Julie couldn’t resist the urge to roll her eyes. She could have written his bio for him. Vanilla ice cream, for God’s sake.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Favorite color?” she asked sweetly.

“Blue. Now, my turn.”

“No, thanks,” she said, slapping her menu on the table. “Besides, it’ll take me a while to wake myself up from my nap. What a riveting life you’ve had.”

Mitchell gave her a slow, victorious smile.

“What?” she snapped. “You like being insulted?”

“No, but I like when you get all uppity like this. Be honest . . . you think all that small talk is garbage. You could barely keep yourself awake long enough to answer the questions.”

“Whatever,” she muttered. “Clearly you don’t date much.”

Julie thought she saw something dark flash across his face, but it was gone before she could name the emotion.

“My turn for the questions,” he said again.

“Fine,” she sighed wearily. “Let’s get it over with.”

“You work for Stiletto magazine.”

“Hardly a secret.”

He ignored her snotty tone. “And you’re part of some little power trio.”

“That’s right,” she said slowly, surprised he knew that much. He didn’t seem the type to be plugged into Manhattan’s social scene or read “Page Six.”

“And you write the sexy stuff?”

She hid a smile. Most men wouldn’t dare touch Stiletto in public, but that didn’t mean they weren’t curious.

“Sort of,” she replied. “The magazine calls it Dating, Love, and Sex.”

“Kiss, Cuddle, and Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

Julie choked on her beer. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” he said, looking faintly horrified and a good deal less cocky than he had a moment before.

“Oh, no way am I letting you off that hook,” Julie said, leaning forward. “If I don’t get to hide behind pleasantries, neither do you.”

“It was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing. You said ‘Kiss, Cuddle, and Fuck.’ What is that?”

He gave her a swift look as though the answer should be obvious, but he still refused to answer.

The answer hit her almost immediately. Julie burst out laughing. “Oh, that’s good,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t wait to tell Grace and Riley. They’ll love that.”

He looked doubtful. “So out of the three, you’re . . .”

“Dating. Or Kiss, by your definition. Some people would probably tell you that I write the fluff pieces of our section, but I like to think I write the good stuff. Somehow our society has developed this mentality that dating is supposed to be stressful. It should be fun.”

“Sure, at first. But it can’t be all fun and games.”

“Why not?”

He looked frustrated. “Because that’s not real life.”

“Says who? Where is it written that there’s some sort of time limit on happiness?”

“Well, have you ever been able to sustain constant happiness in your relationships? Surely you’ve experienced moments of frustration or anger or boredom once you’ve moved past the puppy love stage.”

Julie felt the color drain from her face. His words hit way too close to home. And even more alarming was the fact that she’d gotten so wrapped up in their conversation that she’d forgotten her purpose. This wasn’t meant to be a bantering session. Reel him in.

“Are you okay?” he asked with a frown.

“Actually, I’m pretty hungry,” she said, clamoring for a distraction. “Do you think we could order some food?”

“Sure.” He stood and walked to the other end of the bar to get the bartender’s attention, since it wasn’t exactly a table service kind of place. She was grateful for the reprieve to gather herself. What had she been thinking, bragging about how she was the queen of dating? The last thing she needed was to call attention to how she put personal experiences into her stories. She needed him to forget she was a journalist—she shouldn’t wave it in his face like a big red flag.

She took a bracing sip of beer, trying to calm her jitters. Julie couldn’t remember ever forgetting herself so easily on a first date. She wasn’t entirely sure she liked the feeling.

“Here,” Mitchell said, returning to the table. He plunked a glass of white wine in front of her.

“What’s this?”

“Pinot grigio. Don’t even pretend you’re enjoying your Guinness.”

She gave him a cautious glance. He was observant. That did not bode well for her purposes. “Thanks, but I don’t want to waste the beer. . . .”

Mitchell shrugged. “So I’ll drink it.”

He slid her barely touched glass of beer toward him as he drained the rest of his own glass. Julie tried not to gape. He was finishing her beer as if it was the most natural thing in the world to clean up her leftovers.

Get it together—it’s not that big a deal. She’d shared food and drinks with plenty of guys over the years.

But not on the first date. And never so casually.

This had been no teasing offer of a bite of dessert, and there’d been no suggestive whisper that he should finish her drink because she was feeling tipsy. She’d played all those cards before, but not tonight.

Mitchell just acted as if it was his right. As though it was one of many drinks he’d be finishing for her. It felt strangely, uncomfortably natural. What the hell is going on here?

“Well, thank you,” she said stiffly.

“No problem. Although fair warning—the wine is probably crap. This is more of a beer and whisky place.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” she said, with a pointed glance at the dozens of Guinness and Jamison signs covering every square inch of wall space. “Super classy, though. You bring all your girls here?”

“Nah,” he said, mostly to himself. “I brought Evelyn once. Didn’t go over well.”

“Ex-girlfriend?”

“Yup.” His eyes had shut down. Apparently that wasn’t open for discussion.

“Forbes!” the bartender called. “Order up.”

Julie took a thoughtful sip of her wine as Mitchell went to retrieve their food. He was apparently a regular here, which seemed odd. It didn’t seem to be his type of place. Yet another warning sign that this man wasn’t exactly shaping up to be the predictable drone she’d expected.

“Yum,” she said as he slid a plate of steaming fish and chips in front of her. “This was definitely a better choice than the salad.”

Too late, she glanced at his plate. Whoops. Cranberry turkey salad.

“Don’t worry, I’ll save you a bite,” he said, digging in.

“I can’t say the same,” she said as she dunked a crispy fry in deliciously rich tartar sauce. “How bad do you think this is for me?”

“On a scale between spinach and deep-fried hot dog, I’d say you’re on the heart attack end.”

“I’ll work it off tomorrow.”

“You exercise?” he asked without looking up from his plate.

“Only so I don’t get fat. You?”

“I run. It’s more of a hobby than a health thing.”

“Says the guy munching the romaine,” she said with a disdainful look at his plate. “And running is not a hobby.”

He looked up. “It is too.”

“No. It’s a method of exercise. Developed as a human flight mechanism, and not intended to be enjoyable.”

He laughed and shook his head. “So in your world of dating, there are a finite number of acceptable hobbies?”

“Only if one wants to get a second date.”

Mitchell heaped some of the salad on her plate, which she studiously ignored. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Oh? You had plans for me other than lame pickup lines?”

“I think what I didn’t expect was that you would have plans for me.”