“Right, that’s what you told me that first night. You love baseball. But in the time we’ve been . . . dating”—she said the word hesitantly—”I’ve never seen you watch a game. Or even suggest watching a game. And I’m not the biggest sports geek out there, but I’m pretty sure we’re in the middle of the Yankees season right now.”

Something sharp passed over his face at the mention of the Yankees, but it disappeared before she could identify it. He slid another piece of pizza onto each of their plates as he seemed to be pondering her question. Julie sipped her wine and let him work it out. At first his pregnant pauses and apparent need to have every word selected before opening his mouth had bothered her. But she’d gotten used to it. Liked it, even. No wasted words ever escaped Mitchell Forbes.

“I record the games,” he said finally. “And watch them when I have free time.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And Saturday night doesn’t count as free time?”

“Okay, honestly? If we’re going to be all sharey and shit? Evelyn hated baseball. So have all my previous girlfriends.”

Julie shook her head in bafflement. “Sugar, I’m thinking half the women in America fall somewhere between hate and lukewarm on the subject of the New York Yankees. But I’m pretty sure there’s such a thing as compromise in relationships.”

He shot her a knowing look. “Did you read that in one of Grace’s articles?”

Julie gave a guilty smile. “I proof all her stuff; I guess I picked up a few things.”

“I’d say you have a natural knack for it,” he said, taking a bite of degreased pizza. “You seem to be doing pretty well in this relationship.”

Julie was in the process of bringing her pizza to her mouth, and at his words she nearly fumbled the slice. She forced herself to take a bite despite the launch of butterflies in her stomach.

Was this it? He’d said relationship. They were having movie night. And he’d slept over last night.

Had she just taken things to the next level?

Did this mean she could be done with her undercover assignment? And the most important question of all . . . did she want to be done?

The pizza felt stuck in her throat, and she washed it down with a swallow of the excellent wine.

“You okay?” he asked, completely oblivious to the firestorm of confusion he’d just unleashed.

“Yup!” Julie desperately wanted to lunge for the remote and start a movie, any movie, to avoid this conversation.

But then again . . . weren’t these types of conversations exactly the purpose of her article? To coach women how to have the “relationship” talk with the man they were kinda sorta seeing, she had to have one first.

God, this sucks.

Julie mentally slapped on her big-girl panties and turned to face him. “So, Wall Street, what made you change your mind about movie night?”

He set his own plate aside and leaned forward to refill their wineglasses—generously. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one who was nervous.

“Why is movie night so important to you?” he asked in response.

Because it’s the hallmark of everything I’ve never wanted. The sign that I’ve done my duty to Stiletto and can get back to my old life. My real life.

“Probably for the same reason you balked at it last night,” she said bluntly. “Because it means something.”

He looked at her. Looked away. “I know what it means. Why do you think I suggested it?”

Julie didn’t think it was possible to choke on one’s heart, but it certainly felt like her heart had lodged somewhere near her esophagus. “But last night you said—”

“Last night I was a scared little boy who thought I’d be happy with a quick lay and a few laughs over the occasional dinner.”

“And now?” she whispered.

His fingers drifted over her cheek, a whisper of a touch. “Now I’m a man, spending a quiet evening with a woman I’m crazy about.”

Something tore open inside her, and she didn’t know if it was regret, terror, or wild, senseless joy.

She closed her eyes and turned her cheek into his palm. “Mitchell?”

“Yeah?” His voice was husky.

Julie kissed his palm, the gesture feeling like something between a promise and a good-bye. She didn’t know which. “Let’s watch baseball,” she said softly.

Twin dimples of boyish wonder appeared on his face, and the look of sheer joy there was worth the messier parts of this little relationship charade. And when he flipped on the ball game, then pulled her against him, resting his cheek against the top of her head as their hands fought for the last slice of pizza, it didn’t feel like a charade at all.

Chapter Twelve

“Jules, you can’t quit now. You have him exactly where you want him,” Riley said as she signaled to the waitress for another round of drinks.

It would be Julie’s third cocktail, which was a good deal more than she should be having on a random Wednesday night when she still had work to do, but this was no ordinary weekday.

Camille had stopped by the Dating, Love, and Sex office to remind them that they were one week away from the first-draft deadline for August’s issue. One week until she was supposed to put whatever was happening with Mitchell on paper. One week until she sold him out for the sake of a story.

She needed more drinks. But more than the booze, Julie needed her girlfriends. Or at least she’d thought she’d needed them. Unfortunately, neither one was shaping up to be the beacon of infinite supportive wisdom that she’d been hoping for.

Grace was wearing her disappointed face, and every prim sip of her chardonnay seemed to scream, You’re a dirty, dirty whore. And Riley was even less helpful, insisting that Julie push through with the ridiculous plan.

“Yeah, I know he’s where I want him,” Julie said, trying to drink away the feeling of self-loathing. “That’s kind of my point. Mission accomplished. Now it’s time to wrap this thing up and write the damned story already.”

“Are you sure you have enough?” Riley said, scrunching up her face. “One night of baseball watching isn’t exactly a marriage proposal.”

Grace shot Riley an annoyed look.

“What?” Riley muttered. “It’s baseball.”

You weren’t there. It was more. But had it been? Really? Or was she putting way too much stock in the importance of movie night? Or sports night, as it had turned out to be. It wasn’t as though there had been love words exchanged. And the next morning when she’d accompanied him on his morning run, it wasn’t as if he’d dragged her by Tiffany’s on the way back.

Something unfamiliar rippled through her at the thought of the jewelry store, and she waited for the usual sense of dread to pour over her at the notion of one of those tiny little jewelry boxes and what they meant.

But there was no dread. No disdain. No terror.

That’s what was unfamiliar.

She’d let the image of a freaking engagement ring roll around in her brain and hadn’t wanted to amputate the fourth finger of her left hand “just in case.”

Oh, good God.

“Look,” Riley said in a gentler voice. “I know you feel kind of hooker-ish about the whole situation, but you said yourself this was just good sex and companionship. Maybe you guys can keep things going once you get the story written. Maybe he won’t even care.”

“You don’t know him,” she muttered. “He’s the last person to forgive someone who made him feel foolish.”

“But you knew that all along,” Grace said. “What’s changed?”

Julie took a sip but didn’t respond. Because she didn’t know how to respond. This should have been like the billion girl talks she’d had with Grace and Riley before, but this time it was different.

Because Mitchell was different.

“Uh-oh.” The uncharacteristic gentleness of Riley’s voice was nearly Julie’s undoing. She felt tears prickle the back of her eyelids, and she blinked them away.

Grace rested a hand on her arm. “Julie, you really do like him, don’t you? It’s not just guilt anymore.”