Sabrina

If something is too good to be true, it usually is. That’s what I’ve always taught my brother.

That’s why I’m not in the least bit surprised.

Luck doesn’t twirl around in spectacular fashion, transforming the beast into the prince before the last enchanted petal falls. Nope. That’s the stuff of fairy tales. In real life, you don’t get the gig, the guy, and the great sex.

You get one night with someone like Flynn Parker. The fairy tale ends when he returns your slipper. My panties are back, the story is over, and happily-ever-after is for fictional gals.

This is what happens next. The after-the-glass-slipper moment, when real life, real bills, and real responsibilities trump fairy-sparkle magic.

As I lock the door to my pipsqueak apartment, I sink against the wall, sliding to the floor on my butt.

I groan in frustration. I wish he was anyone else. I wish he was the trash collector, the guy who runs the flower shop at the corner of my street, a product manager for an enterprise software company.

Anyone but the man I have to cover.

The cardinal rule of journalism is to be fair and get it right.

You can’t be fair if you’re sleeping with the subject.

You simply cannot.

And the story matters more to me than the guy, than the sex, than the stupendous spark, and the sizzle I felt with him last night and again tonight. Like when he leaned in close and told me all he remembered, and when he asked me about the first outfit I ever stitched together. When I shuddered from his nearness, from the way he seemed to want to own me. And, truth be told, the way I want to be owned. I want to hand over the keys to my body to someone who knows what to do with me.

To Flynn.

“Stupid fate,” I grumble.

I dig my hand into my purse and take out my panties. They’re clean. Freshly washed. I narrow my eyes. How the hell did the dude have time to launder my underwear? This is New York City. No one has a washer and dryer. We go to laundromats, or we send out our laundry.

Unless we’re rich.

Super rich.

Lucky bastard probably has three washer-dryer combos.

Now I’m jealous, but it’s also a reminder. Flynn and I live in different worlds. We’re from opposite sides of the tracks. He’s millions and I’m pennies, and it’s for the best I learned this now. Opposites don’t attract. They repel.

After I make myself a cheese sandwich—I do know how to rock it when it comes to cheap eats—I FaceTime my brother.

“Want to hear a funny story?” I ask him on the screen.

“Of course I do.”

“The guy I like?” I ask, since I told him this morning I met someone.

Kevin wiggles his eyebrows. “Oooh, guy talk. I was hoping for some guy talk before I returned to St. Thomas Aquinas.”

“Oh stop. My guy talk has always been more interesting than a philosopher’s mumbo-jumbo,” I tease.

“Perhaps because it often requires me to be philosophical,” he says, then flashes me his dimpled smile.

“I wish I could give you a knuckle sandwich through FaceTime.”

“No, you don’t. You love me and my non-knuckle-sandwiched face. So, tell me what happened. Did this one take off for Chile? Nova Scotia? The Arctic Circle?”

“He might as well have,” I say with a sigh. “It turns out he’s the guy I’m covering for my new article.”

“Ouch,” he says, frowning. “That would be a bit of an ethical quandary. Are you going to recuse yourself?”

I recoil, staring at him as if he were speaking in tongues. “No! I didn’t know who he was when I met him at the party. I’m going to start this with a clean slate.”

He nods, a thoughtful look in his eyes.

My chest squeezes. I need the money from this piece. My bills are looming. “Don’t tell me you think that’s a bad idea,” I say, nerves thick in my voice.

He holds up his hands in surrender. “Of course I’m not going to say that. I’m simply processing the news. Trying to consider all the angles.”

“Do you think I’m crossing a line?”

He sighs, and I brace myself for a yes. Kevin has always been a barometer for doing the right thing, and I’ve needed that, especially since our mom rarely does. Hell, our mom is the reason I don’t eat roast beef. For my twelfth birthday, she asked what I wanted for a special dinner, and I told her I would love one of her delicious roast beef sandwiches.

“Consider it done,” she said, then took me to the grocery store, snagged some cold cuts, stuffed them in her purse, and proceeded to earn her first shoplifting arrest.

It wasn’t her last.

I stare at Kevin, swallowing as I wait for his answer.

“I don’t think it’s an issue,” he says, and I picture him as a pastor, doling out advice to a congregant. “Just keep things on the business level with him going forward and that’s the best you can do. You’re not at fault for something you didn’t know and I have faith you can do a fair, and fantastic, interview.”

I smile. “Me too.”

When I say goodbye to Kevin, I send an email to Flynn.

Not to Duke.

Not to Prince Charming. But to my source. To the man I’m interviewing.

I send it from my work address.

Ten minutes later, he sends me an address that strikes my curiosity.

I haven’t been there. Ever.

And that’s saying something, because New York is mine.

I write back telling him I’ve never been there before, but that I’m looking forward to it.

I have a feeling that Flynn Parker is going to be one hell of an interesting guy to get to know over the next few days.

That’s all he’ll be though.

He’s not the duke. He’s not the guy from last night. I’ll need to erase those fun, fond, flirty memories from the banks of my mind. These last few messages should help—they’re so professional. So worky, worky, work.

I flop down on my bed, grab my laptop, and bury myself in research for the piece. A little later, my phone lights up with an alert. Probably an email from a friend, or a note about a new yard of fabric for sale at my favorite discount shop.

But some insistent little voice nudges me. Tells me to check it now because . . . what if?

I slide open the inbox, a flutter of excitement racing through me. The email is from Flynn, and it’s not about the interview. It’s a simple question: Why should you never date an apostrophe?

I scrunch my brow and then shout, “Aha!”

My fingers fly on the keys, tapping out a reply before I risk him sending me the answer: Because they’re too possessive!

He answers swiftly, but this time his note zips over the transom of text. He’s switched gears, shifting back to who we were last night.

The name I gave him on my text blinks.

Duke.

My heart dares to skitter in my chest, to bounce around madly.

Clutching my phone as if it’s a source of joy, I squeeze my shoulders in delight, my grammar nerd heart lighting up. I swear it’s glowing in my chest, and the warmth from it spreads to my toes, then my fingers. I think and think, and then the answer materializes, and I grin as I reply. This is more fun than 80s Trivial Pursuit. This is better than Boardwalk.

I’m rewarded with another grammar riddle seconds later.

I narrow my eyes and chew on my lip, considering. Then, it hits me, like a bucket of social media grammatical errors slamming into me all at once.

I feel like we could go on all night. I want to, even though I know it’s silly. Even though I know it’s pointless.

But maybe that’s the point of us flirting.

That it goes nowhere.

That it’s a momentary buzz.

It’s a quick whiff of expensive perfume in the department store. A nibble on a bite of decadent chocolate. A dance with the best-looking guy you’ve ever met.

You take your snippet of pleasure and you move on. That’s all you get.

I wait, and I wait, and three minutes later, his name appears.

Now it’s my turn to move on.