She nods, a small amount of crimson tingeing her cheeks. “Um, yeah.”
“They’re so dang good. Where did you learn to make these? I need the recipe.”
She shakes her head. “I…well, I taught myself. And the recipe is mine. I just, kind of, made it up.”
“Holy crap, are you serious?” She nods.
“See,” Jake interjects. “I told you they were good.”
She shrugs. “You eat anything. You’re not a good judge.”
She turns to me and continues. “Seriously. He’s like a garbage disposal.”
I turn to look at him, surveying his body closely. No candor, no subtlety—I straight-up devour his big, fit body with my eyes. Tanned, veiny, muscled arms and a trim, in no way cushiony waist, make his T-shirt look like it’s been royally awarded the privilege to sit atop his skin. His thighs look like weapons—I know for a fact after seeing him in a wet suit this morning.
The disparity is almost too much to handle. How is it possible this man eats anything and everything he wants and still looks like that?
For shame, Holley! Stop ogling him like he’s the human version of that cookie!
Jake clears his throat, and I do a slow blink.
“That’s…interesting,” I say, unable to come up with anything else. Chloe turns away, almost definitely in an attempt to conceal her smile.
Dangerously close to letting this meeting get completely out of control, I reach into my bag at my side and pull out the folder full of paperwork.
Business, Holley. Get back to the safety of business.
Jake looks over at the folder in front of me and turns to Chloe. “Why don’t you—”
“Going to my room now,” she finishes for him with a smile. “You got it, Daddio.”
I really have to admire his parenting skills. I’ve never even been a good dog mom. Though, to be fair, Raleigh’s dog Helga always favored him. I swear she had some kind of party the day I left.
What I don’t do, is mention any of that aloud.
I don’t think it’s my place to make any sort of commentary on him as a father—even if it’s positive. In my experience, people would much rather you just minded your own business.
“Well,” Jake says. “What have you got there?”
I flip through the folder and pull out the simplest of the forms first. It’s a standard NDA, and I’m fairly certain he’s pretty eager to sign it.
“This is an NDA or a—”
“Nondisclosure agreement.” He nods and reaches a hand out for me to pass over the paper. I don’t waste any more breath before sailing it across the island in his direction. He catches it, and then reaches out a hand for a pen. Quickly, I dig through my bag and toss one his way.
He signs it the way most men sign things—with a squiggle I’m absolutely certain looks nothing like his actual name—and sends it back across the marble to me. I catch it and put it in my folder.
“Next,” he prompts.
“Next is a form stating that you’re agreeing to participate with the following terms and conditions…” I start to read them off when he wiggles his fingers again. I send the paper across to him, and he catches it with a flat palm to the counter, reading silently to himself.
“So, not only will you be writing articles about each date, but you’ll be the journalist there after the dates for a debriefing of some sorts?” he asks, lifting his eyes to meet mine.
“Yes,” I answer. “I’ll actually be at each of the dates the whole time, but not, like, right there with you guys. Just discreetly in the background. Won’t be in your way at all. Promise.”
“And what’s this thing about a reveal party?” he asks, and I school my face into a relaxed expression, trying to convey that it’s no big thing.
“Oh, that’s just a small party at the end of the contest,” I say, my voice hopefully as easy breezy as I’m trying to make it. “Once you go on all five of the dates, you’ll choose the one contestant that you think is the best match—the one you want to pursue because you see a possible future with—at the reveal party.”
Truthfully, the party is going to be kind of big. I mean, there will be caterers and photographers and a guest list, but something tells me those details will officially scare him off…
He narrows his now-scrutinizing eyes. “Tell me there isn’t an engagement ring and me getting down on one knee involved in this reveal party.”
“Oh my God, no!” A laugh bursts from my lungs. “There’s no marriage proposal involved. I swear. You’ll just announce which contestant you want to take on a second date. That’s it.”
“Okay, good. I don’t need some seventeenth-century bequeathal of the dowry or some shit raising my tax liability next year,” he says before going back to reading. I blink three times, trying to make sense of everything he’s just said.
“The bequeathal…” I repeat softly, making the corner of his pink mouth curl into a smirk. “Oh.” I laugh as it becomes clear that he’s joking. He lets his smirk grow into a smile but largely keeps his concentration aimed at the paper as he reads more.
He rolls his eyes at some of the bullet-pointed rules farther down the page, but eventually, puts his pen to the dotted line and scribbles.
“Okay, what else?”
I look down into the folder and wince. Man, I was really hoping I’d figure out how to make myself a holograph before having to bring up this part.
“You’re really not going to like this.”
He quirks a curious brow. “Not going to like what?”
“The next detail, as it were. But it’s a part of the official rules, and the legal team says it has to be done, and…” I pause, trying to find the right way to deliver this doozy.
“Holley. What is it?”
I wince. “Well, you’re required to go get an STI test. And a drug test. And a physical.”
“Anything else?”
“No. Well, yes. But it doesn’t require peeing or needles or anything. I just need you to fill out a questionnaire to help us plan the dates. What you’re comfortable with doing, some of your hobbies, and if you’re allergic to anything specifically.”
“Shouldn’t that be in my physical?”
“Yes,” I agree, one hundred percent. “But the Tribune has a strict policy on anaphylaxis. Mainly, that we are not to cause it under any circumstances. So, we double down just in case it’s not in your medical records.”
“And the women…?”
“They have to do all the physicals too. We can’t assure everything—there’s some risk, obviously, as there always is with dating—but we’re trying to lower the percentage as much as possible.”
He considers me for a minute. My hands shake a little, but I hold eye contact. I will not back down.
I mean, given enough time and pressure, I probably, almost definitely, will. But the goal right now is for him not to know that.
I am a steel fortress. These are the terms. Take them or leave them.
Ha. Ha-ha-ha. I’m sweating.
“Fine.”
“Fine?” I ask, my voice far too hopeful for someone who should be a balls-of-steel negotiator.