Page 53 of Conrad

His gaze dropped to it, back to her eyes, and for a second—a terrible, confusing, magical second—her fear dropped away, and all she could think was?—

Yes.

Please.

He backed away, took her hand, breathing a little hard. “Let’s call the cops.”

Probablythatwas the right answer.

An hour later, she found him standing in the lot as a tow truck backed in to trolley away his car. The air had turned bitter, with two police cars lighting up the lot, the area roped off. She’d given her statement—which filled about three sentences—and he’d given his, and no one had asked why someone would do this. Apparently, the catalytic converter had also been stolen and he’d sported a designer steering wheel, and the cops took pictures and packed up the crime scene and attributed it to vandals.

Bummer for King Con.

She didn’t take any selfies. She did, however, call an Uber XL because she thought maybe he wouldn’t want to be shoved into an economy car on the drive back to her place.

Indeed. He sat in the SUV, head back, eyes closed. So maybe this was the end of their date.

Poor guy.He’d clearly gotten in over his head saying yes to this game.

“Please tell me you have other wheels,” she said.

“I do. A truck.”

Of course.

He lifted his head. “But this can’t be the way this date ends.”

Her eyes widened.

He sat up. “I’m sorry about the vandalism?—”

“That wasn’t your fault last time I looked.”

“That was sort of a cosmic, blanketsorry, the kind that meant I’m sorry that the world occasionally sucks and that people do bad things, and I’d really like to end this night on a positive note.”

“Are we talking cookies?”

“Actually, I’d prefer a steak.” He stretched his arm over her seat. “My place? I cook a mean ribeye.”

Oh.His place. Which meant . . . no paparazzi. No King Con sightings.

No fake-dating game.

Crazily, she was about to nod when her phone buzzed. She pulled it out, thumbed open the text. Stilled. “Shoot.”

“What?”

“It’s my mother. I forgot—Sunday-night dinner.” She closed her eyes. “It’s a thing. I’ll text them and tell them I’m busy?—”

“No.” He looked at her, his voice kind. “Family is important. It’s fine. Drop me off at home.”

Oh.And it was something in his tone—defeat, maybe—that made the words emerge from her mouth. “Come with me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “To dinner?”

“Yeah. It’s fine. Casual. Sort of. Okay, not at all, but our chef is amazing, and . . . you did say you were starving.”

“I managed to pack away a dozen wings. I think I’ll survive until I can get home and order a pizza.”

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