You've Got Fail(15)

“What gave it away?” His guard was coming down, interest shining in his eyes.

“Just certain phrases you use. Predominately masculine sentence structures. Women tend to use more passive constructions for things—not because of nature, of course, but because they’re taught to be passive from an early age—so I noticed when you preferred active verbs.”

He put his fork down and wiped at the corners of his mouth with his napkin, thoughts racing across his eyes like clouds across the sky. “Where did you go to school?”

“I didn’t. I mean, I graduated from a high school in Brooklyn, but I didn’t go to college.”

“No theater or language classes, no literary criticism studies? Nothing?”

I couldn’t tell if he was impressed or horrified. “No.”

He took another bite, the silence between us tripling in size as the moments rolled by.

I fidgeted and drank more. Had I revealed too much?

“Is your family still in Brooklyn?”

“Rent got too steep. My sister is in Jersey City with me. My dad split a long time ago, and Ma’s been gone for two years now.”

His eyes softened, the frown lines relaxing. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” I waved his concern away despite the tightening in my chest and the ghost of a sting behind my eyes. “She had a penchant for booze and cigarettes. It caught up to her earlier than we expected.”

“If she was anything like you, then I bet she was something to behold.”

I ran my finger along the rim of my wine glass and held his gaze. “Did you just compliment me?”

“Technically, I think I complimented your mother.” He smiled, and oh my god, he had dimples.

Heat rushed through me, and my heart did a crazy two-step that was illegal in all fifty states except Texas. I had to get this under control. Feelings and business did not mix, especially not when I was working on a mark as big as Willis.

Swiping the feels away, I got down to business. “So, tell me about you. But first, let me see how much I’ve figured out on my own. You’re from Chicago, but you’ve lived in the city for a while. A bachelor. Left-handed. One or two serious relationships, at most. You prefer brunettes, but redheads rev your engine the most. Comic books, video games, and reading are your favorite past times. Right?”

He canted his head at me. “Are you for real?”

I pinched my arm. “As far as I know.”

“Did you find me on Facebook or something?”

“Yep, but your profile is set to private. I could tell you were from Chicago when you opened your mouth.”

Realization dawned on him, and he shook his head in a cutely bewildered way as he continued, “Yes, I’m from Chicago, but my parents moved here when I was a teenager.” He finished his chicken and drank more wine. “So, I’ve been in the city for, hmm, about ten years now.”

“Your parents still here?”

“They retired to Florida a few years ago.”

“Was I right about the other things?” I twisted a lock of red hair around my finger.

“Maybe.” He swallowed hard, and a hint of pink colored his cheeks.

“Maybe?” I grinned. “I think you meant to say I was spot on. But that’s fine. School?” At this point, I was usually pumping the mark for information to use against them. But with him, I genuinely wanted to know more.

“NYU. I thought I was going to be a writer.” He gave a rueful laugh. “I hung around and got my master’s, mainly because I couldn’t find a job with an English degree and a smile. Then, when I got out, I wound up working at a coffee shop and a bookstore while mooching off my parents.”

“So, you started the blog?” I crossed my legs under the table, my foot brushing against his leg. He didn’t move away.

“Not exactly.” He took another drink.

“So, what happened?” I leaned forward.

“Your turn.” He took another bite. “What did you do after high school?”

Made mistakes. Dated the wrong men. Worked shit jobs. Perfected my con game. “This and that. Mostly retail work.”

“Have you always been a thief?”

I smiled, the answer in the smirking curve of my lips. “What made you start your blog?”

He set his fork down and considered me, as if he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to talk more or bolt. After a few more moments, he said, “I met a girl in college. We were together for a while. Then”— he dropped his gaze to the table, though I’d seen the shadow of hurt in his eyes—“she didn’t like that I wasn’t able to get a better job, that I hadn’t made progress on a book. So, she left.”

“I’m sorry.”

He waved away my concern. “No. She was right. I was in a rut. Her leaving was the best thing, really. It got me to start working on the blog. Like it was an outlet for my broken heart, and as it turns out, I’m pretty good at giving advice. So now I put all my effort into the blog. It’s my life.” He gave me a pointed look. “It means everything to me.”

And I was threatening it. I took the hint, but that was part of my game. The higher the stakes were for him, the better the payout for me.

“It’s a savvy blog. And you definitely give good advice. I thoroughly enjoyed it when you told the guy off who said he hated going down on girls but always wanted them to give him head. Epic take down.”