Page 8 of Mid-Thirties Slightly Hot Mess Female Seeking Billionaire

"Look here, old chap, let’s grab a drink. There’s this new bar that opened called the Owl and the Pussycat. We can check it out, then we can come back. Maybe we can even come up with a jingle ourselves. Todd Wayne never got back to you, right?"

"No, he didn’t." I frown, wondering why the man never emailed me back.

"So, then, I guess we come up with something."

"You and I come up with a jingle?" I say stoically as I glance at him. "Copywriting isn’t really our wheelhouse."

"Well, I actually had an idea already."

"You did?" I raise a single eyebrow and lean back in my leather chair. I tap my fingers against the solid wood desk and stare at him for a couple of seconds. "Go on, then."

"Go on what?"

"Let me hear the jingle you created. Now."

He walks toward me and takes a seat in the chair opposite the desk. Our eyes are locked and honed in on one another, almost as if we’re battling. I know I’m going to win. I always win. Be it a staring contest, an arm-wrestling match, or a mental showdown. I never lose.

"Fine," he says, tapping his foot against the ground. I hold back a smile as I wait for him to sing the jingle he’s created.

He clears his throat and counts, "A one, a one, a one, two, three, four."

He starts snapping his fingers, and I’m holding back laughter now. If there’s something about Jackson, it is that he always commits to what he’s going to do.

"Get yourself some light," he sings. "Some beautiful lights. Do you want to feel like royalty, like the king and queen of France, or the king and queen of England, or the king and queen of your pants? Get yourself some lights. Get yourself some lights from Lord Chambers. He is not a stranger."

I can’t stop myself; the laughter erupts from me. Jackson has a nice voice, but he’s not talented with his wordsmithery.

"What? You don’t like it?" He pouts like he’s wounded. I know he’s not.

"I wouldn’t say I don’t like it, but I would say it’s kind of crap."

"Fine. Now, can we go grab a drink? You made me embarrass myself to get you to come out to the bar."

"Well, you chose to embarrass yourself," I say and then nod. "But fine, one drink, then I have to come back and work." I watch as he stands up, and we head toward the door. As we exit, I notice that Edith is long gone. However, the newspaper is still sitting there. I grab it from the desk and study my photo.

"Where did they get this picture from anyway? I look like a douchebag."

"Women love douchebags though." Jackson watches as I throw the newspaper into the trash. "Isn’t that crazy?" Jackson says as we make our way to the elevator.

"What do you mean? Isn’t what crazy?"

"That you hate the fact that lots of hot women want you? You’re totally in another world, aren’t you?" he asks as we step inside the elevator, and he presses the button for the lobby. He leans back against the wall and checks something on his phone.

"No, I’m not in another world. I’m just frustrated. I’ve called the newspaper several times. I’ve spoken to several different editors, including the editor in chief, and all of them have told me that I was put in the paper by popular demand. But really, who are these people who want me so badly? Who is voting for me to be the most eligible bachelor in New York City? The editor in chief said I come highly recommended each year."

Jackson looks away from me, then, and my eyes narrow as he runs his fingers through his hair and taps his foot against the ground—telltale signs of some sort of guilt.

"Is there something you’re not telling me?"

"What?" he says in an innocent tone, and I can feel something clicking in my brain, but I’m not sure what.

"Youdidn’t nominate me, did you?"

"Me? Nominate you? Would I do such a thing?"

"Yes. Yes, you would. I remember when we were getting our MBAs and you nominated me to be president of the tennis club."

"What, you liked to play tennis."

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