Page 13 of Power Play

“So, Charlie,” Gwen butts in, her chin resting on an upturned palm, “how’s work been lately? Hard? Still thinking about quitting?”

Through sheer force of will, I do not grimace. “It’s fine,” I tell her with a toothy smile, “We’re taking on a few new projects. Very, very busy. So busy I don’t have time to think about quitting.”

Duke is looking at me again. I can practically hear his thoughts—“If you’re so damned busy, than why the hell have you been harassing me on Twitter?”

I desperately need more wine if I’m going to survive this dinner. Obviously I did not think this plan through. I wonder if anyone will notice if I head to the bathroom and don’t return.

Gwen tilts her head to the side, fingers dangling over the rim of her champagne flute in a poised way that grates on my nerves. “I heard through the grapevine thatThe Tribuneis on the verge of bankruptcy.” She pauses almost deliberately. “That’s where you are, right?The Cambridge Tribune?”

I hate the way she’s watching me smugly. “It is,” I grit out, “but, you know,The Tribuneis on its way up the ladder.”

“Is it?”

No. Which is why I’m being forced to reel Duke Harrison into this ridiculous setup. If I had my way, I’d send his PR agent an email with a request to set aside some time to answer my questions. He or she would say yes. Done deal.

Instead, he’s told me “no” in five different ways. Sitting next to him only serves to remind me of the fact that I spent the last two nights tossing and turning in bed, thinking about what dinner with him would be like. And not like this fabricated double date—a dinner with just the two of us.

The corner of my mouth cramps from my too-wide smile. I push forth undeterred to prove to Gwen that I’m not some daydreaming journalist.

Even though I sort of am.

Duke, no doubt sensing that a fight is on the horizon, breaks the tension. “So, what’s ‘Charlie’ short for?” He flags down the server and points to my empty glass. I almost weep with gratitude, even as I think that he must be up to something. “Charlize?”

I blink. “As in, Charlize Theron?”

Across the table, Gwen snorts derisively and I curl my hand into a fist against my thigh.

Caleb kicks my foot, disrupting any homicidal thoughts that may or may not have entered my head. “Both you and Charlize have blonde hair,” he points out. I love him. I might love him more than I love his sister, and that’s saying something.

“Hers is sleek. I look like a lion stuck its mane into an electrical outlet.”

Duke chuckles. It’s a deep sound that curls my toes in my shoes and reminds me of toasty fireplaces and crackling wood. It’s the sort of chuckle that you want to hear up close and personal, with your cheek pressed against a solid, male chest, and that sexy laugh rustling the top of your hair.

I’m hopeless. Casey will have a field day when she hears about this disaster.

“Ooo, I’ve got it!” Gwen claps her hands together. “CharlieSheen!”

Is.

She.

Kidding?

My toothy grin slips. Nothing like being compared to the “Winning” King to make you feel less attractive as a woman. “It’s actually just short for Charlene,” I tell the table stiffly. “It was my grandmother’s name.”

Like a true friend, Caleb murmurs, “A beautiful name. Very ancestral.”

Gwen doesn’t bother to say anything at all, as she’s now got her phone out and is scrolling through God-knows-what. Probably selfies, if I had to guess.

“I’m named after the Duke of Wellington. Duke Wellington Harrison. My parents are huge Anglophiles.”

It’s said so abruptly, so out of the blue, that both Caleb and I freeze as though we’ve suddenly found ourselves on a tightrope hoisted twenty feet above the ground. If someone were to tell me a month ago that I’d be having a legitimate conversation with Duke Harrison, I would have told ‘em to lay off the coke.

But this is reality. We areactuallysitting her with the Boston Blades’ first-string goalie, and while he’s not exactly smiling, he’s not frowning either. If anything, he appears . . . uncertain. A little embarrassed.

It’s almost endearing.

He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’m talking about the English military general, not the entrée.”

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