Page 44 of Perfect Pitch

“Except who you work for?” I challenge.

He nods. “I have an ironclad NDA, Austyn.”

I roll my eyes. “You know, if you lead with that, people tend to not be insulted when you can’t disclose information.” His look of perplexity is almost amusing. I go on, “I’m under one myself.”

He’s flabbergasted. “You are?”

I smirk. “How presumptuous of you to assume I wouldn’t be. My clientele list is quite wealthy.”

He bursts out with, “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Likely, but that’s not my fault.” I shrug.

He mutters under his breath, “I disagree.” My cheeks flush before he asks again, “So, how about another date?”

I fling my hands up in the air in frustration and surrender. “Fine. What do I need to wear?” And please, God, let it be something I already own.

He runs his eyes up over my outfit. “Shoes? It’s about eighty-five out there today.”

“Wait. You mean like now?”

“Do you need four hours to get ready?”

“No, I need to put on a bra!” I snap before my hand flies to my mouth.

A seductive note enters Mitch’s voice. “Not on my account, you don’t.”

I cross my arms over my chest so my hardening nipples don’t give away what my body betrays. “Give me ten minutes.”

As I reach the door to my room, I’m stripping the camisole from my body. Quickly, I snatch up a bra from the clean pile on the floor along with a worn Brendan Blake T-shirt I stole from Uncle Jesse, which I tie at my waist. Critically eyeing my hair in the mirror, I grab a large hair clip and twist the heavy mane up so it cascades like a ponytail—braids and all. Snatching my Ray-Bans off the dresser, I slip into a pair of Chucks before making my way back out to the living room. Sliding the glasses into place, I pick up my bag and say, “I hope this outfit works.”

“Hurry, Austyn!” Mitch’s voice calls out.

I rush out of my bedroom. “Why? Are we in some kind of hurry?”

He winks as he points down at his phone. “Yes.”

I stand next to him and lick my lips before smacking them together. “You sure do know the way to a girl’s heart.”

* * *

Three hours later, Mitch and I are still laughing over our latest battle with traffic as we attempted to follow the last food truck around the city. We’d raced around Manhattan eating halal, falafel, and souvlaki. Mitch had promised, “Wafels & Dinges is supposedly the best way to end our gluttonous trek.”

“Fortunately, there’s always room for dessert,” I agree.

Unfortunately for us, just as he slams his SUV into park in the East Village, the truck is pulling away. “Damn. I always miss them by seconds.” The heel of his hand pings off the steering wheel.

I pat his arm condescendingly. “It’s okay, sweet boy. You were so good eating all your veggies that Mama will find you a cookie somewhere.”

He glares at me, causing me to roar with laughter. As I wipe the tears beneath my eyes, I gasp, “Oh, come on, Mitch. You have to admit, that’s just what you sounded like.”

He holds his mutinous expression for another second before he, too, cracks up. Putting the car in gear, he says, “Fortunately for you, Austyn, I know a great place around here for doughnuts.”

“Really? Do tell.”

“I’m much more of a show you kind of guy... shit!”

I’m howling at the petulance in his tone again. “What now? Is this place closed too?”

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