Chapter 4 #3
He bats my arm away, face red as he sucks in a deep, unsteady breath. He rights his glasses and we stare at each other for a moment, his eyes narrowed, expression taut. And then he… starts laughing?
Why the hell is he laughing? The man should be crying.
“While the ketchup is definitely testing my delicate pal ate’s bravery, the spiciest thing here is undoubtedly you, Kitten.”
“Don’t call me that.” The words are out way too fast, way too intense, the stupid nickname from college rankling me in a way I don’t want to analyze.
In common sense according to Rylie Cooper’s warped brain, Eva Kitt transformed quickly to Kit-Kat, then Evil Kitten, and eventually just Kitten.
I’d never had a nickname before—always plain Eva to a family trying to keep track of so many kids, and something about the way it playfully and endearingly rolled off Cooper’s tongue used to make my stomach swoop and cheeks heat.
Hearing it now, with six years and a dump truck of animosity between us, makes my skin prickle and jaw clench.
“Why not?” he asks with a pout.
“Because I don’t play well with dogs.”
“Ah, and we circle back to the sentiment that got us here,” Cooper says, casually tilting his chair on its back legs and waving his half-eaten hot dog around the studio. “Are we finally going to address the elephant in the room?”
A drip of worry starts in my stomach, and my eyes flick to the camera for half a second, then back to Cooper.
He isn’t supposed to be this direct about it.
We’re supposed to coyly dance around the video and our lackluster history, make a few bland but quotable statements of no ill-will, then part ways without a backward glance.
But the man has the subtlety of a freight-train on a good day, so I tamp down my concern. This is just how he wants to play it, and I’ll be damned if he sees me sweat.
“The elephant being…”
“Your glowing review of twenty-two-year-old me,” Cooper says, a cheeky grin making his dimple pop. I scowl at it.
“Not sure I’d amend much for twenty-eight-year-old you,” I say, giving him a chilly appraisal. “Except maybe add in the receding hairline.”
To my utter delight, his hand darts toward his perfectly intact and outrageously full head of hair. My grin must be vicious, because he narrows his eyes before giving me a flicker of a smile and an almost imperceptible nod acknowledging my arrow hit its target.
“Well, that’s what I want to change,” he says.
“Change?” He’s going off script. He’s not supposed to go off script. He’s absolutely not supposed to be leaning closer to me like that, talking in a low voice with a private smile like I’m the only one he wants to hear what he’s going to say next.
“You said in your video you could think of half a dozen other red flags besides me—”
“Being selfish in bed.”
He snorts, biting on his bottom lip as he stares into my eyes. “I was going to say being in a frat, but if you want to talk through a play-by-play of my performance I’m more than happy to. I’d love your constructive criticism and suggestions for future reference.”
Heat sears through me but I roll my eyes. “In your dreams.”
“I’ve certainly seen you there a time or two,” he purrs, eyes making a quick and heated flick over me. The hunger in his words shocks me speechless, and his satisfied smirk tells me that’s exactly what he was hoping for. “I want a do-over,” he says, louder now, that unabashed grin back in place.
“A-a… do-over ?” My face twists like I sniffed sour milk. Unfortunately, all I actually smell is whatever absurdly sexy cologne he’s wearing. Something clean and tempting. Sunshine and sin. I grab my hot dog, aggressively ripping into a bite so the smell of ketchup replaces him.
“I want a chance to win you over. Win back your good graces,” he says smoothly, gaze fixed on my mouth as he watches me chew. I make sure to add a few open-mouthed chomps.
“To win them back you’d need to have had them at some point,” I growl through a mouthful, a thick piece of bun clogging my suddenly dry throat.
He laughs again, and the sound unlatches memories in me, those flirtatious moments in college where it felt like I won a prize every time I’d pull the sound from him.
I hate that his laugh is genuine—nothing like the shallow chuckles I use in interviews, barely convincing anyone that I’m amused.
All his laughs seem to be genuine, though. He’s incapable of faking good humor.
What a fucker.
“Okay. Fine.” His eyes crinkle as he continues to smile at me. “I want the chance to prove to you that despite all your evidence to the contrary, I’m actually not a bad guy.”
I blink at him. “And I want to live solely off fun-shaped noodles and forget vegetables exist. Are we going to continue trading fruitless wishes?”
He searches my face. “I have a proposition for you,” he says carefully.
I can’t help my terrified glance to the cameras before landing on Aida behind them, who looks equally confused.
Get HR , I mouth to her. She snaps back into work mode, glaring at me as she jerks her hand in a signal for me to focus on Cooper.
“I’m asking for your time. That’s all,” Cooper continues, his voice a rough pull to my attention.
My lips part as I stare at him, the intensity of his look, the tiny furrow between his eyebrows, the sincerity of his smile.
All of it creates a building pressure in my chest. “A chance for me to prove I’m not the asshole you remember.
Give me six dates to make it up to you.”
“Fuck yourself.” The words burst out of me in a laugh so sudden and violent I clamp a hand to my throat.
Cooper’s eyes twinkle. “Stop being so charming or I might fall in love with you.”
“Fuck yourself,” I repeat, enunciating the words carefully this time. I keep forgetting we’re live. There’s no way I won’t be fired after this. “I’m not going on six dates with you. I’m not going on any dates with you.”
“Five dates,” he counters, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back in his chair again.
“None,” I retort, mirroring his pose.
“Why?” Hurt flickers across his features. “Let me make it up to you. I honestly do feel terrible about how I treated you and I want to rectify it.”
“If you’re such a good guy like you claim, why do you need so many chances to do that?” I arch an eyebrow in a way that usually makes men shrink.
Instead, he leans closer, planting both palms on the table as he looks at me, mouth curling up in that uneven grin of his. “That’s how many dates we went on before. It’s only fair I have an equal chance.”
“We went on four dates,” I say automatically, then steel myself against a cringe at how earnest and fucking factual I sound. His delight is indecent.
“Someone was keeping count. Core memories?”
“Only because I’ve had to outsource them to my therapist.”
He tilts his head to the side, the skin around his eyes and mouth creasing with a bitten-back laugh. It’s with a sharp jolt that I realize how close we are, that my chest is leaning across the table, my clenched jaw and pursed red lips only a few inches from his terribly nice smile.
“Fine,” he says, gaze tracing my face, resting for a beat on my mouth before skimming back up to lock eyes.
“The truth is, I want all the dates you’ll give me because I’m terrified of you, Eva Kitt.
And I know I’ll need as many opportunities as I can get to shake off the nerves and show you a good time. ”
Despite my resistance, this pulls a smile from me, sharp and fast, a warmth searing through my stomach. I quickly school my features so the flash of my teeth portrays resentment instead of misplaced glee. “And what do I get?”
“Are seven dates of guaranteed fun not enough?”
“You guarantee disappointment and that’s about all,” I mumble, lurching away from him and collapsing back against my chair, crossing my arms to emphasize my surly pout. Somehow his smile only grows.
“Maybe so,” he says, lifting his palms in surrender.
“And you’ll have every right to blast me for it.
In fact, we can even debrief on my show after each one.
Worst case, you get eight dates to analyze, rip apart, and very publicly explain how much I suck with up-to-date examples. I’m handing you material.”
“What a gentleman.”
He bows his head in false deference. When he looks back up at me, his eyes are sparkling. “But best case, you spend nine dates with someone dedicated to showing you an amazing time. And food.”
“Good food?”
“Whatever food you want.” He gestures broadly like a game-show host. “Your ten dates will be filled with it.”
“Stop counting up,” I snap. “You said six dates.”
“Six dates. You’ve got yourself a deal.” He grabs my hand, pumping it in agreement. I laugh, more from shock than anything, slipping out of his grip and smacking his arm away.
“And what if I just genuinely don’t like you?” I say, watching as he slowly drags the fingertips of his left hand over the knuckles of his right. Something about the hint of control in the movement has my mouth going dry. “I don’t like most people.”
His eyes flash. “I love a challenge.”
I glance again at Aida, and am horrified that William’s joined her, staring at me with commanding force. He nods once, slowly and with authority, an exact mirror of his mom’s during our video call. The barest hint of a promise.
Fuck. I want that job. Need it. If this is what it takes to get it…
But, god, Cooper’s such a shithead—one who isn’t hard to look at, I’ll admit, but a shithead nonetheless. And just the idea of being forced to spend time with him has me wanting to rip out my hair. And his.
He must sense my weakening resolve, because his voice drops to a coaxing rumble. “Come on, Eva. What have you got to lose?”
“My dignity and self-respect.” My gaze flicks to William and Aida once more, but Cooper’s laugh calls me back.
“Give me six dates to try and turn those red flags green.”