. “And you’re part of some little power trio.”
“That’s right,” she said slowly, surprised he knew that much. He didn’t seem the type to be plugged into Manhattan’s social scene or read “Page Six.”
“And you write the sexy stuff?”
She hid a smile. Most men wouldn’t dare touch Stiletto in public, but that didn’t mean they weren’t curious.
“Sort of,” she replied. “The magazine calls it Dating, Love, and Sex.”
“Kiss, Cuddle, and Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.
Julie choked on her beer. “Excuse me?”
“Nothing,” he said, looking faintly horrified and a good deal less cocky than he had a moment before.
“Oh, no way am I letting you off that hook,” Julie said, leaning forward. “If I don’t get to hide behind pleasantries, neither do you.”
“It was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing. You said ‘Kiss, Cuddle, and Fuck.’ What is that?”
He gave her a swift look as though the answer should be obvious, but he still refused to answer.
The answer hit her almost immediately. Julie burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s good,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t wait to tell Grace and Riley. They’ll love that.”
He looked doubtful. “So out of the three, you’re …”
“Dating. Or Kiss, by your definition. Some people would probably tell you that I write the fluff pieces of our section, but I like to think I write the good stuff. Somehow our society has developed this mentality that dating is supposed to be stressful. It should be fun.”
“Sure, at first. But it can’t be all fun and games.”
“Why not?”
He looked frustrated. “Because that’s not real life.”
“Says who? Where is it written that there’s some sort of time limit on happiness?”
“Well, have you ever been able to sustain constant happiness in your relationships? Surely you’ve experienced moments of frustration or anger or boredom once you’ve moved past the puppy love stage.”
Julie felt the color drain from her face. His words hit way too close to home. And even more alarming was the fact that she’d gotten so wrapped up in their conversation that she’d forgotten her purpose. This wasn’t meant to be a bantering session. Reel him in.
&n
bsp; “Are you okay?” he asked with a frown.
“Actually, I’m pretty hungry,” she said, clamoring for a distraction. “Do you think we could order some food?”
“Sure.” He stood and walked to the other end of the bar to get the bartender’s attention, since it wasn’t exactly a table service kind of place. She was grateful for the reprieve to gather herself. What had she been thinking, bragging about how she was the queen of dating? The last thing she needed was to call attention to how she put personal experiences into her stories. She needed him to forget she was a journalist—she shouldn’t wave it in his face like a big red flag.
She took a bracing sip of beer, trying to calm her jitters. Julie couldn’t remember ever forgetting herself so easily on a first date. She wasn’t entirely sure she liked the feeling.
“Here,” Mitchell said, returning to the table. He plunked a glass of white wine in front of her.
“What’s this?”
“Pinot grigio. Don’t even pretend you’re enjoying your Guinness.”
She gave him a cautious glance. He was observant. That did not bode well for her purposes. “Thanks, but I don’t want to waste the beer.…”
Mitchell shrugged. “So I’ll drink it.”
He slid her barely touched glass of beer toward him as he drained the rest of his own glass. Julie tried not to gape. He was finishing her beer as if it was the most natural thing in the world to clean up her leftovers.
Get it together—it’s not that big a deal. She’d shared food and drinks with plenty of guys over the years.
But not on the first date. And never so casually.
This had been no teasing offer of a bite of dessert, and there’d been no suggestive whisper that he should finish her drink because she was feeling tipsy. She’d played all those cards before, but not tonight.
Mitchell just acted as if it was his right. As though it was one of many drinks he’d be finishing for her. It felt strangely, uncomfortably natural. What the hell is going on here?
“Well, thank you,” she said stiffly.
“No problem. Although fair warning—the wine is probably crap. This is more of a beer and whisky place.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” she said, with a pointed glance at the dozens of Guinness and Jamison signs covering every square inch of wall space. “Super classy, though. You bring all your girls here?”
“Nah,” he said, mostly to himself. “I brought Evelyn once. Didn’t go over well.”
“Ex-girlfriend?”
“Yup.” His eyes had shut down. Apparently that wasn’t open for discussion.
“Forbes!” the bartender called. “Order up.”
Julie took a thoughtful sip of her wine as Mitchell went to retrieve their food. He was apparently a regular here, which seemed odd. It didn’t seem to be his type of place. Yet another warning sign that this man wasn’t exactly shaping up to be the predictable drone she’d expected.
“Yum,” she said as he slid a plate of steaming fish and chips in front of her. “This was definitely a better choice than the salad.”
Too late, she glanced at his plate. Whoops. Cranberry turkey salad.
“Don’t worry, I’ll save you a bite,” he said, digging in.
“I can’t say the same,” she said as she dunked a crispy fry in deliciously rich tartar sauce. “How bad do you think this is for me?”
“On a scale between spinach and deep-fried hot dog, I’d say you’re on the heart attack end.”
“I’ll work it off tomorrow.”
“You exercise?” he asked without looking up from his plate.
“Only so I don’t get fat. You?”
“I run. It’s more of a hobby than a health thing.”
“Says the guy munching the romaine,” she said with a disdainful look at his plate. “And running is not a hobby.”
He looked up. “It is too.”
“No. It’s a method of exercise. Developed as a human flight mechanism, and not intended to be enjoyable.”
He laughed and shook his head. “So in your world of dating, there are a finite number of acceptable hobbies?”
“Only if one wants to get a second date.”
Mitchell heaped some of the salad on her plate, which she studiously ignored. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Oh? You had plans for me other than lame pickup lines?”
“I think what I didn’t expect was that you would have plans for me.”
Julie froze. Surely he didn’t mean … he couldn’t know … But he was continuing to peck at his produce, looking completely unperturbed.
“I assure you, my plans won’t hurt,” she said, letting her voice go husky as she eyed him over the rim of her cheap wineglass.
“See, there you go again. Playing me like a fiddle.”
“Is it working?”
Mitchell gave her a hot look that she felt right down to her inner thighs. Now that’s what I’m talking about, Wall Street.
Maybe this relationship gig wouldn’t be so bad after all. There was something to be said about a guy who picked up on your drink preferences without asking, didn’t try to steal your fries, and could make your nipples tighten with a single glance.
“You done?” Mitchell asked, nodding toward her mostly empty plate.
Only with the food. “Yeah, I’m finished. I should probably call it quits.”
“Great.” He pulled out his wallet, and Julie tried not to gape in surprise.
“When I said call it quits, I meant that I shouldn’t finish my fries, not that we had to leave.” Dear God, am I begging?
He barely glanced at her. “I know this is rude, but I have an early meeting tomorrow and a couple of reports I need to finish before then.”
Julie refused to let herself frown. Okay, so this was inconvenient, but not disastrous. His quick dismissal was a tiny sting to her ego, but good girlfriend material would be supportive of her man’s work obligations. At least that’s what she’d read in one of Grace’s columns.
“Sure, no problem,” she cooed.
They were quiet as he ushered her out the door with a quick wave at the bartender. Julie felt rather than saw him move his arm, and she took a half step closer, figuring he was going to put a hand on her back, maybe even pull her closer.
But he didn’t touch her. Didn’t even look at her as he stepped closer to the curb and hailed a cab. Julie stared in stunned surprise as he pulled open the cab door and raised an expectant eyebrow.
Wait, not yet! We haven’t done the next-date dance yet!
“We could share a cab,” she said, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.
The expression on his face said it all: No, thanks. But manners prompted him to ask, “Where do you live?”
“West Village. You?”
“Upper East. Opposite directions, unfortunately.”
It was true. Their respective neighborhoods were completely inconvenient for cab sharing, but he didn’t have to look so damn pleased about it.
Outmaneuvered, she stomped toward the waiting taxi. “So. This was fun.” Sort of.
He wrinkled his nose ever so slightly, as though reading her thoughts. Was it?
“Lady, you comin’ or what?” the cabbie whined.
Julie shot him an annoyed look and looked expectantly at Mitchell. She let her lips curl up in her most appealing smile. The man might be rusty at dating, but it didn’t take a genius to see that the next move was his.
But he didn’t make it. He just cleared his throat awkwardly and glanced at the vacant backseat of the cab.
Oh, my God, Julie thought as realization sank in. This is not happening.
Too befuddled to do anything else, she let Mitchell take her arm and ease her into the back of the cab.
It was happening.
After six years with a flawless record, the queen of dating had just done the unthinkable.
She’d failed to land the second date.
Chapter Five
The next evening, M
itchell tipped the cabbie and stepped onto the sidewalk at the address Julie had given him.
He couldn’t resist the smile of satisfaction. There was no better feeling than having a risky gamble play out the way you wanted. And this one had played out perfectly. Julie Greene had done exactly as he’d hoped. Exactly as he’d expected.
It was particularly satisfying, because as good as Mitchell was at reading people in the workplace, he’d never been particularly adept at understanding the workings of the female mind. But last night he’d somehow known exactly how to play Julie Greene.
Putting her in that cab without so much as asking for her number had been a stroke of brilliance. It had surprised her, caught her off guard, and probably pissed her off. And, most important, it had ensured that she would seek him out.
Mitchell wasn’t even entirely sure what had made him do it. The object of this little game with Colin was simply to have a little fun with a girl who wasn’t the commitment kind. To that end, simply asking her on a second date would have been more efficient.
But that was exactly what Julie had expected him to do. If it had been up to her, the entire evening would have been manufactured, from the tilt of her head to her too-high laugh when he’d made a dud joke. That Julie hadn’t interested him.
But the Julie he’d seen when he’d ripped away her safety net and called her on her bullshit? That Julie he kind of liked.
Okay, really liked. Not in the way he’d liked Evelyn or Sarah, or even Christina back in college. Julie was the opposite of every woman he’d ever dated. She was too bright, too intense. She was the last person he’d seek out for long-term companionship—she was far too disruptive for that.
But disruptive could be rather refreshing.
At least for the short term.
Mitchell hadn’t been able to withhold a little fist pump when she’d called him at his office that afternoon, her voice all soft and husky and fake. She made some cooing noises about it being her turn to treat him to dinner, but he knew what it was really about. A woman who knew how to wrap men around her finger was bound to see last night’s abrupt ending as a failure. She simply wanted to repair her flawless record.
