Love the One You're With (19 page)

Cole picked up the baseball Jake had caught at his first Yankees game. Everyone had insisted that it was the luck of a lifetime—first Yankees game and he catches a home run ball.

But it hadn't felt like luck to Jake. It had felt like a warning.

And so he'd kept it—kept it as a reminder that he was not the settling-down, home-ballpark kind of guy.

Although one wouldn't know it was any kind of memento from the way Cole was tossing it around like a hacky sack.

“I just heard through that ridiculous website of yours that you'd gotten her flowers. That's all.”

“You do know that there wouldn't be a ridiculous website if you hadn't betrayed your own magazine—your own
gender
—and helped her out when she came in here with that whipped-cream coffee drink? It was supposed to be just a little one-time back and forth before we moved on to write the actual articles.”

And soon we'll be moving on entirely
. He pushed the thought away.

“I know that,” Cole said as he assumed a pitcher's position and pretended to do some ridiculous wind-up. “Just like I know that you know what kind of flowers she likes.”

Big deal.

He knew lots of things about Grace. He knew her favorite flower (white roses), favorite color (green), favorite season (spring), and favorite ice cream flavor (pralines and cream).

He also knew that she talked to her parents every single Sunday at seven o'clock, knew that she would hold up rush-hour sidewalk traffic to give money to a homeless vet. He knew what she looked like when she was wearing nothing but a post-orgasmic glow, knew what she sounded like when—

Enough.

“I'm
supposed
to know that stuff,” Jake said, growing more irritated with Cole's baseball antics by the minute. “That's what this whole charade has been about. Getting to know the other person before they know you. Showing the women of the world that we men aren't the oblivious one-track-mind heathens they think we are.”

“So then you haven't slept with her.”

“Nope,” Jake lied easily. He knew there was all sorts of speculation all over that damned blog, but he'd rot in hell before he'd share one detail about his nights with Grace.

Even if he wanted to write about them, he had no idea what he'd say. None.

Because he didn't have the faintest clue what was going on between them
—really
going on between them—and he didn't think she did either.

On one hand, they were both completely invested in the little game they were playing. They were completely at ease spending lunches and coffees and random office visits together to let themselves to be analyzed.

She didn't even seem to mind when he'd written a blog post of his own on the website noting how Grace, like so many women, was a big fan of the “I don't care, whatever you want” routine about food and movies, only to sniff in disdain when what he wanted was clearly the wrong choice.

He'd ripped
that
little female wile wide open.

But had she taken offense? Taken him to the woodshed about exploiting their Thai-no-actually-I-want-Chinese lunch argument?

No. She'd been unfazed.

Just like
he
hadn't flinched when she'd blown the whistle on the way he'd noted a hostess's rather overly ample breasts. He'd meant to be discreet. He thought he
had
been discreet. He was, after all, a gentleman. But Grace had busted him, and he hadn't minded in the least.

That's what they were doing—dating for public consumption. It was like reality TV without the reality. Not quite scripted, but not quite real either.

Except when it was real.

And unfortunately for him, it seemed to be feeling real a lot more often. And for her … well as far as he knew, she was still on her all-men-can-go-to-hell rampage. He wasn't an idiot. He'd known precisely what that date last weekend had been about.

Grace Brighton spent all day writing about sex, and talking with women who wrote about sex, and yet she'd only ever been with one guy.

So of course she'd want to experiment.

And of course she'd choose no-relationship Jake Malone to experiment with. After all, he'd offered.

So why did he feel so … used?

Hadn't he been guilty of the very same thing? This was New York. A little casual sex was as routine as takeout.

But this hadn't just been sex.

It had been hot sex.
Really
hot sex.

So what? In two weeks you'll be in a foreign country and Grace Brighton will be happily living the single life
.

“Okay, so you know what her favorite flower is, but you're not sleeping with her,” Cole said.

“Correct.”

“Cassidy told me that he's rolling you off the project at the end of the month.”

“Yup. Did Cassidy also tell you to come in here and bug the shit out of me, or was that your own bright idea? Don't you have a locker room to be stalking or a jock strap to be investigating?”

Cole set the baseball down in a completely different spot from where he'd found it and
commenced playing with the pen Jake's dad had gotten him for college graduation. Jake gave up trying to return to his work and snatched the pen out of Cole's hands.

“So after this month, you're done with Grace?” Cole asked.

No
.

Shit. Where had that thought come from?
Shit
.

“Isn't that what I just said?” Jake snapped.

“Excellent.”

“You're telling me,” Jake said, with enthusiasm he didn't feel.

“So you won't mind if I ask her out, then?”

The pen in Jake's hand suddenly felt a lot less like a nostalgic writing utensil and a lot more like a potential weapon. “You want to date Grace?”

Cole lifted a shoulder. “I liked what I saw when she came up here that day. She's classy, you know?”

He
did
know. She was also his.

“She's not your type,” Jake snapped.

“Maybe not,” Cole said affably. “But isn't that what dating's for? To figure it out?”

Damn it. Damn it all to hell. There was absolutely no reasonable explanation he could give for why Cole couldn't ask her out. All he could do was wait for Grace to turn Cole down.

And surely Grace would turn him down. She had that whole sixth-month plan.

But
after
the six-month plan? Then what? Cole was good-looking. Richer than sin. And he seemed like the type that wanted babies and a Kitchen-Aid mixer and a tennis club membership someday. Cole wasn't likely to up and go to Beijing or Reykjavik because he had an
itch
.

Jake liked Grace. And because he liked her, he wanted her to be happy. Once she was over this whole girl-power single-life phase, she'd want someone who knew how to be a good boyfriend.

She deserved someone who knew a routine beyond love-'em-and-leave-'em.

You could stay
.

No. Hell. He
couldn't
stay. He didn't want to be a nobody journalist doing the same thing until he was fifty. He wanted to branch out. Go places.

He wanted fulfillment.

Grace could be fulfillment
.

He leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to fight back the traitorous thoughts that kept spilling forward.

Grace wasn't for him. Grace was … special. And she deserved someone who didn't eat Cheerios for three meals a day because he forgot to go shopping, and whose track record with women had maxed out at exactly three months and nineteen days before he'd gotten bored.

He wouldn't do that to Grace.

“You should go for it,” he told Cole, mildly surprised to find that the words didn't become physically lodged in his throat. “Ask Grace out. If you need any pointers, just let me know.”

“And you're sure you don't mind?”

“Yup.”
I just want to kill you. That's all
.

“Good. Then I'm
also
guessing you won't mind that there's a scary blonde in the waiting area who's been demanding to see you. She says you two are involved?”

Jake froze. “Short hair or long hair? Curvy or thin? Or did she have a beauty mark to the left of her mouth?”

Cole raised his eyebrows. “There are multiple possibilities of scary blondes waiting in your office reception area?”

“Dozens,” Jake muttered darkly before going to deal with his baggage.

In a way he was grateful for it—coming face-to-face with one of his many exes was exactly just one of many reasons why Grace Brighton was better off without him.

And right about now he needed that reminder.

* * *

When Grace was eight, she'd broken one of her parents' many rules and brought a tennis ball into the house with the bright idea that their new Labradoodle puppy might like to chase it in the foyer.

Instead, she'd accidentally thrown the ball into a vase, sending it shattering to the floor. Seconds after which the still-in-pursuit Labradoodle had collided with some abstract blown-glass sculpture, sending
that
shattering to the floor.

She'd been grounded for six weeks and had never, ever forgotten the sound of breaking glass.

She just didn't expect to hear it on the sixth floor of her office building.

Yet somehow she wasn't the least bit surprised that the origin of the noise was from none other than Jake Malone's office.

There were a handful of people standing outside the door when she approached with Jake's breakfast sandwich in hand. She recognized Cole Sharpe immediately, and he gave her a sardonic smile as he tilted his head toward Jake's office and mouthed, “Train wreck.”

The pixie-cut receptionist, whose name Grace had learned was Melissa, looked torn between horror and laughter, and a handful of other
Oxford
guys looked fascinated by whoever or whatever was inside.

“You're a pickle-cocked, womanizing asshat!”

Cole moved away from the door to stand by Grace's side. “Is he really pickle-cocked?”
Definitely not
. Grace covered her mouth to smother a horrified laugh. “I couldn't say. What's happening?”

“Some scorned woman apparently thought they were headed to the altar, only to hear about your little HeSaidSheSaid adventure.”

“Oh, but that's just—”

There was a hiss from inside the office. “Don't you
dare
tell me that it's just for work, Jake Malone. You bought her flowers. I read it on the website!”

It took all of Grace's self-control not to push everyone out of the way to hear Jake's response. He
had
bought her flowers. Her favorite kind. And though the gesture had been website fodder, the note had been sweet.

Because I thought of you
. Before
I thought of the website
.

But Jake's voice was too low for her to overhear.

The woman's was not. “So when you're done with this stupid thing for work, then you'll be done with her and call me?” she said in one of those pouty, cajoling voices.

Okay,
that
Grace
really
wanted to hear the answer to. But short of elbowing Melissa out of the way and physically entering the office, there was no way to get Jake's response.

She felt eyes on her and realized that Cole was watching her with a knowing expression. “Guess that answers that question,” he said with a twist of his lips.

Grace didn't ask what he was talking about. She was pretty sure she didn't want to know.

Whatever answer Jake gave apparently wasn't the one the woman wanted to hear, because there was another screech, and then a dull thud as something hit the wall. A stapler, perhaps?

Suddenly the bystanders began to back away, making way for a willowy blonde in five-inch heels and a white sweater dress that could have been—and probably
was
—straight off the runway.

Grace's heart sank. A model—of course she would be a model. Jake Malone stooped to dating pear-shaped brunettes when his paycheck depended on it and when it landed him a cushy office.

“Can I get anyone anything?” Jake asked, his voice suddenly louder. “Popcorn? A handkerchief to soak up the drool, Blake?”

“No, I'm good,” said one of the spectators, who couldn't have been more than twenty-two and was still gaping after the model.

“Great. Then does anyone know where the hell I'd find a broom? And also a replacement picture frame? I'd prefer not to have to tell my sister that the picture of my nephews collided with a harpy's purse—”

Jake broke off when he turned and saw Grace. She watched the range of reactions with interest. Happiness to see her. Embarrassment that she'd been witness to the scene. Then … guilt? Regret? He seemed to settle on
wary
. It was the expression of a man who didn't know how to handle his many women and wasn't sure that he wanted to.

Well, hell. Grace wasn't one of his women.

And she wouldn't start ranting at him, no matter how much he expected her to. She straightened her shoulders.

She would not be jealous.

She would not be insecure.

She wouldn't be anything other than politely amused at his expense.

At that, 2.0 gave her a nice golf clap.

“Clear out,” Jake barked roughly.

Everyone scattered except for Cole and Grace.

“Sharpe, you are seriously
killing
me today,” Jake said banging his head softly against the
door jam.

Cole held up his hands innocently. “Hey, you should be thanking me. I was ready to pull the fire alarm if she got any hotter.”

Jake scowled. “I hope you were referring to her temper.”

“Of course. Although, those legs—”

Grace cleared her throat.

“Were bony, and gangly, and way too long to be practical,” Cole finished.

She patted his forearm. “You've been well trained.”