Page 28 of The Perfect Rom-Com

My brows collapse into a straight line. “She’s in her sixties. She won’t retire.”

“She will. July thirteenth, the day after she finishes her contract. She’ll book a cruise to the Bahamas, and I’ll never hear from her again. Wait and see.”

The thing is, the moment he says it, I can actually see it. See Ann dropping off the side of the earth and never returning. And I’m amazed at Jack’s intuitiveness. Just a begrudging bit.

“Now.” He weaves his fingers together on the table and looks at me seriously. “Back to business. I have something deathly important to say.”

Nobody else could see it, probably, but there’s a mirth in Jack’s eyes, and I can see a little game is afoot. He’s quietly asking me to ease up, to shift topics, to take the foot off the gas pedal of our serious conversation and let him move from Agent Jack to Friend Jack, to let me shift from Pestering Client Bryony Page to the girl who ignores him as she hauls a giant tub of animal crackers into his perfectly detailed vehicle and force-feeds him elephants dipped in chocolate on the interstate despite his protests.

To shape-shift away from the man I’ve been having the power struggle with to the man who lets me sleep on his couch after late nights in the city, just so I can pound on his bedroom door and hear his growly “unearthly-hour-of-the-day-Bryony” and we can skip downtown in the morning light with pastries in hand, watching all the stores open up one by one.

I twine my fingers together as he does, press my elbows on the table, and lean forward, chin on my hands. “Okay. Shoot.”

“I’ve been giving it a lot of thought.”

“I’m ready.”

“And I need your full support on this.”

I wait. My phone between us rings, Parker’s name lighting up the screen.

Jack’s eyes dart to mine.

A wordless pause lingers in the moment, a choice, and I make it. I tap the silent button on my phone and flip it over.

A whisper of approval flickers in his eyes.

“We need to rename our bowling team. I’m going to walk in there and pitch, and I need you to back me up.”

My brow tweaks. “You don’t like Pin Pals?”

“I hate Pin Pals.”

“You don’t think Pin Pals has enough swagger?”

“The swagger is significantly lacking.”

“Counterproposal?”

“Rolling Thunder.”

“Willing to compromise with Gutterly Ridiculous?”

He gives a sharp head shake. “No.”

“Spare Me the Details?”

“Afraid not.”

“How about Bearly Trying? How cute would that be? Little bears in hats for T-shirts has some real potential.”

“I’ll quit on the spot.”

I sit back in my chair. Rub my nose. Sniff. “Buy a round of onion rings and drinks for the team tonight. Wait precisely five minutes and twelve seconds before pitching. I’ll see what I can do.”

Jack flashes a full grin and we move to stand. “That’s my girl,” he says, and I feel a trill, light hummingbird wings against my chest, as he pushes my chair behind me and nudges me forward by the small of my back.

“Good night, Serghei,” Jack calls loudly—and totally unnecessarily—over his shoulder.