The Rom Con by Devon Daniels

Author:Devon Daniels [Daniels, Devon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-11-07T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

I can’t stop thinking about #98 on the “Tips to Hook a Husband” list: Turn wolves into husband material by assuming they have honor.

I thought about it as I left Jack’s apartment last night, the promise of another date hanging in the air between us like a strand of twinkling Christmas lights. I thought about it as I tossed and turned in bed, giddy and restless and horny as hell. And I’m thinking about it now as I reluctantly head to Cynthia’s office, feet heavy as cement blocks, a prisoner on her way to the guillotine.

I have no idea how she’ll take the news that I’m dropping the story. She’d be well within her rights to fire me, and honestly, I’m not sure I could blame her. I’ve been working on this for weeks and not only do I have nothing to show for it, but now I’ve found myself in bed with the enemy (metaphorically, at least). I’m irrevocably compromised, both professionally and ethically. I’m sure I’ve exposed Siren to some sort of liability, too. I know lying itself isn’t a crime, but should Jack find out about my ulterior motives he’d probably have grounds to sue Cynthia for invasion of privacy or emotional distress or defamation. (Or is it slander? I can never remember the difference. Cut me some slack, I’m not a lawyer.)

One thing I know for sure, though: My subterfuge ends today. If I’m going to move forward with Jack in good conscience, then this story needs to be a distant speck in my rearview mirror.

I knock once and enter when she invites me in, the chatter of the newsroom fading ominously as the door snicks shut behind me. In a blatant attempt at buying her mercy, I picked up a cup of her favorite overpriced coffee and a chocolate croissant from the fancy French bakery next door, though the bribery is about as transparent as these damn acrylic chairs. My thighs are already clammy at the sight of them.

“Hey there,” Cynthia says, holding up a finger as she continues to type feverishly. I take a seat at her desk, and when she finally pushes her keyboard away, she makes a little chirp of appreciation at my sweet treats. So far so good.

“So a vague, last-minute meeting request,” she says, pulling the croissant from the bag and tearing off a corner. “Do I take it there’s been a break in the case?”

“Sort of.” I rethink that. “Well, not exactly.” I roll my lips together. “Actually, sort of the opposite?”

“What does that mean?” she asks around her mouthful. “Don’t tell me he figured it out?”

“No, nothing like that.” I gnaw on my lip, stalling.

Her brow furrows as she waits a beat. “Well? Spit it out. What’s going on?”

I take a deep breath. “I need to call it off.”

She leans back in her chair, index fingers tented, chewing silently. This thousand-yard stare is one of her superpowers—I’ve watched her win countless face-offs just by staying quiet the longest.

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