The other woman had a point. Hannah hadn’t taken enough care to hide her antipathy for the whole dating-and-mating dance. She much preferred hating from the sidelines. But that wasn’t because she hated the idea of weddings or the idea of commitment. She’d told herself that she didn’t need or want those things because no one had ever offered them to her. Admitting out loud that she couldn’t entirely suppress the desire to have a person of her own—one who wasn’t afraid to tell the world that they belonged to each other—felt entirely too vulnerable.
So she’d started scoffing at the people who were still in the arena, clawing and grasping for love. The ones who actually deserved it and would get it someday. Even after every guy she’d ever felt anything for had dumped her.
Except for Jack.
“Things have changed, Annalise. I’ve met someone.” Pretty sure she wasn’t imagining the disbelief on her boss’s face. Hannah half couldn’t believe she’d said it. And that it wasn’t even a white lie. “We met last weekend, and he seems kind of great, honestly.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, the only thing bad about him is his taste in football teams.” And because she never knew how to quit when she was ahead, she said, “He seems like the kind of guy I could marry.”
Why did she say that? Before Noah—B.N.—she’d thought things like that about every guy she’d been serious about. She’d had their weddings planned before date number three. Eventually, it had become a post-breakup ritual to trash the Pinterest board for her imaginary weddings. And it had been freeing, A.N., to not have to make them anymore. Not having any hope at all had saved her a whole lot of disappointment.
Then why did it feel so good to say that she was thinking wedding bells about Jack?
She didn’t have time to ponder the question any more because her boss had come to a decision. “Okay, you and Sasha will plan the engagement party at the Drake Hotel.” That made sense; both of them had done extensive work with the venue. “And if you can show me that you can be appropriate, you’ll get to plan the wedding, too.”
“You won’t regret this, Annalise.” Hannah stood up to leave the room before her mercurial supervisor changed her mind.
“See that I don’t.” She had her hand on the door when her boss added, “I’ll want to meet this young man at the company Halloween party.”
About a week from now. And another week before the engagement party. She’d have to date Jack for two weeks—keep him interested for that long. He’d have to appear to be at least a little bit in love with her. She couldn’t scare him away.
Fuck.
CHAPTER FOUR
JACK HAD KICKED ASS on his last how-to article. It had gone viral, and yet, he was embarrassed whenever anyone mentioned “How to Make Your Lady Scream (for More Ice Cream Because You’re Going to Learn to Make It).”
If he said so himself, it was a pretty good listicle. But the mere fact that it was a listicle was a problem. He’d also had to start running twice a day so that all the homemade ice cream he’d eaten while researching the article and accompanying video hadn’t shown up on his gut. But mostly, he was done with the fluff and wanted to be writing hard-hitting political pieces.
When he’d gotten his master’s in journalism, he’d planned to come home and work for the Tribune or the Sun-Times. But newspapers had been consolidating or folding. He’d even been willing to work for one of the local indie papers, but none of them would pay enough to keep him from having to go work for his dad.
Haberdasher’s Monthly, the storied gentlemen’s magazine that was now entirely digital, had been his only option. It paid well, and it wasn’t hard. His how-to videos got quite a few views from the start because people liked to watch him try and fail and eventually succeed at stuff. Then they liked to send him links to their homemade porn, but he could just ignore that. What he couldn’t ignore was the fact that some of the other reporters and writers at the site—ones hired at about the same time he was—were starting to be assigned more substantive pieces. And he wasn’t because his series was so popular. Each how-to got millions of hits on the site, but he didn’t know how much longer he could stay out of the real-news game. His success was turning out to be a curse.
As though the universe was mocking him, he kept running into real-news pieces. In fact, last week, he’d been hanging with his dad and some of his buddies at the pub when a lead had practically surfed over the head of his Guinness. A corruption scandal involving a politician with a national profile could make his entire career.
Pop owned a contracting business—semiretired now that Michael had taken over. Now that he’d handed off most of the day-to-day to his eldest, Jack’s dad had time to go to happy hour. And since Jack didn’t have what Sean Nolan considered a real job, he got an invite to talk shit with his dad and his buddies—most of whom were connected at city hall.
One of them had told him that there was a rumor flying around that a sitting senator was about to be indicted for corruption. He didn’t have very many details, but that was where Jack came in. To fill in the details.
So today Jack was meeting with his boss to convince him that his next how-to should be “How to Catch a Senator Red-Handed.” He knocked on Irv’s door, struck by how going over the threshold was sort of like stepping back in time. Where the rest of the office was modern, white, and open concept—which only meant that no one had privacy for anything—Irv’s office had wood paneling, leather furniture, and even a Tiffany lamp. Piles of newspaper clippings covered the desk, even though they didn’t even publish anything on paper.
Somehow, Irv had convinced the powers that be who owned the website that he needed to have the character of a newspaper in his office in order to produce as he’d promised.
Jack liked it. Every time he came in here, he got a reminder of why he’d become a reporter. Now, if only Irv would let him do some actual reporting.
“What do you want?” Irv didn’t speak; he barked. And then he usually got angry he wasn’t holding a cigar in his hands.
“I want to write a political story.” Best to just drop that out there with a guy like Irv. He was busy making the site the hottest thing online by doing actual editing and assigning stories that would get the clicks coming without the bait.
“Not unless you want to write the politics of splitting the check.” A barked laugh as he waved one hand to clear smoke that didn’t exist. “But that’s been done.”
“There’s no politics to that, Irv. If I’m taking out a lady, I’m picking up the check.”
“That’s why I like you, kid.” Of course he was the kind of guy who called his employees kids—men, women, didn’t matter. They were all “kid.” “You see things the way I do. No need to muddy up issues in a complicated world. Now—”