Love the One You're With (2)

by Lauren Layne

  Oliver gave a shudder and raised his palms as though to say, I’m out.

  Exactly, Grace thought. Being a woman was messy business.

  “So who’s it going to be?” Camille asked, her eyes flitting among Julie, Riley, Grace, and Emma.

  “How about a little more information?” Riley said, sitting back in her chair and playing with a long strand of shiny black hair. “Is this, like, an article swap? Our stuff goes in Oxford, and one of their monkey reporters gets a page in ours?”

  “Sort of,” Camille said, tapping her nails against the table. “We’d be very transparent about what we’re up to. Alex and I were thinking that we’d take one of my girls and one of his guys and send you on a couple of dates. Three, at the minimum. Each of you will write an account of what you’re thinking. First impressions, assessment of the other person’s first impressions. You’ll analyze how the conversation went, what the other person’s thinking … all without actually discussing the article itself.”

  “Sounds very natural and non-awkward,” Grace whispered to Riley.

  Camille spared her a brief glare before continuing. “Stiletto will more prominently feature the female perspective about the date, but with an inset on what the guy was thinking. Oxford will do the same in reverse.”

  “What’s the objective?” Emma asked. She had one of those slightly husky, soothing voices, like a jazz singer or a sexpot, with just a touch of southern. Great. A sexy, smart, composed southern belle.

  “Now, here’s the part I think you ladies will like,” Camille said. “Alex and I were thinking of making it a competition of sorts.”

  “Go on …,” Riley said, tapping the tips of her fingers together like a cartoon villain.

  “Well, the goal here is to show that both Stiletto and Oxford aim to provide an accurate representation of what goes on inside the other side’s head. Women reading Stiletto want to know that the advice there is actually going to resonate with the guy in their life. Oxford is the same—what’s the point of all their tacky ‘How to Please a Woman’ sex advice if women don’t agree?”

  Grace hid her wince. Camille’s words cut a little too close. Wasn’t Grace guilty of this very thing? Of smugly writing article after article like some sort of expert on men, only to be blindsided by her own man?

  “I’m not disagreeing that we need to accurately represent the opposite sex,” Julie was saying. “But how is this a competition between Stiletto and Oxford? Who decides who wins?”

  “The readers,” Camille said, as though this was completely easy and obvious. “We’ll have the digital team get some sort of poll up on our respective websites. After each his-and-hers article is printed, they can vote for who’s ahead in knowing the opposite sex. For example, if the male columnist writes that the female columnist completely ate up his compliments on her hair color, and she writes that he’s an insincere oaf who was making fun of her roots, the women pull ahead. Similarly, if the woman insists on paying because she thinks he’ll appreciate it, and then he writes that she was a pushy ball-buster, the guys get the edge. You see? Everyone knows dating is a game. Now we just see who wins.”

  Nobody said a word.

  It was contrived. A little weird …

  And yet intriguing.

  “Julie’s out,” Camille was saying. “Mitchell will have my head if I put her on a real-life date for a story.”

  “And he knows firsthand how that turns out,” Riley said. “He ended up having to buy a ring the size of a baseball.”

  “So, Riley, you in?” Camille asked.

  Riley blinked her cat shaped blue eyes in surprise. “Me? This? But it’s so … tame.”

  Grace leaned forward and rested her chin on her hands while smirking at her best friend. “You could just slather the guy with bacon-flavored lube. Sex it up a bit?”

  “There will be no lube,” Camille said with a sharp finger jab. “And no sex. This is a dating column, not a prostitution ring.”

  Riley faked a big yawn.

  “Fine,” Camille snapped. “Emma? You up for it?”

  Grace’s spine slowly straightened. Whaaaaat?

  She understood why Riley had been Camille’s first choice—this sort of battle-of-the-sexes thing was a perfect fit for Riley’s snarky, bold style. And she understood why Julie was out of the running—an engaged woman doing a first-person dating project wouldn’t work.

  But why Emma before Grace? Adding insult to injury, nobody else in the room seemed to think this was strange. Even Riley and Julie didn’t seem fazed by the fact that Grace was apparently freaking invisible.

  Oddly, only Emma seemed aware that something was off, and her eyes flicked to Grace as though asking permission. Grace wanted to give her a reassuring smile. To tell Emma to go ahead and take the story because it wasn’t Grace’s thing. She gravitated toward stories that were less edgy, less ballsy …

  Less interesting.

  At least Grace 1.0 gravitated toward stories like that.

  Grace 2.0 was screaming that this was their chance to redeem themselves. To expose men as philandering frauds while slowly rebuilding their dignity.

  “I’ll do it!” Grace blurted out, her hand shooting in the air like a precocious second grader rushing to beat her classmates to the answer.

  Twenty pairs of eyes fell on her.

  “Grace …,” Camille said, her voice gentle.

  Oh shit. If their take-no-prisoners, half-batshit-crazy boss was going soft, it was worse than she thought.

  “You just got back from vacation,” Camille said. “Give yourself a little breather to get back into the swing of things.”

  But Grace 2.0 was strapping on battle armor, so Grace forged ahead. “Look, you need someone to go with an open mind into a dating scenario, right? Who better than someone who’s freshly back on the dating scene?”

  “But we need—”

  Grace held up a finger to stop the objections. “And who better to see through a man’s bullshit than someone who just got thrown over by a man? Nobody will be more watchful of a guy’s BS than me.”

  “She has a point.”

  Grace was a little startled to realize it was Emma who had spoken, but the new columnist looked completely unperturbed by the fact that Grace was trying to steal a prime story from right under her nose.

  “Look,” Emma said in her husky voice. “Office water-cooler gossip has made it obvious that Grace is coming out of a nasty relationship. If this is truly a competition—and if Stiletto wants to prove that women read men far better than they read us—then we’ll need someone who has a burning desire to get it right.”

  Grace didn’t know why Emma was taking her side, but Emma made an excellent point. Grace did have a burning desire to get it right.

  She felt Camille studying her, her boss’s auburn bob barely moving as she tilted her head to the side.

  “Okay,” Camille said simply.

  Okay? Okay? That was it?

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Julie and Riley give her victorious smiles.

  Camille changed the subject to some rant about organic skin care, and Grace sat back in her chair, feeling the best she’d felt in weeks.

  Grace 1.0 was biting her nails nervously, and Grace 2.0 was doing victory push-ups.

  Operation Reclaim Dignity was officially on track.

  And Mr. Oxford better watch his back, because Grace Brighton was fully committed to exposing whatever smarmy, womanizing tricks he had up his sleeve.

  * * *

  “Cheers to Greg,” Riley said, lifting her cocktail to be clinked.

  Julie choked on her martini. “You’re not suggesting we toast to the guy who cheated on Grace?”

  “Actually, I think Riley’s on to something,” Grace said thoughtfully. “Had Greg not been a philandering jerk, I would be at home right now, watching whatever he wanted to watch, eating whatever he wanted to eat, after which I’d be putting away his laundry. So yeah … Cheers to Greg.”

  They clinke
d glasses, and she felt Julie study her carefully. “You’ve come a long way. Just a few weeks ago you were alternating between causing a Manhattan Kleenex shortage and developing a strange obsession with chocolate.”

  Grace took a sip of her drink to avoid mentioning that she still had that new obsession with chocolate. She’d always liked chocolate. But after the breakup, it had become her ultimate comfort food. Hot chocolate, chocolate fudge, chocolate ice cream, chocolate chips …

  If only her hips liked chocolate half as well as her taste buds.

  Don’t, 2.0 warned. That’s Greg and old Grace getting into your head. Grace 2.0 rocks her curves.

  Riley nodded. “You do seem marvelously well adapted. Did you get some healing rebound tail in Florida?”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “Yes, Riley. I got some healing rebound tail. That’s what restored my mental and emotional stability.”

  Riley snapped her fingers and pointed at Grace. “There’s that dry sarcasm. I knew it. You are back.”

  Grace considered. “Well, I’m not going to claim that there aren’t a few battle wounds. And I can’t say that I don’t still wake up in the middle of the night reaching for someone who’s not there, purely out of habit. But … I’m sort of done, you know? Sure, Greg screwed me over. But that’s also sort of what makes him not worth my time.”

  Right? Tell me that’s right.

  “So you’re ready to move on,” Julie said slowly.

  Grace held up a manicured fingernail. She knew that tone. “No. No setups. I’ve told you both a thousand times. This is the me period of my life. No men. No dating. No sex. Not for six months.”

  “And what, after six months you’ll be magically ready to enter a relationship?” Riley asked.

  “God, no. But if I wait six months, at least I’ll know I’m not jumping into anything solely because I miss the companionship. I need to figure out how to be on my own.”

  It was true. But it wasn’t the whole truth. Grace would never say it in front of Julie, who was over-the-moon happy with her new in-a-relationship status, but Grace couldn’t even begin to fathom being in a relationship. Not in six months, not in a year … maybe not ever.

  They hurt.

  “Okay, so if you’re all anti-men, then what is with your insistence on doing this story?” Riley asked. “There’s a reason we didn’t volunteer you, you know. How is it that the woman who claims to be done with dating wants to write a story about dating?”

  “Oh, come on. You two know better than anyone that doing something for a story is not the same as doing it for real.”

  “Actually, Julie doesn’t know that,” Riley said in a loud whisper.

  Julie shrugged her perfectly toned shoulders. “Riley’s right. You may think you’re doing it for a story. But if it’s the right guy …”

  “Mitchell was a fluke,” Grace said with a wave. “One in a million, and all that. Plus, Mitchell didn’t even know he was part of your story. Whatever turd from Oxford I get stuck with will have his eyes wide open.”

  “At least he’ll be a gorgeous turd,” Riley said, waving their server over for another round.

  “How do you know?”

  Her friend smiled mysteriously. “I have my connections.”

  Julie pointed at Riley. “Spill. Now. Grace is going to need all the intel she can get.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Grace said dryly. “Have you ever read an Oxford article? I’ve been doing my research, and I can see why a woman who picked up the magazine would write a scathing letter to the editor. Their male columnists seem to think all women have a secret desire to make sandwiches and give blow jobs.”

  Riley fished an olive out of Julie’s glass, ignoring her friend’s glare. “Wait. We’re supposed to aspire to more than that?”

  “The point is,” Grace continued, “If this is a competition to see whether women know men better than men know women, I can do that in my sleep.”

  Sort of. She hoped.

  Actually, she wasn’t sure.

  Her friends looked even more skeptical.

  “Okay, back to Riley’s secret intel,” Julie said. “Ri, you know who the guy columnist is?”

  “Not for sure, but I at least know who it’s likely to be. When I went out for a coffee run this afternoon, I rode the elevator back up with Camille and Alex Cassidy—who happens to be super young and hot, by the way—and I heard them talking about the article. Alex wants to put Jake Malone on it.”

  Julie whistled. “Whew, that is a gorgeous turd.”

  “How am I the only one who doesn’t know this guy?” Grace asked, feeling uncomfortably out of the loop.

  Riley patted her friend. “You’re loyal to a fault. You were blind to the rest of the male population the entire time you were with Greg.”

  Grace knew Riley meant it as a compliment, but she couldn’t help feeling a bit like a dutiful Labrador retriever who’d spent her twenties following after her master. She had been loyal to Greg, of course. But she’d been able to appreciate a good-looking guy. Hadn’t she? She’d had her fair share of celebrity crushes. Such as …

  Hell, none were coming to mind just now.

  Grace 2.0 sighed in despair.

  Note to self: check out more men.

  Grace racked her brain for everything she knew about Jake Malone. The name did sound vaguely familiar. He was one of Oxford’s golden boys, if she was remembering correctly. She seemed to recall an elevator ride in the Ravenna building in which two rather smitten-sounding women had been lamenting his lack of attention toward them.

  Come to think of it, hadn’t she read an article or two while waiting in the dentist’s office? It was the typical guy stuff: “How to Make Her Orgasm in Thirty Seconds or Less.”

  Grace snorted. Please.

  Then there was the more innocuous stuff … “The Guy’s Guide to Grooming.” “Claiming the Corner Office.”

  He was a good writer if you liked the straightforward, no-bullshit style. But while his cocky, cavalier tone likely appealed to his male reading audience, it reeked of condescension and machismo. She wasn’t surprised that females who read his take on women would complain.

  “I’ll bet he’s short,” Grace mused out loud. “I’m sensing total short-man syndrome there.”

  Riley shook her head as took a sip of the drink the waitress had just put down. “Uh-uh. This one’s over six foot, easy. If his stuff reads as over-testosteroned, it’s because he’s over–testosteroned, and I mean that in the good way.”

  Damn.

  Grace tapped her fingernails against the table and considered. “But that could still work in my favor, right? If he’s a total caveman, he can’t possibly have a good read on women.”

  “I dunno, Grace,” Julie replied hesitantly. “I’ve seen him around at parties. We’ve even flirted a few times back in the day. He’s …”

  “Conceited? Macho? Boorish? Give me something here.”

  “I was going to say charming. Jake Malone is gorgeous, successful, and, well, nice. There’s not much to dislike.”

  This was not good news.

  She’d been counting on her Oxford counterpart being a slightly uncouth tits-and-ass-obsessed kind of guy. Instead, it sounded like she’d be dealing with Prince Charming.

  But if he was as seemingly flawless as Julie described, that could work in her favor too. It would mean he’d be overconfident. Too sure in his assumptions about women to bother making an effort to actually read her. He’d be all easy jokes and smooth compliments.

  All the shit that would have worked on her at one time. Hell, all the shit that had worked on her back when Greg was pulling her into his slimy web.

  But Grace 2.0 knew better. Grace 2.0 didn’t trust compliments, didn’t trust smiles.

  Didn’t trust men.

  She gave a slow smile. She didn’t care if Jake Malone was usually the Dalai Lama of dating. There was no way he—or any guy—was getting her number. Literally or figuratively.

 
“Grace, you know you’re doing your piranha smile, right? That scary face you do when some guy’s about to be emasculated?”

  “Don’t worry,” Grace said, taking a satisfied sip of her cocktail. “I’m not going to kick his balls, just his dignity. For Stiletto’s sake, of course.”

  “Of course,” Julie muttered. “Because I’m sure Jake Malone isn’t going to pay the price for Greg Parsons’s wandering dick.”

  “Hey!” Grace exclaimed, stung. “Is that what you think is happening here? That I’m only doing this article as a way of getting back at Greg?”

  “No,” Julie said carefully. “But I do think you’re motivated by your pride. You want the world to know that just because you failed to see through one man doesn’t mean you’ll fail to see through all of them.”

  “Is that so bad? Wouldn’t you do the same?”

  “Probably,” Julie granted. “But—”

  “I’ve found him!” Riley interrupted, triumphantly waggling her phone in their faces.

  “Found who?”

  “Jake Malone. I thought you’d want to know who you’re dealing with.”

  “Please. It’s not like we’re dealing with Cary Grant,” Grace said. But she leaned forward to look at the picture on Riley’s phone anyway. Couldn’t hurt to be a little prepared.

  The cocktail that seconds ago had tasted perfectly balanced turned bitter on her tongue as she took in the perfect male features.

  But it wasn’t the fact that he was perfect that bothered her. Although he was. Perfect, that is.

  It was the fact that he was familiar that made her want to puke.

  Grace had lied when she said she’d never seen Jake Malone. She had seen him. Just not in a professional capacity.

  No, Grace’s interaction with Jake was more recent.

  And more personal.

  Jake Malone was none other than the guy from the taxicab that morning.

  Her friends were right. She was in trouble, because this was a guy who could read women.

  But far more alarming … Jake Malone had been able to read her.