Mister Romance

by Leisa Rayven

  “To arrange an interview? Thank fuck. I was beginning to think you were completely incompetent. When is it? I’ll line up a photographer.”

  “Well, he hasn’t agreed to the interview yet, but I’m confident he will. I just need to talk him into it.”

  Derek stares at me for a few moments, and his expression tells me he’s about three seconds away from forgetting about the whole thing and firing me out of a cannon straight into the Hudson River.

  I take evasive maneuvers. “Derek, listen. This entire situation is delicate and needs to be finessed. There are a lot of high-profile clients he’s trying to protect. The guy’s nervous. If I go in all guns blazing he’ll disappear, and we’ll never get the story. I just need some time. This isn’t something I can deliver overnight.”

  “Is it something you can deliver at all?”

  “Of course.”

  He opens his desk drawer and pulls out a pack of nicotine gum before shoving some in his mouth and chewing loudly as he studies me. “You have twenty-four hours to secure an interview, or I’m telling payroll you don’t work here anymore. Got it?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll have something by the end of the day and let you know as soon as it’s locked down.”

  “You do that. Now, get the fuck out.” He pulls his tablet in front of him and shoos me with his hand.

  I leave his office feeling like a death row inmate whose date of execution has been merely delayed.

  I pull out my phone and send a text to the number from which Max called me yesterday.

 

  I sit and watch the screen, half expecting it to light up with a failure to deliver status. To my surprise, I quickly get a reply.

 

  Okay, so at least I can communicate with him. That’s a start.

 

  After I press send, the dots at the bottom of the screen blink long enough that I suspect he’s writing an essay as to why he can’t talk to me, but when his response comes, it’s simply

  I let out a frustrated noise.

 

  More blinking dots, then:

 

  I growl in frustration and dial his number. He doesn’t pick up. Instead, another text arrives.

 

 

 

 

 

  I try the number again. Voicemail.

 

  I call again. After three rings, he answers with a distinct edge of annoyance in his voice.

  “Miss Tate, I’d like to tell you that it’s a pleasure to talk to you again, but that would be a lie. I’m busy. What’s with the urgency?”

  “My boss is pressuring me for progress on the story. Please, can we just meet and talk? I’d rather get the truth from you than have to start chasing down your clients. I already know about Marla Massey. It’s only a question of time before I find the rest.”

  He’s silent for a few beats then says, “So, you think starting our conversation with a threat is going to help your case?”

  “It wasn’t a threat. It was a fact.”

  “Yes, a fact in which you threaten to expose me, with or without my cooperation.”

  “You say potato, I say potahto.”

  He swears under his breath. “If this is your attitude, why would I help you? I think your claim of wanting the truth is bullshit.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’re not interested in finding out the real story. You want a scandal, and you’ll do everything in your power to get it, whether you talk to me or not.”

  “That’s a little unfair, considering you barely know me.”

  “I know that you probably sold this story to your boss as a juicy exposé that will cause enough of a stir to win new readers and keep advertisers happy. You no doubt told him you’re going to expose me and the seedy underbelly of New York’s social elite. Isn’t that the truth?”

  It annoys me that his assessment of the situation is mostly accurate. “That’s a pretty dim view of my character, Max. All I want is the full story. I’m a journalist, after all.”

  “Are you? Journalists have standards. They’re supposed to be impartial observers who report the facts and let the public make up their own minds. You’re coming into this with strong preconceived ideas of who I am and what I do, and I doubt anything I have to say is going to convince you otherwise.”

  That gets my hackles up. “Oh, really? Please enlighten me as to what I think of you.”

  “Put simply, you think I’m a con man. You believe that I’m disgusting and immoral, and even though what I’m doing isn’t illegal, you’d like to see me locked up for exploiting rich, lonely women.”

  “That’s not –”

  “Please don’t insult me by lying, Miss Tate. If you want any chance of convincing me to do this, you at least have to be honest.”

  I take a breath and resist the urge to tell him to screw himself. “Okay, fine. Yes, I think you’re swindling these women out of their money. That you’re preying on their insecurities and lining your pockets in the process. And I feel sorry for them being so incredibly gullible that they fall for your ridiculous line of bullshit. How’s that for honesty?”

  There’s a pause, then a low chuckle. “Well, that’s a start, I guess. So, you can’t comprehend that I might actually have good intentions? That I may even help them?”

  “With what? Fake romance? Cheesy role-playing? Please. I think these women live in a fantasy world where they can buy whatever they want, and you’re just one more luxury item they can brag about to their friends.”

  “Hmmm, I’m not sure, but I think you just equated me to a designer handbag.”

  “Well, aren’t you? The difference is, when they spend thousands of dollars on a handbag, they own it forever. You they rent by the hour.”

  “You make me sound like a prostitute.”

  “Not at all. That would be an insult to one of the world’s oldest professions. When someone pays for a prostitute, at least they know they’re getting screwed. Your clients have no idea.”

  I must be finally getting under his skin, because when he speaks again, his voice is hard. “Miss Tate, you don’t understand a damn thing about what these women know, or need, or want. You’ve formed your misguided opinion through shallow assumptions and breathtaking ignorance of the facts.”

  “Then talk to me and prove me wrong.”

  There’s silence, and I suspect he knows he walked right into that one.

  When he speaks again, he’s calmer. “If I meet with you and prove you wrong, you’d alter the narrative of your story?”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you give me your word on that?”

  “Absolutely.” I almost have him. I’d swear on a stack of Bibles at this point it that’s what it takes. “I want to tell your story, Max, whatever that may be. Just tell me what I need to do.”

  He pauses then says, “Alright, then, Miss Tate, I’ll agree to give you the interview, but to make this an even playing field, I’m going to insist on some conditions.”

  “Like what?”

  “I can’t talk any further now. I have a date.”

  “A date? Or an appointment with a client?”

  “To me, they’re one and the same.”

  “Well, no, on a real date five-thousand dollars doesn’t usually change hands.”

  “There’s that prejudice again. Are you sure you were listening the day your co
llege professors covered impartiality?”

  I bite my tongue to stifle another snarky answer. “Please just tell me your conditions, so we can schedule the interview.”

  “I’ll call you later. Have a good afternoon, Miss Tate.”

  “Wait, Max ...” The line goes dead.

  Dammit.

  I throw my phone onto my desk and push back my hair. When I turn, I see Derek standing in the doorway of his office, staring at me.

  After I smile and give him the thumbs-up signal, he scowls and walks back to his desk.

  At least Max has agreed to an interview, even if there’s no set time. As long as I can lock him down before tomorrow morning, I have a chance at keeping my job.

  SIX

  Bait and Switch

  As I trip over a completely flat piece of floor on my way into Verdi’s, I curse my sister for forcing me to wear these impossible shoes with this dress. I’m sure that high heels were invented as an ancient torture device, and women have been brainwashed into believing they’re fashion. I’ve only been wearing these gold, strappy abominations for twenty minutes, and already my feet are screaming in protest.

  The restaurant hostess smiles at me as I approach, and I’m not sure if she’s being genuinely friendly or taking pleasure in my newborn-foal awkwardness.

  “Good evening, and welcome to Verdi’s. How can I help you?”

  I grip the counter in front of her as one of my ankles decides to freestyle. “Ah, yes. Hi. I have a booking under the name Tate.”

  She checks her list and smiles again. “Excellent, Miss Tate. I have a table for two all set up. Follow me, please.”

  She moves through the restaurant with the grace of an elegant swan, and I follow, trying to emulate her technique. Unfortunately, my ankles don’t seem to bend the same way hers do, and I end up looking like a Clydesdale trying to scrape gum off its hooves.

  “Here we are,” she says as we arrive at a secluded table near the back. She pulls out the chair just in time for me to clumsily sink into it. “May I get you a drink to start?”

  I blow a stray lock of freshly styled hair out of my eye. “Yes, please. Gin and tonic. Heavy on the gin. Lots of lime.”

  “Of course. I’ll send it right over.”

  As she leaves, I adjust the low-cut neckline of my dress and look around. Verdi’s is a beautiful restaurant, but I don’t have any idea why Asha wanted to come here. When she and I get together it usually involves drinking, talking loudly, and laughing. This is a more of a whisper-into-your-lover’s-ear kind of place.

  I check the time on my phone. 8.12pm. It’s weird Asha isn’t here yet. She’s usually the punctual sister.

  I’m about to call to find out if she’s okay, when I spot a familiar face at the front of the restaurant.

  Oh, come on. What are the chances?

  Waiting patiently while the hostess deals with a middle-aged couple in front of him is Kieran, looking like every woman’s wet dream come true in a slim-fitting grey suit that hugs him in all the right places.

  When he glances in my direction, I snap my head around so he can’t see my face.

  “Shit, shit, shit.” I sneak out of my seat and take cover behind a crystal art piece as I dial Asha’s number.

  She answers almost immediately. “Hey.”

  “Hi. Where are you?”

  “Oh, well, I don’t think I can make it.”

  “What? I’m here, Ash. Dressed up and everything. I even did my hair and makeup as requested. Why the hell didn’t you call earlier, so I could have stayed at home in my PJs and watched TV?”

  “Because you needed to get out for once.”

  “I get out all the time.”

  “To somewhere other than the Tar Bar to pick up skanky men.”

  “So, you made me dress up to have dinner by myself? That’s not very sociable. And to make matters worse, guess who just showed up?”

  “Kieran.”

  “No, Kier –” I stop dead. “Wait, how did you know that?” Before she says anything, the dawning realization of what she’s done crawls up my spine like icy spider’s legs. “Asha, no ...”

  “Edie, don’t be mad. He really likes you, and God knows you need to stop sleeping with losers and dropouts and put some effort into a good man for a change.”

  “I don’t put effort into guys. I have sex with them. End of story. You’re setting me up on a date? What the hell? I don’t want or need a boyfriend.”

  “You just think that, because you’ve never had one. You should consider this guy for the position. He’s lovely, and good-looking, and he smells amaaaaazing.”

  “Asha!”

  “Just one date. For me. If you honestly don’t feel anything and decide not to see him again, there’s no harm done, right? But if you do like him ... Oh, Edie. It would be nice to see you with someone worthy of you for once.”

  I can’t deny part of me wants to find out what happens with the sexy Irishman, because I have a feeling he would be dynamite in bed, but a bigger part murmurs that he’ll be a distraction I neither need nor have time for. I’ve gone twenty-five years without succumbing to a co-dependent relationship. Despite my attraction to Kieran, I’m not giving that up without a fight. I have zero interest in messy emotional entanglements.

  I peek out from behind the artwork and eye him again in his suit. A messy physical entanglement, however, might be all kinds of fun.

  I close my eyes and exhale. No, not a good idea.

  “What happened to you liking him?” I hiss at my sister.

  “After you left last night, he bombarded me with questions about you. It was pretty clear which Tate sister he was into, and it wasn’t me.”

  “What? How is that possible? You were adorable last night.”

  “Believe it or not, dear sister, not all men fall at my feet. In fact, it’s the guys I like who snub me the most. It’s ironic that I’m the one who actually wants a boyfriend and can’t find one.”

  At the front of the restaurant, Kieran steps forward to talk to the hostess. After chatting for a few seconds, she gives him a flirty smile before leading him in my direction. I pull back and make myself as small as possible.

  “Dammit, Ash, I can’t believe you set me up like this. He’s coming over. What should I do?”

  “Sit down and have dinner with him. I’ve already paid for it, so if you leave before eating something, I’ll kill you.”

  “Not if I get to you first. You realize retribution is coming, right?”

  “If things work out the way I think they will, you’ll be thanking me, not punishing me.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Please hang up now. You have a gorgeous man waiting for you.”

  “You’re evil, and I hate you.”

  “Neither of those things is even a little bit true.”

  As I hang up, a deep voice beside me says, “Eden?”

  I turn and plaster on my best fake smile. “Heeeey, Kieran. Hi.”

  “Hi.” He smiles back, and his isn’t the least bit fake. In fact, he looks so happy to see me, I almost feel bad about hiding from him. “Thank God you came. When Asha said she could convince you to go out with me, I didn’t have much hope, but here you are.”

  “Yes.” I nod and bite my tongue. “Here I am. Asha is a miracle worker.”

  His smile falters. “Wait ... please tell me you knew I’d be here. That you reconsidered your whole ‘no dating’ rule because of your overwhelming attraction to me?”

  I drop the pretense. “I’m sorry. Asha set this up as a sister date then pulled a bait and switch at the last minute. If I didn’t love her so much, I’d be throttling her right about now.”

  His face drops further. “Oh, I see.”

  My stomach squirms from the disappointment in his expression. “No, wait,” I say, “I don’t mean I’m unhappy to see you, because I’m not. It’s just the situation ... the setting-up thing, you know? She’s such a brat for the deception.”

  He puts on a brave
face, which makes me feel even worse for blurting out hurtful nonsense. “Eden, it’s fine. I half expected to show up and find an empty table, so even if we leave now and go our separate ways, I’m still ahead of the game. I’m sorry your sister did this to you, I really am. Let me escort you outside to get a cab.”

  Before he can turn away, I put my hand on his arm. The contact surprises us both. He takes in a breath as he looks down at my hand, and I’m ashamed to say I blush. How can such a cursory touch flash so much warmth though my whole body?

  “We’re both here now,” I say as I pull back my hand and clutch my purse with tense fingers. “We might as well eat. I’m super hungry. How about you?”

  He takes a long look at me. “Starving.”

  The flush of heat happens again, and it’s not helped when he places his hand in the center of my back to guide me to my seat. When he pulls out my chair, I’m struck by the realization I’ve never had a man do that before. It’s a little jarring to register that even moving furniture is sexy when Kieran does it.

  After he makes sure I’m seated and comfortable, he unbuttons his jacket and sits opposite me. I fiddle with the edge of the tablecloth as I admire the view. The man sure knows how to wear a suit.

  “So,” he says, looking a little uncomfortable in the formal surroundings. “Do you come here often?”

  I laugh. “That’s your go-to ice breaker?”

  He nods. “When faced with extreme beauty, I lose all cognitive ability, so I stick to small words and short sentences. There’s less likelihood of me screwing things up that way.” I can’t believe someone as attractive as he is could feel nervous around any woman, let alone me. And yet the sincerity of his words makes my stomach flutter. I look down at the table.

  Shit. This, right here? This is what it’s like to be a girly-girl. To get all giggly and blushy over a man who calls me beautiful without a hint of irony. Goddammit.

  I take a breath and try to stifle the euphoria that’s bubbling inside of me. It’s foreign and unwanted. I don’t do bubbly. I’m better than that.

  “So,” I say, composing myself, “what brings you to America? Are you just here on vacation?”