Dating the Enemy

  That was the point my throat started to take on that cottony feeling.

  “An experiment that will prove, once and for all”—Mr. Conrad’s thick, silver brows peaked—“which school of mind is correct where love is concerned.”

  Across the table, the villain chuckled, while I struggled to catch up to what had been said.

  “And how do we do that beyond what we’ve already been doing to prove our own opinions on that topic?” The words kind of tumbled from my mouth like candy from a machine. “He believes there’s no such thing as true love, that it’s all some farce we’ve conjured up out of thin air, while I clearly believe there is very much a phenomenon known as true love.”

  “Key word being ‘phenomenon.’”

  I fired a glare at him, but he’d moved on to twirling his precious pen between his fingers. Mr. Conrad’s shoulders raised as if I was backing up his idea.

  “What do you need us to do, Charles?” Brooks asked, all calm and collected, as though his blood pressure wasn’t charging into dangerous territory as I guessed mine was.

  And . . .

  Had he called him Charles? No one in the office called Mr. Conrad by his first name. Not that it was a spoken rule or anything, but it was definitely an unspoken one.

  Mr. Conrad—Charles—drummed his fingers on the conference room table. “I need you two to put the World Times back on top.”

  “And we do that by . . . ?” My hand twirled.

  “By setting your laptops aside, and putting your money where your mouth is.”

  Brooks took a sip of his tea, his eyes giving away the same confusion I felt. “I think we’re both going to need you to spell it out for us, play by play.”

  Mr. Conrad leaned more into the table, his round face practically rosy. “I want the two of you to start dating. I want to see who comes out the victor. Love or logic. Romance or reality.”

  I blinked a few times, wondering if Justin the Jacked had pumped a squirt of peyote into my coffee.

  “If Hannah winds up falling for you by the end of it because of your so-called tricks and tools of the trade, your point will have been proven. Love can be manufactured with just about any eligible individual out there.” Mr. Conrad was nearly bouncing now, as though he’d devised a surefire plan to save the world from imminent destruction. “If she doesn’t fall for you, then Hannah proves her point—that there is one person for everyone, and love can’t just be pulled out of thin air.”

  After a few moments’ pause, Mr. Conrad continued. “So? What do you think?”

  Silence. The kind that strained my eardrums and made me feel as if I’d taken a hard hit to the head.

  Brooks was the first of us to find his voice. “Barring the obvious contempt Ms. Arden bears for me, I see one rather large problem with this ‘social experiment.’”

  Mr. Conrad’s lips pursed. “What’s that?”

  “She knows of the wager. I can bring my A-game to every date, but she knows all she has to do is resist my attempts for her to come out the winner. That’s along the lines of telling a chess player they might lose the game, then giving them their opponent’s every move in advance. There’s no possible way to contend with that kind of advantage.”

  “You’re Brooks North. Look at you. I’m sure you, if anyone, could find a way to woo one biased woman with a slight advantage in this setup.”

  Brooks gave a huff at the “slight” part.

  “Besides, Hannah will play fair. She’ll make sure she stays as impartial and objective as possible, right? In the name of research?” When Mr. Conrad looked at me, whatever he read on my face must have been taken as a confirmation instead of a What the hell? “You on board, Hannah?”

  “No.” As my head shook, tangles of red hair whipped across my face. “I am not. In fact, I couldn’t be any more ‘off board’ with this.”

  Mr. Conrad harrumphed. “Please. It’ll be great. Your readers vying for you. His readers rooting for him. It will be the dating equivalent of Ali versus Foreman.”

  “Foreman almost had to leave the ring on a stretcher. And this analogy is supposed to comfort me how?” My nails scraped across my freckled wrist, feeling itchy from more than just the angora.

  “You’d get to date him.” Mr. Conrad thrust his arm Brooks’s direction as though he were Aries incarnate. “Not exactly a consolation prize.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Brooks cupped his hand over his mouth as though he were whispering, “Pretty sure it means we don’t swim in the same social pools and you’d be trading up.”

  What. The.

  Exhaling through my nose, slowly, I unclenched my fists. Then I leveled him with a look. “Sure. Trading up in the douchecanoe category.”

  “Douchecanoe? Really?” Brooks chuckled. “Now that’s a first.”

  “Sure it won’t be a last,” I muttered before turning toward Mr. Conrad. “I can’t do this.” I noted the pleading tone in my voice. “It isn’t fair to ask this of us, and you’re overestimating how many people would actually find the two of us dating interesting. It’s immoral and shallow and no. Just no.”

  Mr. Conrad’s mouth did the pursing thing again. “Then fine. He gets the job.” He dusted off his hands as he reclaimed his seat.

  “That’s not fair,” I exclaimed. “I’ve put in eight years here and my column gets the most reads every week.”

  “Not counting my freelance column,” Brooks added, grinning at me.

  Mr. Conrad shrugged. “That’s life.”

  “Yeah”—Brooks leaned in, pale blue eyes gleaming—“it’s not so romantic.”

  “Mr. Conrad, I can’t do this. Truly, anyone else. Anyone.”

  “What? Because you two have differing opinions? Hannah, everyone in this room knows what a thick skin a journalist has to develop in order to survive.” Mr. Conrad gave me a look, a closer one, almost like he was starting to see through what was really going on.

  “It’s not like you can’t say there isn’t a certain kind of chemistry you feel for me.” Brooks rubbed his mouth while I focused on not wanting to punch him in it.

  “That’s true. The two of you, based on the topics you write, have a sort of professional chemistry that readers will love to watch on screen.”

  My hands flattened on the table. “On screen?”

  Mr. Conrad brushed his face, avoiding eye contact. “That’s a component to these dates you two will go on. We’ll have cameras going throughout, live streaming for the world to tune into.”

  My heart was thundering; the fastest it had pumped since that one night . . .

  I would never again be able to think about that night without burning sage and creating a salt ring after.

  “I’m a writer. I write. I don’t do cameras and live streams. Uh-uh. No way.” My head whipped again as I pulled at the collar of my sweater.

  “You are a journalist, thereby opening yourself to the public eye and their scrutiny. If you wanted to be one of those anonymous writer types, you should have gone into regency romance.”

  My mouth opened but clamped right after, hating that he had a point.

  “How long do you see this social experiment running?” Brooks asked.

  “Six months,” Mr. Conrad responded, the answer on the tip of his tongue.

  “Six months?!” My eyes went round. “I thought you wanted to get the position filled as soon as possible.” It hadn’t been this hard to breathe since I was a kid and glued to my inhaler.

  “I did.” Mr. Conrad poured himself a cup of coffee from the tray that had been set out for the meeting. Alongside the coffee and hot water carafes was a stack of pastries I would have normally dove into by now. “Until this idea hit me one night last week.”

  My butt shifted in the chair again, as though I were sitting on needles instead of upholstery. “You expect me to date him for six months, all while being live-streamed for anyone on the planet to watch?”

  Mr. Conrad blinked at me. “Isn’t that what I just said?”


  “When do we get started?” Brooks set down his empty cup and scrolled through the calendar on his phone. I couldn’t help but sneak a peek, noticing his daily schedule was fuller than my monthly one.

  “Right now.” Mr. Conrad tapped his watch. “I’ve assigned a videographer to the project, and I’ll have him swing by to meet you both today.”

  My head was pulsing, along with the rest of my malfunctioning organs. “Wait. He lives in San Francisco. How are we going to ‘date’ when he lives on the other side of the country?”

  Brooks pulled up a contact in his phone and punched in a text. “Thanks for the concern, sweetheart.” From his voice, it was a term of anti-endearment. “But I’ll have my real estate agent find me a temporary apartment here for the duration of our courtship. Although I might want to make sure there’s a potential for ownership once I get the job.”

  The arrogance projecting off of him was nauseating. To think I’d spent the past thirty days staring at my phone, trying to will it to ring . . .

  “Three months. I’ll do it for three months.”

  I was as surprised by my acquiescence as they were, based on the looks on their faces.

  Mr. Conrad tore off a piece of bear claw he’d swiped from the top of the pastry pile. “Three months isn’t long enough for a person to fall in love. It wouldn’t be fair to Brooks.”

  “Three months is plenty of time to fall in love with someone. If they’re the right one.” I smiled innocently between the two of them and waited.

  “Three months is long enough to convince a person to think they’re in love.” Brooks set down his phone, twisting in his chair so he was facing me dead-on. “That’s more than enough time for you to fall for me.”

  Revolt stirred inside me. Along with something else I was not as keen to assign a name to. Especially with the precarious situation I was about to be thrust into with him.

  “I’d really rather it be six months,” Mr. Conrad said. “To drag out the ratings as long as possible.”

  “Drag it out too long, and you’ll lose your following. Three months is the perfect amount of time.” Brooks glanced at Mr. Conrad. “Trust me.”

  Debating it for all of two seconds, Mr. Conrad nodded. “Three months it is.”

  I about snapped my poor pencil again. What the hell was this? Some kind of boys’ club? That might have been the case in the news world an eon ago, but it was not the way the game was played now.

  I was going to show him. Both of them. I was going to prove that I was right and that a woman could believe in romance and true love and still be a powerful force in her chosen career field.

  It was open season on the douchecanoes of the world, and Brooks North was the first target in my crosshairs.

  Shoving out of my chair, I tucked my pencil into my purse and started to leave the conference room. But not before snagging one of the cherry strudels from the pastry pile. For later. When my chocolate croissant wasn’t staging a revolt and the reality of what I’d agreed to set in and I required the comfort that only a doughy, sugary edible could provide. “I’ve got an article on deadline. If there are any more details I need to be aware of, I can be reached by email.”

  Brooks rose from his chair, buttoning his jacket. For a moment, I thought he was doing so in the old-fashioned way a gentleman would rise whenever a woman in the room did. Then I reminded myself who I was dealing with.

  The antithesis of the gentleman.

  He clasped hands with Mr. Conrad as he headed for the door behind me. “Charles, always a pleasure.”

  “I have them preparing an office for you as we speak. As soon as it’s ready, I’ll let you know.”

  I froze with my hand on the doorknob. “He gets an office? A freelancer?”

  Space in Manhattan came at a premium, and private offices were more coveted than personal drivers these days. Not even I got an office.

  “A cubicle will be fine. Wouldn’t want anyone to get the impression I’m being given special favors.” Brooks slid his phone into his pants pocket, moving closer in the kind of way that made my heart skip a beat too many given my disdain for the specimen creeping closer.

  “You’ve got a long road ahead of you, Brooks. I don’t envy you.” Mr. Conrad wagged his finger between the two of us. “Might want to put a florist on speed dial and keep the ego in check. Don’t let her articles and outlook on love fool you. Hannah doesn’t let just any guy into her life.”

  A low-timbered chuckle vibrated in Brook’s chest. “Oh no. I’m sure she’s very discerning.”

  Biting my tongue, I threw open the door and left the conference room.

  From cubicle city, Quinn’s head peeked over the top of hers, a phone tucked to her ear. When she saw the look on my face, her smile fell.

  “What’s wrong?” she mouthed.

  I answered with a quick shake of my head. This wasn’t the time. I could tell her tonight with she stopped by my place for movie night. Right now, I needed to focus on not flinging my laptop through the nearest window.

  When I reached my cubicle, I ducked inside, more collapsing than sitting into my chair. What had happened to my life? Running into One-Night Stand in my workplace was enough to ruffle a girl’s feathers, but realizing I was going up against him for my dream job? And, no big deal, we were going to be the stars in some dating show, broadcast to the world, that ended with whoever proved their love theory being the winner of said dream job?

  I knew now I wasn’t dreaming. Only because my dreams were never this unbelievable.

  “Question? What type of flowers do you like?”

  I jolted so hard, the strudel went flying from my hand. Into the garbage can. Dieting by accident.

  Trying to ignore the dark suit hovering beside my cubicle, I busied myself with powering up my laptop.

  “Never mind. Your eyes say it all.”

  “If you read in my eyes that the only kind of flowers between the two of us will be the ones I drop on the grave of your career, then you’d be correct.” My eyes narrowed at the computer screen.

  “Boxers or briefs?”

  He was looking for a reaction. I would give him one.

  “I know you’re just trying to get under my skin. It won’t work.” I wasn’t looking at him, but I could feel his stare.

  “I already got into your pants. I think I’m up to the task of getting into or under just about anything of yours.”

  My head whipped in his direction, checking to make sure no was passing by who might have heard that. “Fine. Briefs. Tight ones.” My words were acid in verbal form. “Dusted with itching powder.”

  Brooks leaned into the wall of my cubicle, his gaze scanning the contents inside. When he spotted my embroidered frame picture that read, “You Can’t Please Everyone. You’re Not Pizza,” he lifted his brow at me.

  “I’ll stick with what I wore last time. You seemed to be a fan of ripping those off of me.” He grinned like a demon as he turned to walk away.

  Bursting up from my chair, my fists balled together, “I’m getting that job, you know that?”

  One dark brow carved into his forehead before he disappeared from sight. “But first, you’ve got to get through me.”

  “Would you please stop staring at me as if I’m about to start sobbing like Mrs. Bennett when she finds out Mr. Bingley isn’t going to marry Jane?” I hissed at Quinn as she helped me pour butter over the six bowls of popcorn. I glanced into the living area to make sure no one was paying attention to us.

  Not even. Mr. Darcy had just entered the scene in all his Firth goodness.

  “I’m not staring. I’m aiming occasional glances. Concerned peeps.” Quinn’s eyes dodged me as soon as I looked at her.

  She was staring at me, and had been ever since I’d dished all the dirty deets before lunch in the women’s bathroom. She’d listed off the same dozen explanations I had in my head: that Brooks had an identical twin brother, that he’d been lobotomized, a poltergeist had infiltrated him, he was a secret gov
ernment spy who had to act cold and callous in order to protect me from the Illuminati . . .

  If only it was that easy to explain the sudden one-eighty from my dream man to the devil himself.

  “I can’t believe you’re actually going to go through with it though. I mean, that’s three months of your life that could seriously eff up the entire rest of your existence. You know this, right?” Quinn set the pan of melted butter aside once all of the bowls had been adequately drenched.

  “He already screwed me. I’m not going to let him fuck me over too.” Remembering what was playing in the background, I crossed myself. “Pardon my French, Mr. Darcy.”

  “I can’t believe Conrad would even propose such a sexist, moronic idea. I mean, who does that? It’s like settling a bet in the gladiator ring or something—let’s see who proves their theories on love to secure one of the most prestigious positions at the World Times.” Quinn pulled at her bra strap for the thousandth time that day; poor girl could not get used to an actual bra. “Actually, I still can’t believe you agreed to something so sexist and moronic.”

  Grabbing a few bowls, I shuffled toward the cluster of women buttressed around the television. “I can’t believe he agreed to it. The odds are stacked against him, not me. All I have to do is not fall for him over the course of three months and I get the job. I might as well start packing up my cubicle now.”

  Quinn sniffed, following me. “This is the very same guy who had you spending the past thirty days staring at your phone, waiting for him to call you. Are you sure it’s going to be such a slam dunk?”

  “That was before I discovered he is a Grade-A Asshole.” I huffed. “The only way I could ever fall for that turd is if I got a brain transplant.”

  Quinn paused a few feet from the sofa four of our friends were squished together on. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “I won’t. I’m going to get even,” I said. “By getting the job he has the audacity to think he can just slide into as a freelancer who pretty much owes his rise to Ms. Romance’s column.”

  “Trying on a new look? Because humble wasn’t working for you?”

  “I’m just saying, he emerged out of nowhere a few months after my column took off. For a while, it felt like every article of his was playing devil’s advocate to whatever article I’d recently published. He’s an unoriginal, opportunist hack.” I handed off the bowls before heading back to the kitchen for the rest. “I am not letting a slimeball like that skate into my dream job.”