by Lauren Layne
“No, I told Pen. I’m not embarrassed by my plan,” Brit said with a shrug.
She saw the relief on Hunter’s face that she wasn’t going to get upset that he’d apparently talked to Cole about it, but she wasn’t. Truly. They’d kept each other’s secrets when necessary, but they’d always been very up-front with each other about what was confidential and what was fair game. They were best friends, but they weren’t each other’s only friends.
“I think it’s brilliant,” Penelope said. “Believe me, if anybody understands what it’s like to be always the friend, never the girlfriend, it’s me.”
“Hey!” Cole exclaimed.
Penelope smiled over her shoulder at him, then tossed the football back his way. “You know what I mean. Pre-Cole.”
“Thought we agreed to treat pre-Cole days as though they didn’t exist,” he said.
His tone was teasing, but his eyes were adoring as he gazed at Penelope, and Brit glanced away. Both to give them the privacy of the moment and to hide the stab of envy.
That’s why she was doing all of this. To find someone who looked at her the way Cole was looking at Penelope, someone to make her smile the way Penelope was smiling right now, as though she was warmed from the inside out.
“So?” Cole asked, turning his attention back to Brit with a friendly smile. “Are you a lady Lothario yet?”
“Nearly,” she said, closing her laptop and setting it on Hunter’s desk before crossing her legs. “Hunter helped me go through my wardrobe.”
Cole shot Hunter a sympathetic look. “How was that?”
“Dangerous,” Hunter answered. “Very dangerous.”
“Oh, I love your clothes!” Penelope said to Brit. “Though I guess my opinion probably doesn’t count for much.” She studied her own ensemble, a plain white blouse and gray slacks and black flats. Pretty much standard Penelope Pope attire, but it suited her.
Brit got an idea. “Hey, Cole,” she said. “Do you like my clothes?”
Her friend’s blue eyes went wide in panic and he looked quickly at Hunter, who was grinning broadly. “Yeah, Cole. What do you think of Brit’s clothes?”
“Hey, man, you’re her love coach. Not me.”
“Love coach!” Penelope said. “I like that!”
“No,” Hunter and Brit said at the same time.
“That’s not what we’re doing,” Brit rushed to explain. “He’s just giving me some pointers.”
“On your love life,” Penelope emphasized.
“Okay, yes, but—wait, he never answered the question,” Brit said, deflecting back to Cole.
“Well.” Cole stuck his tongue in his cheek and seemed to think it over. “Truth be told, Brit, I can’t say I’ve noticed your clothes one way or the other.”
“See,” Hunter said. “Told you that wasn’t as big a deal as you thought it was.”
“And yet you seemed to have plenty of opinions.”
“I said I don’t like those weird flowing dresses that drag on the ground and look like maternity wear.”
“Maxi dresses,” a new voice added.
They all turned to see Jake Malone standing in the doorway, a can of Coke in his hand as he eavesdropped unapologetically.
“How the hell do you know what a maxi dress is?” Hunter asked Oxford’s lead travel editor.
“This is what marriage does for you,” Jake said with a shrug.
“Note to self,” Hunter muttered.
“Do you like maxi dresses?” Brit asked Jake.
Jake grinned at her. “Depends. How often do you talk to Grace?”
Grace Malone was Jake’s wife. A pretty, sweet-tempered brunette who matched Jake perfectly in good looks and likability. Grace also worked at Stiletto magazine, in the same building as Oxford, which meant that while they weren’t the best of friends, Brit saw Grace plenty.
“Okay, so maxi dresses are universally hated, apparently,” Brit mused.
All three men nodded.
“It’s too bad,” Penelope said sympathetically. “I can never wear them because I’m so short, but they seem so comfortable.”
“They are comfortable,” Brit said. “And he told me that what men liked more than anything was for women to be comfortable.” She pointed at Hunter, then looked at Cole and Jake. “Do we agree or disagree?”
“Ahhh . . .” Cole tugged at the collar of his shirt as though it was too tight. “Malone, you take this one.”
Jake finished the last of his soda, crushed the can in his fist, and then tossed it into Hunter’s garbage can. “Before I walk into this conversational minefield, why are we talking about Brit’s clothes?”
“Hunter is Brit’s love coach,” Penelope announced.
Brit opened her mouth to clarify, then rolled her eyes and let it go. She supposed love coach was a good enough description for her plan.
“Like Hitch?” Jake asked, leaning against the doorjamb. “That movie?”
“Yes!” Penelope said, snapping her fingers. “I didn’t even see the similarities until now, but you’re totally right!”
Brit scanned her movie repertoire and pulled up vague memories of a fun Will Smith movie where Will played a relationship guide to men whose love lives sucked, only to have his usual smooth moves fail him when he met a woman he actually liked.
“I guess it’s kind of like that,” she said.
Hunter gave a hefty sigh. “Do I even want to see this movie?”
“Definitely,” Cole said. “Eva Mendes is in it. Hot.”
Penelope nodded in agreement. “Super hot.”
“Huh,” Hunter said, then told Brit, “Add it to our list for movie nights.”
“Really?” She sat up excitedly. “You never want to watch romantic comedies when we have movie nights.”
His gaze went panicked, and he looked at Cole and Jake. “You didn’t say anything about it being a romantic comedy.”
“More comedy than romance,” Cole said, stepping toward him and giving a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
“Okay, but for real,” Jake said. “Brit and Hunter are . . . what. Fake dating?”
“No, no,” Brit said quickly. “Well, sort of. We are going on a date tonight.”
She gave Hunter a flirtatious flutter of her eyelashes.
He shook his head. “Hey, student, here’s your lesson for the day. No more of that weird eyelash thing.”
“My inner Marilyn shudders at the thought of retiring the move.”
He stared at her for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t even want to know what that means.”
“Marilyn Monroe,” Lincoln Mathis said, poking his head in. “Classic. She a role model of yours, Robbins? You could do worse. Though I think I see you more as having a Julie Andrews kind of vibe. Sort of girl-next-door—”
Lincoln broke off at the sound of Alex Cassidy clearing his throat behind him.
Lincoln licked his finger and stuck it in the air without turning around. “I’m sensing a powerful dark force. . . .” Cassidy rolled his eyes. “Do I want to know what’s going on here? Why my editors are discussing Hollywood icons in my operational VP’s office?
“And spare me the bullshit about how it’s a story you’re working on,” he said before any of them could offer up a lame excuse.
Brit knew he was only half serious. As editor in chief of Oxford, Cassidy was their boss, but he was also a good friend. And he had an impressive knack for keeping them in line, both as friend and boss.
Cassidy’s eyes went straight to Hunter and Brit. “Don’t tell me. It has something to do with the two of you and your Hitch plan.”
“There you go,” Cole told Hunter. “Even Cassidy’s seen the movie.”
“Since you guys are all such experts on the topic, maybe one of you could be Brit’s love coach,” Hunter said darkly.
“See, you said love coach too!” Penelope exclaimed with delight.
Cassidy took pity on them. “Okay, everyone out. Even you,” he said to Penelope. “Actua
lly, especially you. You have that look on your face.”
“What look?” Penelope said, standing and pushing in her chair.
“The one where you want everyone to be as grossly in love as you and Cole.”
“Right. Like you and Emma weren’t locked in your office for a long time this morning,” Penelope said, referring to Cassidy’s wife.
He gave her a ha ha look as she exited the office, then pointed Lincoln, Cole, and Jake down the hallway. “You do remember there’s a deadline at five o’clock tonight?”
“I turned mine in early,” Lincoln said. “You must have missed it.”
“I don’t miss shit, and you don’t do early,” Cassidy pointed out.
“Worth a shot,” Lincoln muttered as he too disappeared.
“All good?” Cassidy said, leveling his gaze at Brit and Hunter after everyone was gone.
They both nodded, and Hunter assured him that they’d have an outline for the Super Bowl plan on his desk by end of day.
Cassidy gave a quick nod, started to leave, and turned back to Brit. “For the record, I definitely see a little bit of Norma Jean in you.”
He gave a quick wink and left, and Brit smiled to herself.
Hunter was staring at her. “Who the hell is Norma Jean? And why do you seem so happy about the comparison?”
Brit gave him an enigmatic smile and stood, grabbing her laptop. “I’ll clean up these notes and email you ASAP.”
“Fine. Good. Who’s Norma Jean?”
“Me, for now.”
“As opposed to you later, when you become . . .”
Brit fluttered her eyelashes again. “Marilyn. Obviously.”
Chapter Eight
Brit couldn’t help it. She straight-up gaped at her surroundings as Hunter led her into the restaurant. It was gorgeous. Easily one of the most stunning restaurants she’d ever been to, and that was saying something living in Manhattan, where fancy was often the status quo.
“This is your first-date spot?” she asked as Hunter gave his name to the hostess.
“Sometimes,” he said with a shrug. “You’ve never been?”
She snorted. “Nope. And even if I had, it likely would have been on a girls’ night planned by one of the Stiletto girls. Guys would never bring me here. Or anyplace close to it.”
Hunter was in the process of helping ease her jacket down her arms, but he stilled for a moment and she turned her head slightly, looking up to see what was wrong.
His expression was . . . angry.
Then he shook his head and resumed pulling her sleeve. “You’ve been dating the wrong dudes.”
Brit said nothing as he took their jackets to the girl manning the coat check. She already knew that she’d been dating the wrong kind of guys. This whole plan was about attracting the right one.
Hunter accepted the ticket from the coat-check girl, then turned back toward Brit, going still once more when he saw her.
He looked her up and down. “That’s not the black shirt we talked about.”
The black dress was one of her favorites. It was slim-fitting without being skintight. At first glance it was surprisingly demure, a basic style that covered her arms and hit just above the knee, not showing much skin. But something about the way it was cut made it feel like it was meant for her. The top was velvet and fitted in the torso with a sweetheart neckline. The skirt was lace with the slightest amount of movement to swish when she walked.
“No, I made a last-minute decision against the black shirt,” she admitted. “I didn’t try this one on the other night because I already knew that I loved it and was going to keep it whether or not you approved.”
Brit saw Hunter swallow and give a quick shake of his head. Before she could ask whether that was approval or lack thereof, the hostess approached with two menus. “Your table’s ready, Mr. Cross.”
Hunter gestured for Brit to precede him, and she did, resuming her marvel of the restaurant—the perfect lighting, the stunning chandeliers, the warm colors and textures that managed to seem both timelessly romantic and fantastically modern.
Her thoughts scattered when she felt Hunter’s hand rest lightly on the small of her back. A fleeting touch, probably more instinctive than anything, but she felt the contact tingle all the way up her spine.
Had he ever touched her like that before? Maybe. Probably. She’d never noticed.
She noticed now.
Then his touch was gone, and she was walking across the restaurant, following the hostess, who led them to a corner booth. It could have easily fit four, and since it was just the two of them, the extra space gave an illusion of privacy rare in tiny, crowded New York restaurants.
Hunter sat a little closer than he needed to, though she supposed that was more due to the loud music than anything else. She wondered if that was part of what made the restaurant sexy. The loud music should have killed the romance, but somehow it added to it—made you want to lean in to whoever you were with a little more to make sure you didn’t miss a word.
“I see why you like it here,” she said, placing the napkin on her lap. “It’s . . . well, it’s sexy, isn’t it?”
He glanced around. “I just like the food.”
“Oh, that’s crap,” she said with a laugh. “Taking a woman to a place like this is more likely to get you laid, and you know it.”
He gave her a sharp, surprised look, and her laughter died. “Not like you and me tonight . . . You know what I mean.”
He smiled quickly. “Yeah. I got it.”
A server approached, asking if they wanted tap, sparkling, or bottled water. After clarifying that tap was fine, she picked up the menu, then looked up at him.
“What’s good? Oh, wait.” She bit her lip. “Is that annoying? I always ask that if I know a guy’s been to a restaurant before and I haven’t, but is that too much pressure—”
“Brit.” He set his fingers lightly against her arm. “Relax. It’s just me.”
“I know, but—”
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he interrupted. “Rather than you overthinking every sentence for the entire evening, and rather than me providing constant feedback, be yourself. I’ll do my best to perceive you as I would a woman I’m dating. We can debrief after.”
Brit considered this, then she shrugged. “Works for me.”
He smiled, a real one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Why are you smiling like that?” she asked.
He shrugged as he pulled reading glasses from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and slid them on. “Nothing. You’re just . . . easy.”
“Um.”
“Easy to be around,” he said, not looking up from the menu. “Also, lesson number one, don’t read into everything.”
“Thought we weren’t going to debrief until after?”
“Starting now,” he said. He peered at her over the rims of his glasses. “You like oysters?”
“I do,” she said. “I didn’t used to, but they kind of grow on you, huh?”
Hunter nodded in agreement. “Can’t say there were a whole lot of fresh oysters in Kansas City, and when I moved to New York my first boss ordered some for the table without asking if I liked them. When they came, I thought it was some sort of horrible mistake.”
She laughed. “Yeah, they definitely take the award for one of the least visually appetizing foods. I had to close my eyes and plug my nose the first time I tried one. But then the salty sea vibe sort of settles in, and . . . yeah, I like them.”
Hunter ordered a dozen for the two of them, along with a bottle of champagne. He didn’t ask if she liked champagne. That, he already knew, courtesy of years of friendship and many New Year’s Eves spent together.
“Speaking of Kansas City, how is everyone?” she asked. She’d met his family a couple of times when she’d gone to Missouri to be his date to various weddings.
“Funny you mention it,” he said. “My parents are coming out this weekend. They want Malik to see the city. Hell, proba
bly so he doesn’t end up like me, never seeing an oyster till he’s twenty-four.”
“How’s he settling in?” she asked as the server poured their champagne.
Malik was Hunter’s foster brother. Dennis and Gail had four kids, but they’d been hit hard by empty-nest syndrome when Hunter’s younger sister had left for college a couple of years ago. They’d decided to become foster parents to a kid who desperately needed a home.
“Better. A lot better, actually. When I went back for Christmas, he’d lost that sort of edge, you know? He seemed happy. They all did.”
“He’s what, twelve?”
“Thirteen. Hopefully the careful alliance they’ve all forged won’t go to hell as he enters the teen years, but my parents say so far so good.”
“I’d love to see them when they’re here, if it’s not too intrusive.”
He gave her a look. “Please. As if my parents would pass up a chance to interrogate you. Malik wants to meet you too.”
“He knows about me?” She was surprised.
Hunter seemed confused by the question. “Of course.” Then he lifted his glass. “Shall we toast?”
She raised hers as well. “Absolutely. To . . . your parents’ visit? Malik?”
“Hmm. Yes. To that. And to your plan.”
She clinked her glass and took a sip. Delicious. “I thought you hated my plan.”
“I never said that.”
“Well, you sure as hell didn’t agree to it readily, and you’ve put up a fuss with every suggestion I’ve made.”
“Men don’t fuss, Robbins.”
“Uh-huh. I work with mostly males, so I know otherwise.”
“Okay, fine, I don’t love the plan. But . . .” He looked over at her. “I’m glad that it’s me instead of someone else.”
“I wouldn’t have asked anyone else,” she said quietly. Truthfully. “I can’t imagine anything more vulnerable than asking someone to tell you why you’re unlovable.”
“Brit.” He put his glass down sharply.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she rushed to explain. “Really, I didn’t. I promise I don’t think I’m not worth loving. I just . . . I do sometimes wonder why I’m not finding love when everyone around me is.”