Sleeping with the enemy. I’d done it.
Maybe not in the way I had that winter night a couple of months ago, but I’d slept under his roof, in his bed—one of them—and was waking to the smell of fresh coffee.
It wasn’t such an awful thing. Especially since Brooks had nice sheets on his bed—the ones that had a two million thread count and probably cost as much as the mattress, which was lavish in its own right.
My alarm had gone off at six, but given the night I’d had, I snoozed until seven fifteen. As I rolled out of bed, I felt like I could have slept another ten hours no problem.
“Brooks?” I called after peeking out the bedroom door.
He was probably still out biking five gazillion miles and had left the coffee pot on for me, guessing I turned into a troll if I didn’t get some caffeine in my system a few minutes after rising. He would have been partially right.
When I got no response, I padded toward the kitchen. With sun spilling in through the windows, it cast his whole apartment in a different light. The place was still as impersonal as the lobby of a dentist’s office, but the grays in the décor didn’t come across so monochromatic. There were more shades than I’d guessed—too many to count.
On the counter, I found a clean cup by the coffee pot, along with a note letting me know creamer was in the fridge. He’d set out a mess of sugar packets and a spoon beside the cup, because I guessed he thought I was practicing for diabetes.
After making my coffee, which might have required three . . . and a half . . . packets of sugar to make it taste right, I was about to duck into the bathroom for a shower when the front door thundered open.
“Sweet baby Buddha!” I exclaimed when Brooks barged inside looking like he’d just come from a shower himself. A sweat shower.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” As he hung up his keys, he stopped. His eyes traveled my way. They went wide.
That was when I remembered I wasn’t wearing my bathrobe, instead sporting nothing besides cotton shorts and that same cami Martin had had a tough time ignoring.
“And you have the gall to accuse me of running around half naked?” He motioned at me as though I were streaking down Lexington Avenue in nothing more than boobie tassels.
“I thought you were gone or I would have put on that robe you’re such a fan of,” I gritted out as my arms crossed. “I was just about to hop into the shower.”
He ran his hand through his damp hair. “Me too.”
“It’s your place. You first.” I sidestepped toward my room, in search of that robe.
“You’re my guest. You first.” He flipped on the bathroom light and snagged a hand towel from inside to wipe off his face.
“No, really. I insist.”
“No, I insist.”
“Brooks—”
“Hannah,” he cut in, a tipped smile carving into place. “There’s a solution that’s a compromise.”
I made a face as I ducked behind the bedroom door. “From the look on your face, I don’t want to know.”
“We could save water and shower together. Simple solution to both of our problems.”
My stomach did the weird sensation thing again. Likely due to lack of sleep and drinking coffee on an empty stomach without my usual breakfast of butter and chocolate. “More like an endless supply of problems with that solution.”
He chuckled before ducking into the bathroom, the sound of the shower cranking on following. “Fine, if you’re not down with companion showering, then you get first dibs.”
I could have kept arguing, but it wouldn’t have gotten either of us any further in the compromise department. Plus, the hot water would run out and we would both be late to work.
“I’ll be quick,” I said after grabbing my shower stuff from one of my bags. At least, what I’d managed to toss inside in the chaos of last night.
His mouth lifted higher on one side. “Oh, I know.”
Pretending not to understand what he was getting at, I snatched my “fetching” robe and jogged toward the bathroom. Once I was in the bathroom, I double-checked that I’d locked the door, then I actually looked around the room and behind towels to make sure there weren’t any hidden cameras. Perv might not have been Brook’s MO, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Not that he didn’t already know what I looked like naked . . .
I took my frustration out on my scalp as I shampooed and conditioned my hair. It had never been so squeaky clean. I managed to get my legs and armpits shaved and my hair and body washed all in under five minutes. That had to be in the running for a world record.
After swiping the towel up and down my body, I wound it around my hair and slipped into my bathrobe. I could do the rest of my morning ritual in the bedroom so he could hop in the shower next.
Brooks was in the same place I’d left him, coffee cup in one hand, newspaper in the other. He didn’t look up when I moved down the hall.
“Next,” I said, pausing outside his bedroom door. No lights were on, but there was enough natural light to illuminate the inside. His bed was so neatly made it was as though no one had ever slept in it, and the surfaces were bare of personal effects save for one frame propped on the dresser. “Is that your mom?”
Brooks made an “Mm-hmm” sound.
“She was beautiful.”
“She was,” he said, resting the newspaper at his side. “In every way. And her husband still left her. That’s not the happy ending she deserved.”
“That has to do with your father’s nature, not love’s.”
He shook his head. “Love is a chemical in our brain. It’s not some thing of whimsy or written in the stars or the thing of fate and providence. It comes. It goes. Sometimes it lasts. Sometimes it doesn’t. It isn’t a guarantee—it’s a risk.” As he moved by me, he closed the door of his bedroom before heading toward the bathroom. “I’ll see you at the office.”
My hand clutched the top of my robe. “I can wait for you. If you want?”
“I figured you wouldn’t want us to arrive together. You know, in case anyone from the office noticed.” He paused in the middle of peeling off his wet shirt.
My eyebrows pinched together. The two of us arriving together, for someone at the office to see, for anyone who recognized us to see, should have been what he wanted. It aligned with his whole objective of getting me to fall for him. He should have been jumping at the idea of the two of us climbing out of a cab and heading up to the World Times together.
So why was he suggesting something else?
“See you later.” Turning, I rushed into my room to finish getting ready.
It took all of my willpower to keep my brain on the task at hand and not wandering to other pressing matters. Like the condition of my apartment. Or what I was going to do tonight for accommodations. Or why Brooks was behaving the total opposite of how I expected him to act. Or why my body was betraying me at every turn whenever he looked at me a certain way or said my name in just the right tone.
Since I’d been racking up taxi fares lately, I elected to take the subway to work that morning, which meant I didn’t have time to grab my usual breakfast. When Quinn texted to ask if I wanted anything, I requested she grab an extra chocolate croissant. And might have suggested she channel Beyonce in “Run the World” and seal the Justin deal already.
She ignored my last text.
Unlike most Friday mornings, I was one of the last to arrive to work, and I was slightly annoyed I’d missed my chance at peace and quiet to get caught up on some work.
Conrad had let both Brooks and I know that we could lighten our workloads given the time suck Romance Versus Reality had become, but neither of us seemed to be taking him up on his offer. We clearly both put a priority on our work and weren’t easily brought to crying Mercy.
“What the what?” Quinn greeted the moment I collapsed into my chair. “You look like you didn’t sleep a wink last night.”
“Ugh. Yeah. I had a bit of an emergency last night and am running on fumes.” I shot her an apologetic look, and she plopped a familiar brown paper bag on my desk. “Thanks for grabbing my breakfast of champions for me.”
“What’s going on?”
Tearing off a chunk of my breakfast, I debated how much to tell Quinn. I told her everything, but I wasn’t sure I should tell her this.
“My apartment flooded last night and I had to leave.” I peeked across my cubicle to make sure someone hadn’t sneaked into his chair yet.
“Oh my god. No way. Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you come over?” Quinn stopped, her eyes narrowing on me. “Where did you go last night?” When I didn’t answer right away, she added, “A hotel?”
“A kind of hotel in that it’s temporary and impersonal.”
Recognition dawned on her face. “You spent the night with him? Him?!” She glared at Brooks’s empty workspace. “You could have had a slumber party with your best friend and you choose him over me?”
“It wasn’t like that.” My head fell back. “It was late, I didn’t want to wake you, and I knew your living quarters are already cramped. I didn’t want to impose.”
“We are best friends. Therefore, there is no such thing as imposing.” She stuck out her lower lip. “I can’t believe you called him instead of me.”
“Shhh,” I hissed, glancing around the office. It was buzzing with noise, but I did not need anyone finding out about my current living situation. “His place is huge, and if I’m going to impose on anyone, I’d rather it be him over someone I actually like.”
Quinn gave me a suspicious look as she chewed her fingernails. “You swear to make his life miserable while you’re there? I’m talking leaving dirty dishes in the sink, putting an empty carton of milk in the fridge, leaving your hair all over his shower walls?”
I crossed my finger over my heart. “Promise.”
She took the chunk of croissant I offered her. “How long before you’re able to move back into your place?”
“I don’t know. I’m hoping to know more today.”
“Okay, well, if it gets to be too much or too long, my bed is yours. I will sleep on the floor if it means protecting my friend from that leech of a Homo sapien.”
“Gee, Quinn, I thought you were starting to warm up to the guy.”
She dropped her face in front of mine. “I was. And then my best friend choose him over me in a moment of crisis.” She sneered at the empty cubicle across from me. “Come on. Let’s go get some coffee. Bowers was just making a fresh pot.”
“When in doubt, coffee.” I followed Quinn toward the break room, where quite the crowd had assembled.
“Okay, whose birthday is it and where did the cake come from?” Quinn shouted into the crowd before realizing the herd hadn’t assembled for a slice of red velvet, but were fixated on the television in the back corner.
Getting a sinking feeling in my gut that some kind of natural disaster or worse was being streamed, I wove through a wall of bodies so I could see the screen. Short people problems.
My eyebrows came together when I saw what was playing. It was one of those national morning shows, the perky host interviewing some distinguished-looking older woman.
“If you’re just tuning in, I’m talking with body language specialist Judith Reeves on what physical signs we give off when we’re attracted to someone.”
Quinn managed to shoulder her way up toward me and stared at the television the same way I was—with confusion. “What’s so enthralling about this?”
My shoulders were just rising when a clip played on the television screen behind the host. “Oh . . .”
“Fudge,” Quinn snapped as footage from Brooks’ and my first date played.
“If you’re one of the few who haven’t heard about the new reality television experience to hit the airwaves, Romance Versus Reality, the show follows the lives of two journalists who have differing views on love. In fact, you might have read one or two of Ms. Romance or Mr. Reality’s advice columns. In a social experiment that’s got the whole nation talking, the World Times is attempting to answer, once and for all, is love real or fake?” The host motioned at the guest across from her. “Dr. Reeves has been viewing the show and selected a few clips to give her opinion as to how things are progressing between these two.”
“This isn’t real.” My hand snapped out to take Quinn’s. “Tell me this isn’t real.”
Her throat cleared. “This isn’t real?”
“Your confidence is overwhelming,” I grumbled, as “Dr.” Reeves paused the clip. It was when Brooks and I had been at the restaurant, and no matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t see anything that gave away any feelings other than disdain.
“If you take a close look here, you’ll see Miss Arden’s pupils ever so slightly dilated.” The clip zoomed in on my face as Reeves rose to point at my eyes.
“Surprise, lady. It was dark inside that stuffy place. Last I checked, our pupils dilate in the absence of light.” My foot tapped as I resisted the impulse to toss my heel through the television screen.
“You see the way she’s fully angled toward him? Not leaning away or angled to the side? That’s another indicator of attraction.”
Around me, my co-workers’ heads turned toward me, gauging my reaction.
I supposed the one I was giving wasn’t very subtle. “Bombshell number two, Witch Doctor. I was sitting at a table across from him.”
Quinn was speechless, grimacing as they moved to the next footage clip. This was one from our picnic in the park when we were both sitting on the blanket and talking after lunch. There was literally nothing that body language charlatan could infer from that scene that would suggest I was head-over-heels for Brooks.
The host and doctor watched what was maybe ten seconds of footage, but it felt like an eternal damnation in hell from where I was standing smack in the center of dozens of colleagues. God, this was humiliating. Knowing I was being filmed for an audience was bad enough, but having to watch it and have my eye movements and body placements be dissected on morning television was beyond the inner circle of shame and embarrassment.
“And if you’ll notice right here—” The doctor forwarded the clip a few seconds before pausing it on me again. And zooming in. Again. “Notice the way Miss Arden pushes her hair back over her shoulder, tipping her head, exposing her neck, subconsciously releasing pheromones meant to attract a potential suitor.”
My stomach roiled as I grabbed Quinn’s arm. “My life is over.”
Quinn patted my hand. “Click your heels three times and keep saying ‘there’s no place like home.’”
“Again, watch the neck. Here she touches it and again here . . .” Reeve’s voice trailed off as she forwarded the clip to the next instance of me touching my neck for no apparent reason. “Yet another indicator that, in some way, Miss Arden is attracted to him.”
More heads turned my way. Even the ones I couldn’t see I could feel burning holes through my back. After today, I was never touching my neck in Brooks’s presence again. I didn’t even realize I touched it that much.
“Okay, so we’ve talked about Miss Arden.” The host recrossed her ankles. “What about Mr. North? Any body language cues to give away what he’s feeling?”
My shoulders relaxed a little. At least I was out of the hot seat and didn’t have to worry about her reading my upper lip for signs of attraction.
“Mr. North is a tougher read actually.” Reeves moved to another clip, waving the remote at the screen where Brooks was frozen. “His favorite expression seems to be this one. In fact, this flat façade is present in more than half of the air time.”
“What does that tell us, doctor?”
“It doesn’t tell us much. It could mean contempt as much as it could mean attraction. It’s impossible to know in a person who’s perfected the art of indifference as Mr. North clearly has.”
Quinn huffed. “That’s not indifference. That’s what having a heart as black as coal does to a person.”
A few chuckles circled us from Quinn’s expert opinion, so I moved closer to the television so I could hear what was being said. Now that it wasn’t about me, I wanted to hear every word.
“However, I did find certain instances of dilated pupils, raised eyebrows—especially when Mr. North first saw Miss Arden—and quite a few examples of manspreading.”
I imagined my expression matched the hostess’s. “Manspreading?” She chuckled, a nervous tick to it. “I’m not sure if that’s a medieval form of torture or the latest craze in male hygiene.”
“You and me both, lady,” I muttered.
The doctor shook her head, smiling. “Manspreading as related to body posture is taking a position of power. Making oneself as big as possible. Legs spread out, shoulders open, arms held out at one’s side a bit.” She skipped to a few more clips where Brooks was in this “manspreading” position. “If you look at it from a strictly evolutionary perspective, it’s how a male attracts a mate. By proving himself strong and large enough to protect her. It’s a sign of virility, a nod at confidence.”
“More like arrogance,” I whispered to Quinn, who’d shouldered up beside me again.
“Can you believe this lady? What universities actually give doctorates for this kind of pseudo science?”
“Our time together is almost up, but I have one last question for you, Dr. Reeves. One that seems to be on the minds of the millions of viewers who have been bitten by the Romance Versus Reality bug.” The hostess leaned in like they were about to share a secret. “Which of these two, in your opinion, is more attracted to the other?”
My stomach felt like it had dropped into my feet.
“If we were to just go off of body language cues alone, in my opinion, it would be Miss Arden.”
“Please tell me everyone else has left the room,” I whispered to Quinn.
Quinn glanced behind us with a grimace. “Ignorance is bliss, baby.”
A rattling exhale trembled past my lips.
“But as Ms. Romance, she’s trying to prove that attraction can’t be created with anyone other than one’s true soul mate. If anyone should be showing signs of attraction, it would be Mr. Reality, whose one point is to get us to believe attraction can be created with just about anyone given the right circumstances and state of mind.” The hostess perfected the right degree of head tilt to strike the precise balance of confusion and curiosity.
“That is true. It seems, in this instance, what we would assume about each of their attraction levels has been reversed. However, body language is only one piece of the puzzle when getting to the bottom of attraction. There’re voice cues, word choice, heartrate—a plethora of other measuring sticks, if you will.”
“A plethora,” I repeated, loud enough that more than just Quinn could hear me.
The hostess and doctor went on to say goodbye, after plugging her latest New York Times bestseller.
“I need to get some fresh air.” I shot Quinn a reassuring smile before heading out of the break room, trying to make eye contact with as few people as possible. It felt like every one of them was trying to lock eyes with me, some offering comfort, others more accusatory.
“I’ll come with you.” Quinn was on my heels, snapping in a few colleagues’ faces who were the worst staring offenders.
“No. I just want to be alone for a few minutes. Thank you though.”
“Misery loves company,” she said quietly, nudging me.
“Pretty sure this pit in my stomach is from humiliation, not misery, and it loves exilement.” I gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “I’ll touch base later.”
Quinn stopped, letting me leave the break room without her. “You know where to find me.”
As I rounded into the hall, I noticed a tall figure just outside the break room. I recognized his shape from the corner of my eyes and braced for whatever he was going to say, something that would no doubt drive that shame several layers deeper.
He remained quiet.
My head turned his direction to find him watching me with an expression that was hard to read. It wasn’t flat, as it had been on “more than half of the footage,” but it wasn’t readable either. Our eyes held for a couple of moments, but I couldn’t help noting the size of his pupils. The height of his brows. The gradual pull at the corners of his mouth.
I caught my hand just as it was lifting. It’s target: my neck.
Damn Doctor Judith Reeves and her voodoo science. I would never interact with another human being in the same way again, and it would make my interactions with Brooks that much more uncomfortable.
Once I’d made it to the hall, my feet picked up speed. I played deaf when I heard him call my name, the sound of his footsteps following.
I needed air.
Suddenly, a door flew open in my path. The door to Mr. Conrad’s office. His expression was downright jolly, and became even more so when he saw me. And who was following behind.
“Arden. North. The very two people I was about to come looking for.” Conrad clapped, stepping in front of my path.
My gaze went over Conrad’s shoulder as Brooks caught up.
“Do either of you have plans tonight?” Conrad asked, barely waiting for us to answer. “Cancel them. Cancel whatever plans you have for the rest of this experiment.”
My eyebrows drew together. “Why’s that?”
“I’m upping the number of dates you two lovebirds go on. Three a week. Maybe four if ratings keep skyrocketing.” Conrad’s smile lines were carved deep as he continued. “We gotta strike while the iron’s hot, and in my fifty years of journalism experience, let me tell you, the iron’s never been hotter.”
My tongue worked into my cheek as I attempted to think logically while ignoring the man hovering beside me. “Tonight I have plans with my friends.”
“Sorry, Arden. They’re going to have to take a raincheck.” Conrad pointed inside his office where his television was playing the same morning show my dignity had just been dissected on. “Viewers are going to be rabid for fresh footage. New viewers are going to drop what they’re doing to tune in. Sharing fruity drinks with your besties is going to have to wait.”
My blood heated, but before it could spill out into words, Brooks beat me to it. “We’ll do something tomorrow. Tonight, Hannah has plans.”
Mr. Conrad blinked at the two of us. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. My two best writers are behaving like a couple of bench warmers instead of stars.” His finger waved between us. “Tonight. The two of you. Together. I don’t care what you do so long as it’s being filmed.”
Leaving no room for negotiation, Conrad disappeared back into his office, not only closing but locking his door. My shoulders slumped. It was barely nine in the morning and this day had already hit the top ten chart of worst days ever.
“Shrewd businessmen have nothing on Charles Conrad.” Brooks tucked his hands in his pockets as he moved beside me. “I’ll check back with him in a bit, after he calms down. See if I can convince him tomorrow night’s better than rushing tonight. You know, to really amp up viewer anticipation.”
“Thanks, but he’s not going to budge.”
“How do you know?” he asked.
“Conrad’s immune to budging.” My head turned toward him, and I instantly felt that heady, tingling sensation. Crisp white shirt, light gray slacks, still-damp-from-the-shower hair, just the right amount of stubble to make a girl imagine what it would feel like scraping along the insides of her thighs . . .
“You’re flushed.” Brooks angled toward me, concern creasing the skin between his brows. “Are you okay?”
My eyes sealed shut. “Yeah. I’m just hot. Warm.”
“You want me to grab you some water or something?” He stepped closer, his arm brushing mine, not helping my “hot” situation at all.
“Brooks, I’m fine. Thank you, but we should probably nail down tonight so we can both get to work. I’ve got two thousand words to drum up by three o’clock.” I made sure to take a couple steps back before opening my eyes again.
“What time were you meeting your friends?” he asked.
“Seven.”
“Where were you meeting?” His expression was still drawn with concern as he inspected me.
“The Latin Fire Dance Company.” My arms crossed, anticipating having to defend the venue, but I might as well have told him we were meeting at the pizza place around the corner.
“Fine. I’ll meet you there at seven.” He was turning to leave when he paused. “If that’s okay with you.”
“You, you”—my hands thrust at him—“are volunteering to meet five single women at a dance hall for an introduction to Latin dance?” I waited for the punchline.
“Five women. One guy.” He held up his fingers as he listed off each number. “Why wouldn’t I be okay with that?”
“When you put it that way . . .”
He gave one of those easy smiles as he backed away. “And maybe there might be this one girl I’d love the chance to tango the night away with.”
My feet shifted. “I don’t tango.”
His smile tipped up on one side as he tapped his temple. “Not from what I recall.”