“Your life is going down in the annals of weird.” Quinn shook her head as we moved up in line at our morning haunt, both of us eyeing the stock of chocolate croissants.
“It’s not that weird,” I replied, second-guessing myself for detailing yesterday’s events to her.
“You spent your morning chilling with people who were alive when Babe Ruth was playing, proceeded to have an asthma attack pushing a ninety-pound woman up a five-percent-grade hill, had to be carried to safety by the—”
My hand flew up. “I did not need to be carried anywhere.”
“Fine. You were swept off your feet by the very guy you’re pretending to date on live television for some job you’re both vying for. Then you wind up heaving a dizzying amount of dirty laundry on each other in the brunch room of an old folks’ home.” Quinn shared a wince with me when the lady in front of us ordered a couple of our standard breakfast. Nothing like kicking off a Monday with a boring old regular croissant instead of one stuffed with chocolate goodness. “Then to finish off your Sabbath, you head to a Renaissance festival with Martin, your neighbor one floor up.”
I rubbed my temples as I remembered last night. “I felt bad. The girl he was supposed to go with canceled at the last minute.”
“You can feel bad for him without sacrificing yourself on the altar of knights and damsels, you know.”
The moment we made it to the counter, a familiar face emerged from the kitchen.
“Justin the Jacked is looking extra jacked this fine Monday morning,” I whispered to Quinn, who had been hit with a sudden attack of attention deficit disorder. She was looking everywhere but forward as she pulled out her phone and punched random apps.
“Good morning, ladies.” Justin beamed that glorious smile of his, dimples and all. “The usual?”
I waited for Quinn to say something, but she’d been struck with an acute case of mute as well.
“One of these days we’re going to surprise you and order something different,” I said, tapping the case. “But that day is not this one.”
Justin held that glorious smile as he reached for a set of tongs to bag our breakfasts. With his attention on the pastry case, I elbowed Quinn.
“Ow. What?” she hissed, rubbing her arm.
“Say something,” I whispered.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“You want to have his children. You might have to actually open your mouth and say something to him.”
Quinn’s mouth fell open as she checked the line behind us. If anyone was listening to our conversation, they were doing a good job pretending to be otherwise occupied.
“Okay, two chocolate croissants, two coffees. Anything else?” The way he said it, I could just pick up on the undercurrent. Quinn was immune to it though.
As I dug in my wallet to pay—Quinn and I traded off on footing the breakfast tab—I tried to think of any excuse I could to stall. “How was that basketball game you had tickets to?”
Justin seemed to be making change at an especially slow pace. “It was good. The Knicks won.”
“Did you ever find anyone to take that extra ticket off of your hands?” I made it a point to nudge Quinn as I asked him.
“Nah. I just went by myself.”
As he handed me my change, I went with tapping my foot against Quinn’s. She wasn’t taking any of the hints I was throwing at her.
“That’s too bad. I bet that was boring.”
One of Justin’s massive shoulders lifted. “It was okay. I’m used to it,” he said as he handed us our coffee cups. “I think I’m going to get the hook-up on a couple more tickets for a game later this month. You know, in case you hear of anyone else who likes the Knicks.” He might have been talking to me, but he was looking at Quinn.
Who was staring at her feet like her sneakers were the Mona Lisa in shoe form.
“I’ll keep my ears peeled. I’m sure I can find someone.” I lingered at the counter, blinking at Quinn, who had a barely visible blush bleeding through that bronze skin of hers.
She’d gone from awkward to a stage-ten disaster around Justin. At least she used to be able to carry on something of a conversation with him, but now, she couldn’t even look in his direction, let alone open her mouth to say something. I didn’t miss the annoyed looks we received as we navigated down the line of customers toward the door—like the pastries, Justin was a hot commodity.
“What was that back there?” I asked Quinn after we started down the sidewalk.
She let out a rush of air as though she’d been holding her breath. “I don’t know. I just froze. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say to him.”
“Hello or good morning are nice options.”
“Ugh, I know. That was pathetic. He probably thinks I’m some kind of freakazoid now.” Quinn’s posture slackened. “I’m going to die alone.”
“Would you stop that? You are not going to die alone. You just need to figure out a way to read between the lines when a guy like Justin is asking you out. Also, speaking is something you might want to work on.”
She grimaced as she looked to be reliving the play-by-play in the café. “That’s easy for you to say, Ms. Romance. Especially when you’ve never come close to feeling so flustered over a guy because you have yet to find one perfect enough to fit your standards.” Quinn’s eyes got big after that, immediately followed by her hand covering her mouth.
Swallowing my bite of croissant, I blinked at her. “Excuse me?”
“Just forget it, Hannah. My brain’s only firing at ten percent this morning.”
“No, please. Explain.” I took a sip of my coffee and braced myself. Quinn was known for her honesty—the brutal variety.
She let out a heavy sigh. “All I’m saying is that it’s easy to see what everyone else is doing wrong when it comes to the cut-throat world of dating, but for all the advice you give, you never actually take any of it.” Quinn glanced my way, and whatever she saw didn’t stop her from continuing. “You seem to hold all potential suitors to this level of perfection no human could achieve, and I’m not sure if it’s because you’re afraid of being hurt, scared of opening yourself up to someone, or actually believe someone with perfect flowing in his veins is waiting for you. You’re a romance professional without any real life experience.”
My feet had stopped moving a few steps back. “Next time you’re being honest with me, try to keep in mind I have these delicate things called emotions.” I caught back up to her and chugged a solid drink of coffee. “And I’m not scared or biding my time for perfection. I’m just waiting for that feeling, you know? The one that can’t be explained, but we know it when we feel it.”
Quinn plucked her coat collar up around her neck. “What feeling is that?”
“The feeling,” I said, sweeping my arm in front of me.
“In quantitative terms please.”
“You can’t quantify feelings,” I said around a groan. “Especially the feeling.”
“If you can’t measure it, then it isn’t real.”
My eyes rolled. “Says the sports writer who only deals in scores and stats.”
“But, really. What if this feeling you and the rest of your cronies are waiting for isn’t real? What if it’s more of an instinct that, over time, grows into something bigger?”
I tucked what was left of my croissant into my purse because my appetite was waning. “You sound just like him.”
“Who?”
“Brooks. Public Enemy Number One.”
Quinn waved her finger at me. “No, he’s Hannah Arden Enemy Number One.”
“Whose best friend are you? His or mine?” I slid away from her, but she gave me a look and scooted back up to me.
“Yours. And as your best friend, I have your best interests in mind and would rather see you happy with a great guy who possesses some flaws then holding out for some perfect dude who isn’t out there.”
My heels clacked against the pavement as I finished speeding the last block toward the World Times. Why did it feel like the whole world was turning on me? Brooks and his philosophies were poisoning the population.
“Thank you for your concern, I know it comes from a good place. But I’m not sure I should take relationship advice from someone whose response to being asked on a date by her dream guy is that she’ll let him know if she hears of anyone who might be interested.”
Quinn tipped her head at me. “And yet you haven’t had a relationship that lasted longer than six months and you feel qualified to write an advice column on romance and relationships.”
“Okay, okay,” I groaned, lifting my hand at her face. “Enough tough love for one morning.”
She made a zipping motion across her lips.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” A woman walking the opposite direction as us stopped, waving her finger at me.
My readers didn’t recognize me as I never published my articles with a photo of myself. This was the first time I’d ever been stopped because of my column. “That’s right. I’m Ms. Romance.”
The woman shook her head. “You’re that woman who’s been set up with that hottie in the online dating social experiment.”
Quinn covered her mouth when she laughed.
I frowned. “In the flesh and blood.”
“Oh, honey. That last date at the club?” She rested her leather-gloved hand on my arm. “I had to go find the box fan to keep from overheating.”
My forehead creased.
“The chemistry between you two.” She made a sound people make when enjoying a good meal. “I had to turn that old fan all the way up.”
When Quinn got out her phone, no doubt to record this display, I swiped it out of her hands. “That wasn’t chemistry. That was me experiencing copious amounts of physical and psychological trauma having to be so close to that man.”
Her hand wasn’t moving. It stayed planted on my arm, making me all kinds of uncomfortable. “Well, where do I sign up for that kind of trauma? That’s just the kind I need in my life.”
I glanced at Quinn, hinting that I was drowning and needed a life ring, but she was no help. Working up a smile, I stepped aside and moved toward the building doors. “So nice of you to say hi. Thanks for your support.”
“Oh no, honey. I’m supporting him.” She folded her fur coat tighter around her when the breeze picked up. “I’ve seen enough of life and relationships to accept that love is a bunch of malarkey doused in perfume. It might smell nice, but it’s still just a load of shit.”
My mouth fell open as Quinn’s arm rung through mine and she steered me through the doors. I found myself digging for the remnants of my croissant, needing something to comfort me.
“Can you believe her?” I said, punching the up button at the elevators. “Oh wait, never mind. Of course you can believe you. You’re on the same side.”
She gave me a look that suggested I was acting like a child. Which might have been warranted to some degree. “I’m not on her side. I’m not on his side. I’m on your side because we are the kind of friends that would bleed for each other. However”—she ignored my little huff—“I don’t think either of you have it totally right. When it comes to all of that love stuff, I think you both have your points and the truth lies somewhere in the middle.”
One side of my face pulled up. “Where is the middle between soul mates and fuck buddies?”
Of course, the elevator doors had chimed open as I was talking, so I received some interesting looks from the people inside as they climbed off.
“Um, I don’t know. Best friends who are attracted to each other, whose relationship is built on trust and respect?”
I’d been so ready to argue with her, her answer stopped me short.
“Let me guess. You think that’s a steaming pile of horse crap?” she added when I didn’t reply.
“No. I don’t think that,” I said as a fresh wave of bodies filed onto the elevator. “I’m not sure I agree with you one hundred percent, but I’m not sure I disagree either.”
Quinn’s arm bumped mine. “Kind of like a happy medium?”
“I’m not sure I want a happy medium where love is concerned. It sounds so . . . mediocre. Boring.”
When the doors opened on our floor, we had to shimmy out of the packed elevator. “Ordinary doesn’t have to be boring. Ordinary can be kind of . . . comforting.”
“Comforting?” I felt my nose wrinkle as we powered toward our cubicles. “I want adventure, a pounding heart and a tingling stomach. I want epic, not ordinary.”
Quinn swept her dark hair behind her ear. “Epic is short-lived. Ordinary stands the test of time.”
“Yeah, only because it feels like forever.” I held my arms out as I backed away from her cube toward my space. “You enjoy that basic, boring future you have planned for yourself.”
Quinn tore off a Post-it note, crumpled it, and sent it flying in my direction. “At least I’ve got a future. One that isn’t lived one delusional daydream to the next.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, yawning with exaggeration. “With the progress you’re making with Justin, you two should finally go on that first date by the time you qualify for the senior discount at Perkins.”
Her comeback was sticking out her tongue. Real mature, I thought, even as I stuck out my own tongue at her.
After making it to my cubicle—I hated getting in this late—I noticed something out of place on my tidy desk. A newspaper had been spread out in front of my chair, and I didn’t miss the byline of the article that sat front and center.
“True Love? Of Course it’s Not. Settle Already.”
That was the title of his article, and I only made it to the second sentence before I folded it up and flung the paper into my trashcan. No need to guess who had left it for me; the smirk on the face across from me solved that mystery.
“What do you think?” Brooks’s blue eyes shone above the partition between us. “I think it might be my best work yet.”
“I think very little of your articles and your opinions actually,” I replied, even as I scratched down the title for an article that had just sprung to mind. “We Can Have it All. Stop Settling.”
“For such an angelic face, you have one devil of a smile.” Brooks leaned over the partition to see what I was up to.
My hand slammed down on my sticky note. He’d built his career by playing devil’s advocate to just about every article I’d ever published—I could hedge some of mine on doing the same to him. “For someone who touts playing the field, your pick-up lines need some work.”
“That wasn’t a pick-up line.”
“Then what was it?”
“An observation.” He reclined back into his seat, disappearing from view. “I wasn’t trying to pick you up. If I was, you’d know it and wouldn’t stand a chance in hell.”
My eyes lifted as I scribbled some bullet points I wanted to hit in my article. “How does that morning bowl of ego poured over arrogance taste going down?”
His chair whined from the way he was rocking in it. “Not nearly as good as it feels coming out.”
“You’re repulsive.”
“Yeah, the way you were gaping at me yesterday when I stepped in to save the day really gave off the repulsive vibe.”
My pencil lead broke as heat burst into my veins. “For calling yourself Mr. Reality, you sure have a difficult time staying grounded in it.”
“Arden! North! My office!” Mr. Conrad’s voice burst through my phone intercom, about tossing me out of my seat.
My back slumped as I went to stand. Mr. Conrad’s office felt like the principal’s office lately.
“What do you suppose we did this time?” Brooks whispered as he fell in beside me.
Across the office, I caught someone seemingly taking a picture of us. Kinda creepy. Especially since I had no idea who the person was.
“He’s probably pissed you were dancing with another woman when I showed up for our date,” I said.
“Don’t think so. That’s the kind of drama that drives ratings through the roof. If anything, he’s going to congratulate me for it.”
I gave an overdone shiver. “It’s like we’ve become some evening soap opera. I feel dirty.”
“Making progress,” he said under his breath right before ducking inside Conrad’s office.
“Close the door,” Conrad called from behind his desk when I filed in.
Brooks gave me a look that hinted at doom.
“Well?” Mr. Conrad folded his hands over his desk, looking between Brooks and me as we dropped into chairs across from him.
He waited for one of us to say something, but Brooks was a rare quiet, as was I.
“Did you see the number of views you two brought in?” A smile stretched across Conrad’s face as he thumped his desk. “I knew this idea was genius. Publicity gold. And you two really sold it on that last date of yours.” He leaned across the desk, tipping his hand by his mouth like he was about to tell a secret. “You almost had me fooled.”
“That she’s falling for me?” Brooks leaned forward. “Mission accomplished?”
A sharp sound came from me.
Conrad waved his stout finger at him. “That you maybe were doing some falling of your own.” Conrad chuckled, his eyes almost twinkling he was so giddy. “Now that was a turn I wasn’t expecting.”
“I thought you wanted it to look like I was falling for her.” Brooks glanced at me from the corner of his eyes, something I couldn’t quite decipher in them.
“I did. I do.” Conrad gave a silent clap. “I just didn’t expect it to be so convincing.”
“He sells snake oil for a living. He’s made convincing an art form.”
Conrad’s head turned toward me. “Still haven’t warmed up to Mr. North?”
I feigned a smile. “As warm as the Arctic Circle.”
“If that’s what you want to call it,” Brooks said under his breath.
For all of the apparent progress we’d made yesterday, we were going backward at warp speed today.
“Was there anything else you wanted to talk with us about, Mr. Conrad?” I asked, glancing at the door.
“I just wanted to congratulate you both on such an early success. Even in my wilder dreams, I never envisioned hitting so many views this early on.” Conrad glanced at his phone. “And I also wanted to schedule out the next month’s worth of dates. With the way things are going, we won’t be able to keep flying by the seat of our pants. I’m thinking of staging dates, hiring more camera crew, hell, maybe even bringing in a lighting team to really give viewers a show.”
For the second time that morning, my head throbbed. “I thought the point was to make this a real-life social experiment. You start adding all the frills and extras and it’s nothing more than a staged reality show.”
Brooks nodded. “I’m with Hannah on this one, Charles. We should keep this as simple as possible. We want it to have a raw feel—that’s what’s drawing viewers in.”
My stomach twisted. How had I become a pawn in this game? My goal was to protect romance, not peddle a designer imposter to the masses.
“While you two work out the details, I’m going to head back to my desk and write an article like we journalists do.” I shoved out of my chair and marched for the door.
“How about tomorrow?” Brooks called after me.
“For what?” I asked, thought I already knew.
“Date Three.” Again, the way he said it led a person to believe it was an event that would go down in the history books.
“It’s a work day.”
“This is your work, Arden,” Conrad threw out.
“Fine,” I said at the same time I threw open the door. “But I get to pick the location.”
The weather foiled my plans for a rainy picnic. I’d never been so annoyed to see clear blue skies and sixty-degree temps. After unpacking my rain jacket and umbrella, I loaded up my bags and picnic basket and left my apartment.
I’d told Brooks to meet me at the Sheep Meadow around noon for Date Three. He’d sounded unsure about the whole park-and-picnic idea, but didn’t put up any kind of formal objection.
As I was about to push open the outside door, someone coming in, saved me the effort.
“Hannah. Fancy meeting you here.” Martin stepped aside and held the door for me, waving me through and reaching for my bags. “Can I help you?”
“I’m good, but thanks.” I moved down the first stair to put some space between us.
After that renaissance festival, he’d been calling or texting me daily, wanting to know when we could get together again. For all of Martin’s old-fashioned chivalry and all-around decency, I could not conjure up an ounce of attraction for him. That feeling . . . wasn’t there. In fact, I wasn’t sure I could feel any less for a man than I did for Martin.
“Good day for a picnic,” he said, noting the basket tucked into my elbow. “I’m off work for the rest of the day. I decided to live dangerously and take a half day with it being so beautiful out.”
My throat cleared when I realized what he was hinting. “That’s what I thought too. That’s why I’m heading to the park to meet someone.”
Martin’s eyes drooped the teensiest bit. “That Brooks guy? The one you’re pretending to date?”
I moved down another step. “The very one.”
“I can’t believe the paper put that together. Forcing you into something like that. It’s sad to think with as far as our society’s evolved, women are still being subjected to that kind of treatment.”
My invisible hackles rose. “I made the choice to be a part of this. No one forced me into it.” I left out that the job I wanted might have been jeopardized if I didn’t agree to it.
“Yeah, but still. It seems like something straight from the ninety-fifties.”
My fingers tightened around the picnic basket. “I’ve got to get going. You enjoy your day.”
“You don’t have feelings for him? It’s all just an act, right?” Martin moved his briefcase from one hand to the other, swallowing.
“I couldn’t have any less feelings for that man if I was a sociopath.” Hurrying down the last few steps, I flagged down the first taxi I saw.
I felt like I’d barely had a chance to catch my breath before the driver was pulling up to Central Park. After paying my fare and climbing out, I prepared myself for Brooks and the camera and an experience that vacillated from feeling real to fake.
Just inside the park, as promised, Jimmy was waiting for me to ask me whatever new questions Conrad had devised. Brooks wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
“Another dress that scores a ten.” Jimmy gave a small whistle as he waved at my white linen dress. “Great cinematic value, by the way.”
“I don’t know why I wore this. White might be the worst color for my pale skin, not to mention a picnic in a park is a rainbow of stains waiting to happen.” I brushed at the skirt, wondering what link to reality had come undone when I’d reached into my closet this morning.
“You look great, trust me.” Jimmy slipped the camera over his head. “Maybe just pass on ketchup . . . or any condiment for that matter.” He scooted me around so the park was in the background, then started his countdown.
“Can’t I have, like, one minute with the questions before I answer them on film?”
“Too rehearsed,” he said before his last finger lowered.
“And we’re back to Romance Versus Reality, here with the lovely Hannah Arden, on date number three, and we have a couple of questions for you.” Jimmy wasn’t reading from a note card anymore. “How have your feelings for Brooks changed from the first date to now?”
Feelings. Why was everyone so concerned about my feelings where Brooks was involved?
“I’d say they haven’t changed at all.” I smiled at the camera, and my expression felt about as fake as my senior photo smile. “I feel the same way about him now as I did then.”
Jimmy fanned his hand over his mouth in a silent yawn. I ignored him and waited for the next question.
“How do you think Brooks’s feelings for you have changed from the beginning to now?”
That question made me pause. Adjusting the picnic basket to my other arm, I went with the first thing that came to my mind. “I’m sure Brooks’s feelings are the same as mine. Unchanged.”
Jimmy pressed something on the camera, the filming coming to an end. For now. Soon we’d be live for the hundreds of thousands of viewers that had tuned in last time, although with this being in the middle of a workday, I was hoping the numbers would reflect that difference. Not that the actual filming time mattered when anyone could watch the videos at their leisure since Conrad had created a Romance Versus Reality website, where fans could watch past episodes, read Brooks’s and my bios, and even weigh in with their thoughts on the love topic.
Jimmy followed me toward the open field, my heart floating higher into my throat with every step. What was this? Nervousness? Anxiousness?
Heartburn?
It was a strange sensation I wasn’t used to feeling and thus couldn’t accurately identify. My limbs felt all jelly-like, while my stomach felt like a boulder had been dropped into it.
“There he is.” Jimmy’s arm lifted toward the trees lining one side of the clearing.
A shadow leaned against one of them, staring at the open field like it was laced with land mines. As I approached, his head shifted my direction. He lowered his sunglasses over his eyes.
“You look like you’re in pain over here,” I called, realizing the smile on my face had formed of its own accord. That probably had to do with him looking like we were about to jump into a pool full of hungry sharks.
“That’s because I am in pain.” He pushed away from the tree and moved toward me, still staying in the shadows. “Who picks a picnic in a park for a date?”
Holding up the basket, I shrugged. “Me.”
Jimmy glided up behind me, getting into a neutral position between Brooks and me. And the cameras were rolling.
“Come on. No one ever died from spending an afternoon relaxing in a park.” I set down my bags and basket, then dug out the blanket.
“I find that hard to believe.” Brooks shifted, the shine of his dress shoes flashing from the tree line.
“You’re dressed like you’re either going to a wedding or a funeral.” I eyed his dark suit, complete with white button-down shirt and a leather belt that matched his shoes.
“What is the standard outfit one should wear to a picnic?”
The way picnic rolled off his tongue had me biting my lip to keep from laughing.
“I don’t know. Jeans, T-shirt, sneakers?” I watched him inch closer as I finished smoothing out the blanket on the ground.
“I wear sneakers and T-shirts to run in. And I haven’t owned a pair of jeans since college.” When I kicked off my shoes to let my feet feel the grass, his brows lifted into his hairline.
“You’re a big runner, right? Surely you run in parks some of the time.”
“That’s right. I run through them. As fast as I can. I don’t loiter to eat lunch and ‘relax.’” He paused at the edge of the blanket, watching me dig through the picnic basket to get everything laid out.
“If I’d realized how much you hated communal outdoor settings, I would have proposed this idea from the start.” After setting out the plates and silverware, I glanced up at him. Even through his sunglasses, I could make out his eyes; they were focused on me in the kind of way that made something in my stomach compress.
I made myself look away.
“You actually made lunch?” Brooks stepped closer. “You didn’t pick something up from a restaurant or store?”
“Well, everything came from the store, but I had to do some peeling, mixing, and cooking to make it resemble a meal.”
Brooks crouched beside me, his presence rolling over me like an invisible wave. Jimmy floated around the blanket, making sure he had a good view of the two of us.
“You cook?” he asked, sounding astounded, like I’d just admitted I was a cliff jumper or something.
“I also eat,” I said, lifting out the stack of picnic fare I’d made for today. “Unlike the women you’re likely used to.”
“The women I’ve been with eat.”
“Yep,” I said with a smack of my lips. “They order a side of kale with their ice water.”
Brooks sighed, reaching into the basket to help me unload the rest. He studied the sealed glass bowl of potato salad I’d made last night. “I’m impressed.”
“I’m a real oddity. I cook and I eat.”
“More like a rarity.”
“Just because I can cook doesn’t mean I’m going to stand for someone expecting me to cook. I’m not down with that domestic detail as an expectation when it comes to a relationship.” Finally, I unpacked the bottle of sparkling cider and plastic wine glasses.
Brooks’s mouth worked when he saw the beverage I’d chosen. “Your grandma taught you?”
“She was the kind of cook who won blue ribbons at any fair she entered a dish into. She never used a recipe, did it all by memory or instinct.” I peeled off the foil wrapper on the bottle before prying the metal cap off with my bottle opener.
Brooks held out the two glasses for me to pour into. “My grandma was a great cook too. Used to do Sunday dinners with ten times more food than all of us could eat.” He let himself settle onto the edge of the blanket. “It’s too bad all of that talent is disappearing.”
When my gaze cut to him, he lifted his hands. “I mean that in the least chauvinist way possible. Good food . . . I don’t know, it brings people together. It’s a bandage for a whole slew of family tensions and problems. It makes a bad day better with just one bite.”
I made myself take a breath before firing my initial response at him. He wasn’t saying it was a woman’s job to live in the kitchen; he was merely lamenting the loss of home-cooked meals that brought people together.
“What was your favorite dish she made?” I asked as I popped open the container of roasted chicken segments.
“Cheese manicotti,” he answered instantly. “My grandma was Italian, so she made everything from scratch. The noodles, sauce, sausage, everything. She made some complicated, beautiful dishes, but the simplicity of cheese manicotti was perfection.” He was starting to relax, no longer looking like he was about to be drawn and quartered.
“My grandma was Irish, and she made this stew that was out of this world. Carrots, potatoes, onions, beef—some of the most boring, basic ingredients out there, but somehow she turned it into magic. Anytime I was sick or having a rough day, a bowl of stew would find its way onto the dinner table and I’d walk away feeling better.”
Brooks was watching me, his expression almost peaceful. His sunglasses were still in place, but his stare was penetrating. I could almost feel it moving inside me, searching deep.
My head felt woozy, probably from skipping breakfast. “Do you like the breast, leg, or wing?”
Brooks smirked. “Take a guess.”
I refused to give him the response he was hoping for. “Here. Have a wing.” I smirked right back.
“Did it hurt when they ripped off your wings and sent you down to earth?”
Brooks laughed when I chucked a napkin at him. “How immature are you?”
“I’m a guy. We die with a little boy still living inside us.”
I made a face as I scooped some potato salad onto our plates. “More like a horny, hormonal teenager.”
My lips clamped shut as soon as I remembered Jimmy’s presence.
“Don’t give away all of my secrets to the world.” Brooks tipped his head toward Jimmy and the camera. “You might play a role in one or two of them.”
My cheeks heated, knowing what he was hinting at.
“So?” His head lowered toward mine. “Have you fallen in love with me yet?”
A single-noted laugh escaped from me. “No. Sorry to burst your bubble.”
“You know it’s only a matter of time.”
“Before our three months are up and, lo and behold, I haven’t fallen madly in love with you?” I plopped one more scoop of potato salad onto our plates. “Yeah, I know that.”
He held out my glass of cider, scooting closer. “Am I really that offensive?”
“Taken as a whole, no, you’re not.” I moved on to the macaroni salad, happy to be kept busy by any distraction, given the topic. “But taking this whole set-up into account, along with your beliefs that love is for weak-minded ninnies, then yes. You really are so offensive.”
A half smile emerged as Brooks stabbed his fork into the potato salad. “What do your readers think about this whole thing?”
“My readers definitely don’t want me falling for you,” I answered, glancing at Jimmy. I wondered if I should make him a plate too.
“But your readers love romance, and some handsome, roguish fellow taking your hand in a park while you’re dressed in a white dress is the definition of romance.” Right then, Brooks’s hand covered mine where it was resting on the blanket.
Instead of stiffening or whipping away, I found myself relaxing under his touch. The camera’s presence screamed at me from the corner of my eye.
“My readers believe in finding the one.” My hand slipped from beneath his, reaching for my fork. “Not the one who takes your hand and pretends to like you so he gets the promotion.”
“Who says I couldn’t be your one?”
I laughed. “Even I don’t need to run the numbers to know that has about a one-in-an-impossible chance of happening.”
Brooks slid his glasses onto his head, his eyes unapologetic in their stare. “You and me? You couldn’t see it?”
I had to look away. “Not even a little.” Tearing off a chunk of my chicken, I popped it into my mouth and plotted how to change the topic. “When it’s right, you know it. You feel it.”
Brooks’s head shook before he took a drink of his cider. “I admit, it’s a nice idea. But don’t you feel it inside? The realization that it’s just not true?” He stared out at the park and the people in it.
I gazed with him, trying to ignore that pit opening up in my stomach. “I’d rather spend my life chasing a dream than swallowing a cruel reality.”
“You’d rather spend your life lying to yourself than being honest?” Brooks asked after taking a bite of the potato salad. “Side note? This is quite possibly the best thing I’ve eaten in months. Maybe even years.”
I fought a smile as I took my own bite. Just the right balance of spices and tang. “I don’t think any of what I believe is a lie. Soul mates, unconditional love, happy endings—it’s all real.”
“Fairy tales,” he muttered before taking another large bite of salad. “So explain why a marriage dissolves after twenty years because of fifteen minutes of indiscretion.”
Reaching for my glass, I answered, “It wouldn’t have if he kept it in his pants.”
He blew out a sharp breath. “No, that’s like saying twenty years, our kids, our house, our finances, everything is worth less than that fifteen minutes of fucking.” His arms threw out, his tone rather impassioned. “That’s not unconditional love. That’s the very conditional kind.”
“You’re right. It is the conditional kind. On the part of the one who engaged in the fifteen minutes of extra marital . . .” I just caught Jimmy’s hands flailing before I said, “Screwing. That was one-sided unconditional love, and that never works in a relationship.”
One of his brows rose. “That’s a convenient explanation. But I’ll stick to my beliefs that all of that unconditional love junk is worth its weight in bullshit.”
I shot Jimmy an apologetic look. “Then how do you explain the couples it has worked for? The ones who live a long, happy, committed relationship together.” Pulling my floppy sunhat from my bag, I dropped it on my head to cut the sun.
Brooks appeared amused by my hat, but he kept his thoughts on it to himself. “I call it a case of two determined people willing to overlook each other’s weaknesses and not be hell-bent on changing or fixing the other, who’ve figured out a way to laugh at themselves, forgive easily—not to mention often—perfect the fine balance of selflessness and selfish, and on top of that, won the relationship lottery.” Brooks clinked his glass against mine before finishing what was left of his cider. “That’s how I explain that.”
I blinked at him. “Wow. Don’t hold back or anything.”
“That’s just half of it.” Brooks refilled my glass, then his before taking a swig as though he’d forgotten it was cider, not gin.
“And how ‘bout that picnic lunch?” I shifted so my feet were touching the grass. It had been a long winter of close-toed shoes and pantyhose; I was going to soak up this perfect spring day.
Brooks picked up his wing and tore off a bite. As he chewed, his eyes landed on me. “Damn, woman.”
I pulled another bite of chicken free. “Good?”
“If you define good as being life-defining, then yes, this is ‘good.’” He licked his fingers. Like really got in there and sucked off the juices. I didn’t think Brooks North was capable of a proper finger lick. “No matter the outcome of this little experiment, can we schedule a standing monthly meeting like this?”
“Only if you’re cooking every other time.”
“Cooking?” Brooks cringed. “I’m better at swiping my credit card at the local deli.”
We made some more small talk as we finished our lunches, Brooks managing to down a breast, leg, and another wing. It was nice sharing a meal with someone else, and I felt an odd thrill that Brooks was enjoying the food I’d made. No way in hell I would ever speak that out loud, but it was there, that swell of pride that I’d managed to take a bundle of raw ingredients and turn them into something that had an uptight man like Brooks practically moaning out loud. That must have been Grandma in me—she’d always said good food had magic powers.
“Where do you put all of that?” I asked when he went in for one more scoop of macaroni salad. My gaze wandered to his belt, where not a pinch of stomach was folding over. Even with the fraction of lunch I’d eaten in comparison, I was thankful I’d worn a loose dress.
“I don’t need to put it anywhere. I burn it off before it gets stuck to my gut.”
“How many miles did you put in today? Twenty?” I said sarcastically as I packed away the remnants of lunch.
“This morning was a swim practice. Five thousands meters.”
My nose wrinkled as I roughly calculated how many miles that was. “What time do you have to get up to finish that kind of a workout?”
“Five a.m. Every morning, swim practice or not.”
My throat cleared as I recalled one morning he’d slept in past five o’clock.
“Tonight, I have a forty-mile bike ride to squeeze in.” As I was about to snap the seal closed on the chicken, he snagged one last leg. “The challenge is to eat enough to keep up with my energy requirements.”
I let out a grumble. “My problem has been the total opposite.”
Brooks shot me a funny look. “Okay. Crazy.”
“So where does one get the insane idea to compete in triathlons?” I asked.
He set the leg on his plate. “I didn’t say I competed in triathlons.”
My heart stopped when I realized my error. He hadn’t mentioned that—Quinn’s and my research had dug up that fact. “Don’t you? I can’t imagine anyone spending that much time running, swimming, and biking if they didn’t compete.”
Brooks watched me for a moment, searching. Then he leaned back. “I guess I like the feeling of challenging myself, my body. I like the high that comes with pushing myself for hours on end, riding the line between conscious and unconscious.”
I tipped my sunhat a bit back since the sun was higher in the sky. “Sounds fun. Said no one on the planet besides you.”
Brooks laughed, shrugging like he wasn’t disagreeing.
“Why can’t you be like everyone else and go to the gym a few days a week and lift weights or something?”
“For a hundred different reasons. And even though those meatheads might look good, welcome to the stamina party. VO2 max.” Brooks bobbed his brows at me. “It’s a thing. Especially when it comes to sex.”
“If you do say so yourself,” I said as I pulled a couple bottles of water from the basket. It was getting warmer, and he was still dressed like he was attending a semi-formal gala.
“So what now?” he asked, glancing around. “What else is there to a picnic?”
“I don’t know. You take off your shoes and jacket. You relax.”
“You relax?” Brooks repeated.
“Yeah, you read a book or take a nap or maybe play a little Frisbee if you feel like moving.”
“Did you bring a Frisbee?”
“I don’t even own a Frisbee. I prefer the as-little-movement-as-possible picnics over the ones where you jump from one activity to the next.” After clearing the blanket, I lounged back. “Just lie down and try to take a nap. You might find you actually enjoy the art of relaxing.”
“I don’t relax,” he replied even as he lay back beside me.
“I said try.”
After a few seconds, he exhaled. “Did you at least bring a book?”
“Nope.” I adjusted my sunhat so the sun could hit all of my face. “Not really a fan of those reading marathon picnics either.”
“You’re a fan of the eating and napping ones?”
I made a clucking sound to answer him.
He managed to be quiet for a stretch. For all of thirty seconds. He sat up with an exasperated sigh. “I’ve got to do something.”
My nose wrinkled. “Ugh. You’re one of those people who can’t relax, aren’t you?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“You sleep, don’t you?”
Brooks peeled off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. I guessed it had more to do with the heat than getting comfortable. “Sleep is not the same thing as relaxing. It’s the opposite.”
“They don’t seem so different to me.”
“For starters, one is done consciously, the other is unconscious. One is recuperative, the other is idleness.”
My eyes snapped open. “Idleness?”
Brooks shook his head as he rose.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I recognize an argument when I see one coming.” He indicated the direction of an ice cream vendor across the park. “I’m practicing losing-argument avoidance.”
As he backed away, Jimmy got up to follow him. I guessed going with Brooks was more exciting than my relaxing.
“What do you want?” Brooks asked.
“You’re judging me for relaxing while going for ice cream ten minutes after inhaling six pounds of food?”
“You want something or not?”
I folded my hands over my stomach and closed my eyes. “Or not.”
As Brooks and Jimmy wandered to the ice cream vendor, I tried to relax. It wasn’t happening. Inside, I felt fidgety. All of Brooks’s restless energy must have rubbed off on me, I thought, as I sat up with a grumble.
Since Jimmy and that confounded camera were with Brooks, I let myself watch him for a minute. Even from a distance, he was easy to look at, that aura of confidence almost visible to the naked eye. My eyes narrowed as I really focused, attempting to look hard or long enough to extinguish that unsettling clench in my midsection I felt whenever I looked at him.
In fact, it only seemed to get worse the longer I watched him.
Rolling onto my stomach, I picked at the grass and attempted to outline my thoughts on the article I was working on, but I could not distract myself from the man who’d just been suckered into an impromptu soccer game by a group of preschoolers. One of the girls had accidently kicked the ball into his back, but instead of reacting the way I’d assumed Brooks would—an inconvenienced sneer—he gave a theatrical performance of acting as though he’d nearly been dropped from the power of her kick.
Jimmy, not missing the opportunity, panned along with Brooks as he volleyed with the kids. Their teachers were paying more attention to him than they were the four- and five-year-olds. At least I wasn’t the only one with Brooks North fever.
After passing the ball to a boy who was practically half the size of the others so he could score the goal, Brooks high-fived some of them before he stepped back in line at the ice cream truck. Was that a genuine smile on his face? Had I just heard an honest-to-goodness laugh?
The kids got back to playing their game while Brooks gave his order. Never had I imagined Brooks might have been a fatherly type.
Until now.
Plucking at the grass, I conjured up all of the instances when Brooks North had been an ass. The list wasn’t short. Still, I could not get rid of the tightness in my stomach, the sensation that seemed like a warning or a pre-cursor or something important. I’d never felt it before, and now that I finally had that feeling, I wanted it to go away. To go into hibernation until another man entered the scene and my life hadn’t been reduced to a damn circus.
When Brooks started to head back, I laid my head on my arms and tipped my sunhat just enough to shade my eyes from him. For all he knew, I was taking a nap and not having an internal panic attack that the first man I’d felt the je ne sais quoi for was the last person on the planet I could let myself feel anything for.
Behind him, a chorus of cheers echoed where the kiddos had been playing, but Brooks and Jimmy were blocking my view to see what had elicited such a response.
“Miss me?”
Yawning, I pushed up on my forearms. “You keep asking me that question.”
“I keep waiting for a different response.”
The sun was right behind him and I couldn’t look at him without being blinded, so I diverted my eyes across the field toward from where he’d just come. Then I saw the source of the cheering.
“You didn’t have anything to do with that, did you?” I asked as the ice cream vendor handed a few more ice cream cones to the kids circled around the stand, their hands flailing.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” The smirk in his tone gave him away.
“You bought ice cream for all of those kids?”
Brooks glanced over his shoulders, lifting his hand when the young women attempting to corral the preschoolers waved. “And their nice teachers.”
I bit my tongue to keep from saying something snarky over the “nice” part. “You? The stoic, grumpy realist? Bought ice cream for a classroom of ankle biters?”
“What?” Brooks crouched beside me. Too close. But then his presence would be too close no matter where he was. “It’s a beautiful day, and just because I’m a realist doesn’t mean I don’t believe in random acts of kindness.”
I leaned away as discreetly as I could. “Sure. Like a stranger buying ice cream for a bunch of little kids in a park. The definition of a random act of kindness. Not at all creepy.”
His face froze for a moment as he glanced back at the ice-cream-inhaling young’uns. Then he laughed. “Christ. I didn’t think of it that way.” He continued laughing. “No wonder the ice cream guy gave me a funny look when I said I wanted to buy ice cream cones for them all.”
I found myself laughing with him. “You’re going to wind up on an episode of America’s Most Wanted.”
Jimmy slid around beside us, kneeling a little too close for comfort.
“Here.” Brooks held out a waffle cone towered with several flavors of ice cream. “I got this for you.”
I blinked at the cone that probably weighed as much as I had when I’d been born. “I said I didn’t want anything.”
He gave me a look, moving the cone closer. “Whenever a guy asks a girl if she wants dessert and she says no, it always mean yes.” He took a bite of his own massive waffle cone, practically setting mine into one of my hands.
“That doesn’t apply to everything,” I said, taking the ice cream. “No does not mean yes.”
He winked at me when I took my first lick. “Only when it comes to dessert.”
“I want to argue with you, but I’m not,” I said as I took another lick of the top scoop—salted caramel.
“Because I’m right?”
I lifted my index finger. “This one time.”
Taking a seat on the grass, he turned his face toward the sky. “Women might hate me for what I write, but I pay more attention than most guys. In fact, if you all could see past the pragmatic beliefs, there’s a pretty solid life partner hiding behind all of this realism.”
I stared at him for a while, wondering why I had to fight every instinct demanding I move closer. I should be leaning away, creating distance, wanting space. My mind dictated that. But my body told a different story. “Women don’t want a life partner. They want a soul mate.”
Brooks looked down at me. “What’s the difference?”
“It’s all the difference.”