Page 18 of The Perfect Rom-Com

“And evidently you’re very good at lying and pretending not to read other people’s texts.”

The elevator doors slide open to an overwhelmingly pink hotel lobby. We grab our suitcases and stride forward.

“So, as you see, this puts me in a sticky situation,” Jack continues, in step with me. “But lucky for me, your overpowering presence came along just when I needed it—”

“I prefer to consider myself prepared—”

“—and the really leech-like vibe you gave off—”

“My sister called it a self-respecting use of boldness.”

He throws his hand in the air. “The point is, you’re suited for the job. You have good instincts, and you clearly have no problem using words. So how about it? I’ll have my assistant email you the current manuscript, and you can hack away at all those supers all you like.” He pauses. “Not to mention, the pay is great.”

He speeds up as we approach and then move through the revolving doors, pulling his trendy suitcase and leather laptop bag resting on top along. A man is waiting on the other side, exhaust rolling around his gray suit as his hands rest on one another. Like he’s at a wedding. Or a funeral.

When he sees us, he strides forward, reaching for the suitcases.

Both of our suitcases.

I hesitate on the sidewalk.

A ding sounds on my phone, and I glance over to the beat-up dark blue Corolla with the word Uber slapped across the dented passenger door. The man inside is tapping the wheel impatiently. He’s staring at the revolving door. Waiting for his rider to come out.

It’s time for my decision.

I can go with the dented Corolla or with the man in the suit, waiting beside a plume of exhaust that actually smells sweet. Like cinnamon.

Well. It isn’t exactly Sophie’s choice now, is it?

And before I know it, I’m cruising along the interstate beside Jack Sterling in a completely foreign world of crisp black leather and the lingering scent of cinnamon and even a glass bowl of peppermints on top of a variety of fresh beverages in the mini fridge across from us.

Me, without any forewarning, having gone from the lowest of lows to this situation in a blink.

Jack is rummaging through his bag and pulling out an official-looking set of papers. “The contract’s a boat, but it’s all very simple. You get paid for writing this and any forthcoming books, and you don’t tell anybody about it.”

He pulls a pen out of his shirt pocket.

“Or what?”

“Oh,” he says, waving a hand over the insignificant question, “you go to jail for the rest of your life, I don’t know.”

“I go to jail for life,” I say incredulously, eyeing the pen and papers like they are handcuffs ready to snap on my wrists.

“Are you planning on telling people?” He laughs. “Are you and your Facebook following of twelve people planning to seize the Benedict fortress by night with pitchforks raised?”

He’s grinning at himself.

He’s actually enjoying his little jokes.

I sniff. “It’s 242 people, thank you very much.”

“Oh. Well, in that case . . .” He clicks on the pen and hands it over.

I stare at it for a moment. Spin the sleek metallic silver between my fingers.

A plan is forming. A decision.

“I’ll do it on a condition.”