My article was in the copy-editor’s hands with thirty-six seconds to spare before deadline. I’d never cut it so close before. I hated that I’d almost missed a deadline, and I hated even more that the article I’d written was lacking the usual Ms. Romance polish and finesse. It read more like a college humanities paper some frat guy had written twenty minutes before class, still burping up last night’s tequila and Taquito fumes.
“When Flowers Aren’t Romantic” would be published this Sunday, and as I left the office that night, I realized why the article was so flat—because I’d let my emotions cloud my judgment. I’d spent the week researching the correlation between decreased anxiety and being in a committed relationship, and I had thrown that all aside because some dick had mailed me flowers in a pathetic attempt to woo me to the dark side of coupling. The side that viewed love and romance as nothing more than scratching an itch that had been birthed from early man’s need to procreate.
There was this big thing known as evolution. It happened. Over the course of thousands or millions of years, depending on what school of thought you subscribed to. Our ancestors might have thought of nothing but survival and procreation, but times had changed. Literally.
“Do you know where you guys are going tonight?” Quinn called from my closet, still digging through my clothes for what I should wear.
“Don’t know. Don’t care,” I answered from the bathroom, where I’d already changed into my outfit for tonight’s fake date.
When I walked back into my bedroom, Quinn stopped pawing through my heap of dresses. Her forehead creased as she inspected what I was wearing. “Okay, I’ve never even seen you in jeans, and the first time you decide to put a pair on is the same night you’re going to a five-star restaurant with Brooks North?” The lines on Quinn’s forehead carved deeper when she inspected the emblem on my T-shirt. “It’s like you raided my closet or something.”
My shoulders lifted beneath the worn heather-gray shirt. “You were my inspiration when I swung into Lady Sport at the mall earlier. I never knew I was a fan of the Mets until I put this on.” I pulled on a pair of granny loafers to complete the look.
“Conrad is going to be pissed, Hannah. He’s expecting a spectacle, and if you show up looking like a homeless person while Brooks is all dappered out in a suit that cost more than what I could get for selling one of my kidneys on the black market, you’re going to hear about it.”
“Exactly, he wants a spectacle.” Flipping my head upside down, I raked the red tangles into a ponytail. “I’m going to give him one. Both of them. The whole damn world.”
Marching over to the mirror settled above my vanity, I checked my reflection. Makeup had been removed, hair was in a messy pony circa lazy, pajama Sunday, and I’d thrown on one of those sports bras Quinn was such a fan of. It didn’t so much seem to make my boobs smaller as it turned two boobs into a uni-boob. Meh, that worked.
“What is the world going to think when they see Ms. Romance arrive to a first date in a pair of mom jeans?” Quinn asked.
“They’re going to think exactly what I’ve been telling the world for years—love cannot be conjured, created, or coerced with just anyone. Brooks is not the one. Actually, it’s hard to imagine a man like that could be anyone’s ‘the one.’” My nose curled as I considered it.
“Rewind forty-eight hours ago and I remember a starry-eyed girl who almost had me convinced her solo one-night-stand mystery man could have been ‘the one.’”
“That’s what too much gin and not enough consciousness will do to a person. I probably could have looked Mussolini’s ghost in the eye that night and been convinced the specter was my one true love.”
Quinn checked her sporty rubber watch after rehanging the fancy black dress I’d picked up a while ago. It still had the tags on it, thanks to my lack of actual formal events to wear it to and not wanting to look like a sausage in casing when I squirmed into it.
“It’s almost nine.” Quinn snagged my favorite cardigan from my closet and followed me.
“I hope he’s late. That will be exactly the kind of first impression I need him to make to the world.” I detoured into the kitchen to pour some orange juice. All this stress was making me thirsty, and it wasn’t good for the immune system either.
“Is the camera guy going to meet you here or what?”
I poured Quinn a glass too, because we all needed our Vitamin C. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”
“And you’re really going to wear that for your debut to the planet?” Quinn took a sip of her juice.
“I really am. I don’t care what the planet thinks of my wardrobe choice.”
“And what if your ‘one’ is watching? Would you care then?” she asked.
“If my one is watching, he won’t care what I wear. Because love is blind, in case you forgot.” I shot her a tight smile and poured myself one more glass.
Quinn shot me a sideways look. “Well, let’s hope it’s far-sighted, at least.”
My foot was tapping as I checked the time on my phone—five minutes to nine. If he’d do the douchy thing Brooks North excelled at and arrive a good thirty minutes late, that would be a great way to kick off the next three months with the odds in my favor. How many people could really get behind a guy who showed up late to a first date? Especially when it was being streamed across the planet?
Right then, my phone pinged with a text.
“Your chariot awaits.”
Then, right after.
“That’s what you people who believe in fairy tales want to hear, right?”
My teeth ground together as I stuffed my phone into my purse and started for the door.
“He’s here?” Quinn jogged after me, slipping the cardigan between my purse straps.
“Unfortunately.”
“I’m a phone call away. Anytime you need a pep talk or to rant or cry or whatever, I’m your woman.” Quinn unlocked the door and pulled it open for me. “I’ll be waiting here for you when you get back so we can recap the night.”
“And craft a voodoo doll with his likeness?”
Quinn waved as I headed for the elevator. “What do you think I’ve got planned for right now?”
“Don’t forget that chin dimple. I’d like to stab him in it as many times as he smirks at me tonight.”
She flagged a salute before I jumped onto the elevator. It wasn’t until the doors closed that the moment caught up to me.
Holy crap.
I was about to go on a date with Brooks North, Mr. Reality, my first ever one-night-stand.
With the world watching.
The stakes being my dream job.
My hand curled around the rail in the elevator to keep me from wavering.
When the doors pinged open on the first floor, I almost ran into Jimmy, the cameraman.
“Shit. Sorry.” He grabbed my arms to keep me steady. “I didn’t expect you to come barreling out of there like a bull in Barcelona, you know?” He had this ridiculous-looking camera strapped to his forehead and was wearing an oversized Metallica shirt and a pair of black Converse that looked so worn they could have been first generation.
“My fault,” I said, fixated on the small camera that would be the window into my private world for the next ninety days.
“I just wanted to prep you real quick before I start rolling.” Jimmy tapped at the headpiece and continued. “I’ll be with you and Brooks on the date the whole time, but we don’t want it to feel like I’m there. It’s just you and him and whatever chemistry will or won’t be drudged up.”
“Won’t be,” I interjected.
“I’ll be panning between the two of you, but be natural. Don’t talk to the camera or anything. Just pretend it’s like any other date.” He clapped like he was eager to get this thing started. “Any questions?”
“Any other date that’s been set up with my arch nemesis, on camera, being streamed to the world?”
He clucked his tongue and shoved the door open.
The moment I saw the scene waiting for me curbside, expletives popped off in my mind. In part because Brooks had pulled out all the stops, and in part because my first date fantasies were before me, like he’d crept inside my brain and highlighted that section.
“And three . . . two . . . one . . .” Jimmy gave a thumbs-up after pressing a button on that camera of his.
A green light flashed on it while I stood there, frozen and gaping. Hello, World. Behind me, I heard a car door open, and that was enough to snap me out of my temporary paralysis.
“Miss Arden.” Brooks’s voice, all deep and slow, was the first to greet the world. Plus, he was on time for our date and dressed like cardiac arrest, holding open the door of an extremely nice sedan.
Like, so nice, I didn’t recognize the make.
He’d probably already won the majority of viewers’ hearts in the first few seconds of these few months. That didn’t matter though, I reminded myself. In the end—the job, the truth—was decided by my heart.
And he was not winning that. Not in three months. Not if he had three lifetimes.
“Mr. North.” I peaked my brow as I started for the car, feigning confidence.
Jimmy came up behind to get the side view as I approached. I didn’t make eye contact with Brooks, despite his eyes drilling holes through me.
“You look beautiful,” he said, that half smile detectable in his tone.
I pinched my Mets shirt before climbing into the backseat of the car. “Why thank you.” Since the camera wasn’t on me, I took the opportunity to roll my eyes.
There was a driver in the front seat, and Jimmy crawled into the passenger seat and twisted around so the camera was facing the back, while Brooks glided in beside me.
Three men, mostly strangers, a camera filming the whole thing, and the viewers of the world. My skin itched.
“The natural look suits you.” His eyes met mine, a flash captured in the light orbs.
He was teasing me. That was obvious to yours truly, but it wouldn’t be so obvious to the viewers who had yet to become acquainted with the man who’d written the SmartAss Almanac.
“The stiff, formal one suits you,” I replied, working my most convincing smile into place.
The car pulled away from the curb, ducking into traffic seamlessly. I stared out the window, letting the blur of city lights calm me, but it was impossible to ignore the camera rolling from the front seat.
Worst case of stage fright ever.
“Where are we going?” I asked as I forced myself to turn my attention back inside the car.
“It’s a surprise,” Brooks said, his eyes on me like they were trained to drift nowhere else.
“I don’t like surprises.”
“Everyone likes surprises.”
I shifted in my seat, unable to get comfortable on the plush leather. “People who haven’t been surprised think they like surprises.”
“What kind of surprise have you been disappointed by?” His voice was different, though his expression remained unchanged.
“All of them.”
The car continued maneuvering in and out of traffic, while I kept my gaze aimed out the window. This was the single most uncomfortable position I’d ever been in, and I wasn’t good at pretending.
“How was your day?” Brooks asked, clearly trying to keep some semblance of conversation rolling.
“Fine,” I said, going with the standard teenage response.
A moment’s pause; that damn camera focused on the two of us in the backseat.
“Did you finish your article?”
The reminder of how hard it had been to write made my neck stiffen. “Finished.”
“I finished mine too. It’s titled, ‘They Want Flowers. Except When They Don’t.’” Brooks leaned over to nudge me. “You know, in case you want to check it out in this Sunday’s paper.”
My nails dug into my palms as I felt steam about to spout from my ears. He’d written his article in direct opposition to mine. What. A. Turd. Not that this was anything new for Mr. Reality. He’d been feeding off my feast for years, but his articles of differing opinions usually came a week or two after mine had been published, rather than printed in the same day’s edition.
That was the last time I let him anywhere near my laptop when I was writing.
“I might skip it. In favor of a root canal without Novocain.”
A puff of air burst out of his nose. Glad he found my every comment so amusing.
I found his every comment the very opposite of amusing.
“Tell me about your very first date.” He read the confused look on my face. “The first date you ever went on with a boy. What did you do?”
He was really pulling at threads in an attempt to keep an audience captive. An actor on stage. A manipulator playing his game.
“We met at an arcade, where he used most of my quarters to play some car racing game, then I found him making out with a different girl by the soda machine.” I looked him in the eye, blinking innocently. “It was the worst. But even as bad as that date was, I know it won’t hold a candle to this one.”
His initial reaction was surprise—I caught that in his eyes—but it was almost immediately concealed by that nauseating bravado. A slow, rolling chuckle. “From reading your articles, I didn’t realize you had such a good sense of humor.”
My fake smile fell. “I don’t.” Then I twisted around in my seat as much as I could and stay belted in, effectively putting my back to him.
After a silent minute, the tension became so stifling, the driver cracked his window an inch. Even Jimmy shifted in his seat.
Mercifully, the car edged to the curb right after that, sliding into a tight space in front of a restaurant I’d never been to. Only because it had a three-month waiting list and a meal cost almost as much as my annual subway pass.
When Brooks opened his door and slid out, I gaped at the people filing in and out of the glass doors. They were dressed as though they were attending dinner with foreign dignitaries—while I was dressed like I was about to play beer pong in the garage with the football team.
When my door opened, I found Brooks standing outside, his hand reaching toward me. Jimmy had come around the front of the car and was filming the exchange, causing several people to stop and watch.
I hadn’t considered that yet. The attention we’d garner wherever we went, having some dude with a camera strapped to his forehead documenting our every move. Not to mention if this whole concept took off and droves of people tuned in the way Mr. Conrad was hoping/pleading/sacrificing for, our faces would become recognizable wherever we went. Privacy would be a once-upon-a-time luxury.
From out of nowhere, I felt the stirrings of a panic attack climbing to the surface.
Brooks must have noticed something was wrong, because his brows drew together. Then he angled himself so his back was blocking Jimmy’s view, and he lowered his head. “Are you all right?”
Focus on your breath. In to ten. Out to ten.
It took me that long before I could manage a reply. “I’m okay,” I whispered.
Brooks didn’t move, angling yet again when Jimmy tried to get in the fray. “You don’t look fine.”
The measure of gratitude I felt for the arrogant ass shielding my near-miss from the world buffered what could have been a scathing response. “I’m about to go into the nicest restaurant in the city dressed like a scrub. Of course I don’t look fine. I look homeless.”
Could that have been a real smile? Not one of those summoned from some ulterior motive?
Looked convincing enough.
“I told you, if anyone can make the natural look work, it’s you.” Brooks extended his hand again, and before I knew what I was doing, I took it. Hell was freezing over as we spoke.
By the time I’d climbed out of the car, I’d cleared my face. Jimmy’s jaw was tense with what I guessed was frustration, since Brooks had been intentionally blocking his shot. Brooks kept my hand in his as we started for the door, but I slid it out. He was still Enemy #1, despite that moment of mercy or weakness, whatever it was.
When he swung the door open for me, I was confident I experienced what it would have felt like to actually show up to school naked in real life instead of through the haze of a dream. It felt like every eye in that waiting area latched onto me, and even though I had clothes on, I felt naked. I might have caused less of a scene if I had arrived sans clothing.
Brooks acted like nothing was out of the ordinary, strolling up to the reception desk with an enviable degree of confidence while mine withered.
My wardrobe choice, which had seemed like a great idea an hour ago, was trending in the other direction.
Brooks was talking with the hostess, but it seemed like an in-depth conversation for a simple reservation. As I approached, I detected words like dress code and inflexible.
I went to tuck in my shirt . . . before I realized that wasn’t the solution that would take me from sloppy to swanky.
Brooks whispered a few more things to the hostess before her shoulders relaxed and her face softened. “Amanda will show you to your table, Mr. North.”
Brooks stepped aside, waving me past. I didn’t miss the way he scanned the waiting area in such a way that stares diverted instantly.
“What did you say to her?” I whispered to him as we were led through the dining room. Perhaps the long way around it, but still, we were inside. “She went from looking like she was about to have security throw me out on my ass, to tossing petals along my path.”
Brooks slid one hand into his pants pocket, channeling Rat Pack cool. “I told her you had one month to live and eating dinner here was your dying wish.”
My mouth dropped open. “You did not tell her that.”
“Of course I did. She wasn’t going to let us eat here if I didn’t come up with something creative.”
“You lied.”
“You showed up to a five-star restaurant dressed like a member of a Nirvana tribute band.” He was fighting another smile. “Call us even.”
“Excuse me? I don’t dress for the purpose of impressing others. I don’t care what everyone thinks about me.”
“Obviously.”
Before I could remark, we were at our table. I didn’t miss how it was one of the tables tucked into the shadowy corners of the restaurant.
Brooks swept behind me to pull out my chair before I could do it myself. Jimmy caught the whole thing, of course. I could just imagine the dreamy sighs coming from the girls watching. Brooks North was hitting every play in the Gentlemen Handbook, but his intentions were anything but gallant.
“Should I grab another chair?” The hostess shot an unsure look at Jimmy, who was hovering at the table, panning between Brooks and me.
Jimmy shook his finger because I guess he couldn’t exactly shake his head without causing a serious hiccup in production value.
“Well, okay. Have a nice dinner.” Shooting one last look our way, she bolted off.
“She didn’t leave a menu. Do you think the server will bring one?” I checked the table to see if menus were tucked between the salt and pepper shakers, like the diners I frequented. No dice.
“They don’t have menus here.” Brooks glanced around as though he were as comfortable here as he was in his own living room. “Every night the chef puts together an eight-course menu, and that’s what every guest is served. No choices. Everything’s delicious. Simple.”
Jimmy was crawling around the table, trying to find a good angle I guessed. It was unnerving. Along with everything else pertaining to this whole situation.
“But what if someone doesn’t like what’s being served?” I asked.
“What if you don’t like what’s being served?” Brooks cocked a dark brow at me. “Are you a picky eater, Miss Arden?”
My eyes circled the restaurant. “If by picky you mean eating snails, duck liver, and caviar, then yes, I am picky.”
“You’re a cheeseburger and fries kind of girl then?”
I folded my napkin into my lap. It was the nicest article of fabric I had on. “Along with fried chicken and mashed potatoes.”
He smiled at that as a server approached the table, giving Jimmy the same look the hostess had. In his hands was a silver bucket and a couple of fancy glasses.
“The champagne you requested, sir.” The server presented the label to Brooks who, after giving it a check, gave a wave, at which the server tore off the foil wrapper.
When he set the champagne glass in front of me, I shook my head. “No, thank you. I won’t be drinking any.”
“This is good stuff. You’re going to want to have some.” Brooks motioned for the server to pour me a glass first.
I covered the glass with my hand. “I don’t want any,” I said slowly, more to Brooks than the server.
“Then what are you going to drink all night? Ice water?”
“Coffee.” I removed my hand once the server had moved to pour into Brooks’s glass. “It’s late, and I need to stay alert.”
His head tipped. “Alert?”
“Awake.” I cleared my throat, although I knew I needed to stay both awake and alert around him. Sleep with me once and turn out to be a dick, shame on you. Sleep with me twice as a known leader of the dicks, shame on me. Or something like that.
“And ice water,” I added as the server left to go find me a cup of coffee.
Brooks lifted his glass at me. “To uncovering the truth, once and for all.”
I cheered with my empty glass, knowing exactly what truth would be uncovered when this whole thing was said and done.
“Did your real estate agent find you a temporary place yet?” I asked, putting an emphasis on a certain word.
His mouth quirked, his eyes expressing he knew how much I hated this whole arrangement. And that he didn’t care. “My luggage’s already moved in, and my agent assures me it can turn into a long-term contract if need be.”
“Need won’t be,” I said, picking at my nails. Might as well continue chronicling what not to do on a date.
He ignored my quip, his gaze wandering the restaurant aimlessly. “So. Ms. Romance. How does a person get into writing a weekly romance column?” He didn’t miss the way my head tipped. “One of the most read columns published in the most prestigious paper in the country?”
Better. I had a sore spot where my writing was concerned—more specifically, the topic it addressed. My high-brow colleagues considered romance a tasteless topic meant for a writer who couldn’t hack it in the real world of journalism. Covering wars and politics was what they were getting at.
“Well, let’s see . . .” I lifted one of the five forks in front of me. It had been polished to such a high sheen, I could probably blind someone with it if I wanted. “She starts out as an avid reader early in life, moves on to reading the Sunday newspaper with her dad during breakfast in kindergarten, and after that becomes the editor in chief of her high school’s newspaper. As a sophomore.” I paused for emphasis. “From there, she gets accepted into five Ivy Leagues.”
“How many did you apply to?”
“Five.” The corner of my mouth quivered when that smirk of his was cracked by a seam of surprise. “She graduates magna cum laude from the top Ivy League in the nation, and pretty much has her choice of offers from any paper in the country.” When the server arrived with my coffee, I leaned back into my seat. “That’s how a person gets into writing a romance column.”
For half a second, he was speechless. It wasn’t a record, but it was something. “All of those . . . gold stars, and you choose to write a column on romance?” He watched me stir a heap of cream and sugar into my coffee. “Why?”
“Because it’s what I like. And romance has gotten an unfair reputation. It’s not fluff.”
“No. It’s fiction.”
Keep cool. You’re on camera. I’m not going to win anyone to my side by throwing coffee in the face of the door-opening, chair-sliding-out slice of man pie.
“So, Mr. Brooks? How does a person get into writing an anti-romance column?”
“It’s not anti-romance. It’s reality.”
Jimmy shot us a thumbs-up, whatever that meant. We were communicating at least, though I wasn’t sure how constructively.
“And it’s the top read opinion column in the country, so I can’t be alone in my thinking.”
Another server appeared tableside, going from looking at me to Jimmy, and then repeating before managing to set down the plates he held. The first course, I presumed. Although what it consisted of, I couldn’t say. I couldn’t even take an educated guess.
“You peddle fairy tales and false hopes. I sell things the way they really are, with a side of snark.” Brooks was already getting after the first course, failing to acknowledge the grenade about to go off across the table from him. “Happily ever after, soul mates, meant to be, ‘til death do us part. The only place a person can find that kind of stuff is in the pages of a picture book, not in real life. And when a person gets that image in their head of the way relationships should be, they’ll never be happy. No matter who they wind up with.”
Inhale. Exhale. Repeat just to be safe. “By your argument, you could pair that guy with that girl”—my finger pointed between two individuals at different tables—“and they could be happy together just like that.”
“Not just like that.” He finished his bite, shaking his head. “But if that guy and that girl were both heterosexual, emotionally available, and willing to let go of the romance dribble society has infected us with, then yeah, it could happen. In the right situation.”
“The right situation?” I took a sip of my coffee and was surprised to find it was pretty damn good. Not Flour Power good, but close enough for an honorable mention.
“One like this.” Brooks waved between him and me. “Two single people giving each other a chance, being as objective about one another as possible.” He glanced at me in a way that suggested he questioned just how objective I was about this setup. “Add time, patience, mutual respect and affection . . .” His shoulders moved beneath his dark jacket. “Then yeah, the odds are quite good any two people could fall in love. Love isn’t some magic spell. It’s a detailed recipe.”
“So you do believe in love?”
Brooks set down his fork. “I believe in tolerance. And being able to tolerate certain people more than others. Love? We can just lump that in with the soul mate shit.”
A clearing of a throat sounded beside us, followed by Jimmy slicing his finger across his throat.
“Stuff,” Brook’s edited. “Soul mate stuff.”
“You aren’t right, you know?”
He slid his plate aside, half finished. His eyes found mine. “And you can’t prove me wrong either.”
The remaining seven courses followed, and I managed to take a bite of all but one of them. Snails. I knew some kind of crustacean would make an appearance. The conversation stagnated after our romance versus reality feud, and Brooks seemed to relax as much as I did when the bill finally arrived.
I already had my card out, but when I went to slide mine in with his, he swung the envelope out of reach.
“It’s on me,” he said. “This is a first date.”
“We’re splitting the bill,” I said, setting my credit card on the edge of the table. “And this is a pretend first date.”
Beside us, Jimmy shifted. Damn that camera. It had been rolling for barely two hours and I already wanted to drive my butter knife through the lens.
“Pretend?” Brooks’s head tipped. “This might be the most real first date ever. You know my thoughts on relationships, and I most certainly know yours. We don’t have to go through a decade of dating, engagement, and marriage before the curtain falls and who and what we really are is revealed. You see the real me.” He leaned slightly across the table toward me. “And I see the real you.”
I glanced at my garish outfit, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at his shameless soliloquy. “And what is it exactly you think you see?”
Brooks had his credit card in the waiter’s hand before I’d noticed him approaching. Brooks shot a smug look my way, one that read that I was cute for trying. “I see someone who’s believed something for so long, it’s become a part of her. The guiding part. Maybe even the defining part. To admit to herself it’s all been a lie would be like confessing her whole life has been one, and that’s too steep a price to pay. So you hold on to your belief, clinging to it as a child to a security blanket. You’ve gotten to a point in life where you’re no longer determined to prove yourself right, but are terrified of the cost of being wrong.” Brooks paused, unblinking. “That’s who I see in front of me.”
The waiter had just returned with the credit card slip to sign as I shoved out of my seat. “For your information, you can’t see anyone, or anything, when you’re blind, Mr. North.”
I made a beeline for the exit, weaving in and out of tables of people who seemed as enthralled by my wardrobe choice as they did the man following me with a camera strapped to his head.
How dare Brooks say that, as though he could sum up the entirety of who I was in a handful of words after spending a few hours with me.
How dare Mr. Conrad set this whole thing into motion, as though he could slap two journalists together at his whim to star as actors in some reality soap opera.
By the time I charged through the door, I was fuming. The driver was waiting and when he saw me coming, he started to open the back door. I turned down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. I was done with this “date.”
Jimmy was following me as I hailed the first available cab I saw. I could almost see him flying into the back of the cab with me, so I sprinted the last few feet toward it. As I did, one of my granny loafers fell off, but I didn’t stop to collect it. When the driver asked me where I was heading, I froze for a moment. The question took on a complicated meaning.
“Just. Go.”