Love the One You're With (8 page)

Grace opened her mouth to counter. She couldn't.

“But a guy who suggests a cheese plate?” he continued. “It's simple, sexy …”

“Cheese is
not
sexy.”

“I'm not talking about the fake orange kind, or a bland block of on-sale mozzarella. I'm
talking a sleek wood board with a nice chunk of manchego, maybe a bleu d'Auvergne … or a creamy cambozola … maybe a fresh baguette. Grapes too, if that's your thing.”

Grace was appalled to realize that her mouth was watering.

She no longer had any doubt that a cheese plate
did
in fact get plenty of women into bed. But it wasn't the cheese that got them there. Sure, the sentiment was nice. And she'd give him credit for observing that most women loved to nibble.

But that wasn't the clincher.

No, Jake Malone himself was the clincher. It was all in the way he said “cambozola,” and the way he painted the picture of that shared cheese plate as though he would love nothing more than sharing it with the love of his life.

Jake wasn't selling cheese, he was selling himself.

“Okay,” she said, giving a practical nod. “I'll buy your little theory.”

He grinned. “I knew it.”

“If,
if
I can hear a balding, overweight whiner who lives with his mom pitch that cheese plate and still land the girl.”

Jake's smile slipped slightly. “That's not fair.”

Grace tsked and signaled for a refill on her drink. “Your advice only works for someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Handsome. Fit. Overdosed on charm.”

“Yeah, I hear women
hate
all those qualities,” he said, feeling oddly stung by her disdain. Why he should want Grace Brighton to like him was beyond him, but it bothered him the way she so easily dismissed him as a specimen to be analyzed.

“But you get my point,” she continued. “You could suggest a couples colonoscopy, and women would probably agree. But your suggestions aren't universal.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “And you're telling me that your articles
are
universal? Let's see, what are some of your more recent gems? Planning a steak night he'll drool for … now Grace, did you ever think about all those vegetarians? Or what was that one you wrote about how couples who run together have better sex? That's just not inclusive of people with joint problems or shin splints, now is it? Was
that
advice universal? Or let's take your friend Julie, who makes it seem like the flipping of one's hair is an art form. What about women with short hair? How are
they going to learn that trick?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Thought you said you'd never read my articles.”

Jake gave a sheepish smile. “I
may
have done a little reconnaissance.”

She nodded once before doing a little backtracking of her own. “Okay, maybe I can admit that our respective articles don't apply to all situations.”

He nodded, looking a little thrown off by her easy capitulation.

She
hoped
she was throwing him off. He was certainly throwing her off.

Even worse, she was sort of liking the guy. She'd known he was charming. Known he was confident.

But he was also genuine. A little bit funny.

More than that, he
listened
when she spoke. Greg had so often had that glazed-over expression on his face, and that's when he hadn't been blatantly interrupting her to order another drink.

“Your turn for the first-date spiel,” he said.

Uh-oh.

“I get one more question,” she said, stalling for time. “Tell me one thing about you that nobody else knows.”

“That nobody else knows?” He pursed his lips. “Don't know that I have one of those. I'm not really a deep-dark-secret kind of guy.”

The admission had been off the cuff, but there was something in the way he said it—something that made her think he did have hidden depths but wasn't about to let anyone near them.

Grace rolled her eyes. “Fine. Tell me something that
almost
nobody else knows. Something that's not on your standard first-date script.”

He took a sip of his drink as he thought about it. “I hate the Yankees.”

She was oddly disappointed that his confession was so tame. “So you're like, what … a Mets fan?”

“Not really. I'm more of a football guy, but I don't hate baseball in general. Just the Yankees. It would take the apocalypse to get me to set foot into that stadium again.”

“Gosh, that sounds reasonable and mature. Any reason? Or just the usual stupid boy stuff?”

“I just can't stand their uppity
my-shit-don't-stink
routine. I've seen the whole organization up close, and it's everything that's wrong with sports today.”

“You know, don't you, that there are millions of rabid Yankees fan who would probably have a heart attack at that perhaps unfounded statement?”

“Yup. You never said it had to be a
reasonable
confession.”

“Gotcha,” she said with an amenable nod. “I'm going to pretend I found all that interesting.”

For some reason that made him grin. “If I were to dig
really
deep, I might be able to say that I irrationally blame the Yankees for ruining a good thing in my life. Even though common sense tells me I made the decision all by my adult self.”

Now we're getting somewhere
. “What did the big bad baseball team make you do?”

“Let's just say they were the start of the derailment of my intended life trajectory.”

Grace whistled. “Deep.”

“Deep enough for a first date,” he said, looking pointedly at her. “It's your turn.”

She took a deep breath. It had been a long,
long
time since she'd done this sharing shit.

“You want food first?” he asked, opening one of the bar menus.

“That'd be great,” she said, realizing she was a little hungry. She'd really thought she'd be on her way home by now. She'd figured they'd tolerate each other for one drink and twenty minutes of small talk before they both headed home to write up their respective story notes while the evening was still fresh.

Or at least
she'd
planned on going home.

This
one had probably planned on cheese-plating some poor girl.

“Calamari?” he asked. “Bruschetta?”

“Either,” she said.

“They do have a cheese plate,” he mused, “but I don't think we're there yet. Although with that dress, a guy can never know.”

Grace let out a little laugh. “Trust me, the dress was for first impressions only. It will not be seen again after this night.”

He glanced up. “Why the hell not? It's a knockout.”

Grace ignored her blush. “It's just … not me.”

“So why are you wearing it? Just to throw me off?”

Her blush grew deeper. “Guilty. I knew you'd be expecting something a little more bland. I wanted to catch you off guard.”

Jake gave her an approving look. “A good technique. And for the record, if you
really
want to advise women how to pique the guy's interest, a dress like that is the way to go. Although they'd need that body to go with it …”

“Don't start that again,” she said.

“I can't compliment you?” he asked, looking confused.

Not unless you mean it
.

Greg had complimented her all the time. About her new boots. Her makeup when they were going out for the evening. He'd even complimented the dumb stuff, like how she always put just the right amount of cream cheese on his morning bagel.

Once upon a time she'd thought that was sweet.

She'd thought that compliments meant something.

She knew better now. Compliments from men were about as reliable as the relationships on
The Bachelor
.

And Grace was particularly wary of compliments from a man who occasionally wooed women for a living. So far her mental notes for this story looked a little like this:
Don't trust a word out of Jake Malone's mouth
.

Not exactly the makings of a great article. Then again, it would certainly be a
useful
article. Because if Grace Brighton could give one bit of tangible advice to women, it would be just that:
Don't trust men. Any of them
.

Nodding approvingly was 2.0.

“Uh-oh,” Jake said, his eyes locked on her face.

“What?”

“I know that look. That's a man-hater look.”

Grace took a sip of her drink. A big one. “I am not a man-hater.”

“Really?” he asked in a coaxing voice. “Not even one man in particular?”

A picture of Greg flashed through her mind. A picture of Greg's too-innocent face when she'd asked who the panties in their bed belonged to.

A picture of him begging for one more chance.

A picture of her walking out the door for good.

She relented and sighed. “Is it that obvious?”

“The bad breakup? Um, yeah.”

“Wonderful. I'm delighted to hear that I have
damaged goods
written across my forehead.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“With you?” She didn't bother to keep the incredulousness out of her tone. The thought of Jake Malone as a confidant was … oddly not as unappealing as it should have been.
Huh
.

“Have you talked to anyone else about it?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Any
men
?”

Grace snorted, 2.0 style. “Yeah, because that's every scorned woman's first reaction. To go spill her guts to the same species as the guy that screwed her over.”

“Aha,” he said, giving a little nod. “He cheated.”

She opened her mouth. Wanted to tell him to back off. Wanted to tell him he was the last person she'd discuss this with.

Instead …

“Yeah. He cheated.”

“One-time fling?” he asked, taking a sip of his drink. “Or serial cheater?”

“Somewhere in between,” she said, fishing an olive out of her martini. “As far as I know, it was just one woman.
Maureen
. But it had been going on for months.”

“I take it you didn't see it coming?”

Objectively Grace knew he didn't mean it as a jab, but it felt like a poke in the jugular all the same.

“No,” she said quietly. “I mean, I was aware of Maureen. She was one of his colleagues, and she was just one of those predatory women that had all significant others staying a little closer to their men at company functions, you know?”

“But you didn't think it would happen to you.”

Again she listened for a sign of judgment. Searched his face for pity. But instead there was simple understanding.

“No,” she said quietly. “I never once imagined he'd cheat.”

Jake leaned back on the bar stool, pursing his lips as though considering a deep
philosophical question. “Well, here's the way I see it …”

“I didn't ask.”

He ignored her. “This guy … what's his name?”

“Greg.”

“And you were together how long?”

“Nine years.”

He whistled. “Did you start dating when you were toddlers?”

“College,” she said with a wry smile. “He was my first serious boyfriend.”

Jake nodded. “Well, that right there is your problem.”

“
I'm
not the one with a problem,” Grace snapped. “He's the one who couldn't keep his dick in his pants. And don't you dare imply that he must have had a reason to step out.”

Jake's smile disappeared and his fingers wrapped around her wrist. “Don't think for one moment that I condone cheating in
any
situation.”

Grace's heart began to beat a little faster at the intensity on his face. “Okay,” she said, a little breathless. All of a sudden she was much too aware that there was nothing playful and harmless about this version of Jake Malone. Even worse, she was every bit as attracted to this version as the flirty version.

Crap.

“I know what the papers say about me,” he continued. “That I'm a player and a womanizer and whatever else they like to call happily single men these days. But my women have never, ever overlapped. Fidelity's nonnegotiable in my book.”

Grace searched his face. “Spoken by someone who's been a victim of infidelity?”

His eyes went cool and he released her wrist. “Spoken by someone who has morals, Brighton.”

Feeling knocked a little off balance by the suddenly serious turn in conversation, Grace looked at her watch. Forget about food. This seemingly harmless date had gotten deep fast. This was territory she didn't want to go into with anybody.

Least of all a guy who could too easily make her forget all the reasons she was done with men.

“Okay then,” she said perkily. “Think we've got enough material to write an article about this ‘date'?”

He rolled his shoulders back slightly, as though willing away the temporary black cloud that seemed to have settled over him. Then his features relaxed and he was back to normal. “I certainly know the tack I'm going to take with my column.”

Grace bit her tongue before she could press him for details, because she was all too aware that she wouldn't be asking for the right reasons.

She wanted to know what Jake Malone thought of her. But not for the sake of the story.

Still, she couldn't resist doing a
little
digging. Technically this was her first “real” date for the better part of a decade.

“So, I'm a little out of practice at this,” she said, keeping her voice light, as though his response wouldn't make a difference to her one way or the other. “How'd I do?”

He gave her a knowing look, but to his credit, he didn't mock her. “You're asking how this first date compares to others?”