Page 43 of Love's a Script
“It’s been good,” Ruben said, searching for something substantive to say, but landing on, “Really good. I’m gaining a lot of insight… And I went on my third date over the weekend.”
“Third! There’s a real connection, then,” Hugh said.
“Oh, I mean it was a first date with the third woman I’ve been matched with.”
“Okay,” Hugh said slowly. “So no ringing endorsement yet.”
“It’s a process,” Ruben replied. His date with the dermatologist was the best he’d had with a match yet. She was interesting, smart, and beautiful. They had fun. So why hadn’t he set up a second date with her? A part of him worried it was because of the meeting with Mary at the start of the week. It had been a brief interaction, but the brilliance of it had yet to dim.
He’d not planned on bringing up the kiss or for their words to turn flirty. He’d told himself that the awkwardness was all right, that only politeness needed to exist between them, but it had suddenly become imperative he see one of her genuine smiles with the eye crinkles. Mesmerized by her beauty, by the decadent shade of her skin in the daylight, he’d longed to caress her wind-chilled cheek, to tilt her head back so that their parted lips would easily meld. Hours of lustful thoughts indeed. But that was all it was, thoughts. Nothing more would come from them because Mary was right, there was no reason for them to see each other again.
As Hugh continued to dole out feedback and encouragement about the developing feature, a commotion in the office carried into the conference room.
“Holy shit!” someone shouted, and it was a herding call for anyone within hearing shot. News had broken.
Ruben’s phone was out before he even turned to vacate the conference room with Hugh and Chesa right along with him. He searched the push notifications and alerts filling his screen for the one that had caused the reaction.
“Goddamn,” he said when he found it.
“Mayor’s Fiancée Already Steppin’ Out?” read the headline with an accompanying candid photo, taken from a distance, of Jennifer Acres kissing a man much taller than the mayor in the back alley of a Chinatown restaurant.
On the open office floor, some of the All Intents and Purposes team huddled around laptops, while others were glued to their phones. “When was the picture taken?” one staff writer asked. “This could’ve been at any point.”
“Recently,” answered another. “You can see her engagement ring.”
Hugh chuckled, rubbing his hands together. “What is politics without the occasional cheating scandal?”
“Maybe they have an arrangement. Like an open relationship,” Chesa said.
“Or,” Ruben said, “it’s like I’ve been saying from the beginning, the timing of their engagement was oddly convenient, and the relationship was always just a ploy to distract from the auditor’s report.”
More theories were offered up for the group to consider, and when the show’s editor interrupted, saying, “Guys, Jennifer Acres just posted on social media,” it sent the office into another frenzy, searching for her account then dissecting the messaging:
“Is she quoting the Bible?”
“I think it’s Rascal Flatts lyrics.”
Meanwhile, Ruben’s phone buzzed with the arrival of a text, and a wide, immediate smile appeared on his face seeing Mary’s name.
The Hearts Collide office was abuzz over the news of the mayor’s personal drama. Not so much because of the political implications, but because, as matchmakers, they didn’t like seeing another agency embroiled in drama.
“It makes us all look bad,” said Francine. All the matchmakers were gathered in the break room, their half-eaten salads and wraps forgotten. “If they couldn’t properly vet candidates for a high-profile client, why should regular clients trust them?”
“That agency needs to make a statement,” said one of the Twins.
Eden laughed. “And say what? ‘We condemn cheats, knaves, and crooks’?”
Mary hadn’t contributed much to the conversation—mostly noncommittal nods—preoccupied instead with the text she’d sent Ruben thirty minutes ago.
It was an impulsive, regretful move. But when she read the headline breaking the news about the mayor, her first thought was of Ruben. Had he heard? What did he think? He must feel vindicated for doubting the relationship’s stability from the start. She’d taken a screenshot of the article and sent it to Ruben with a series of surprised-face emojis. Seconds after pressing the send button, she wished for a redo. And every minute that passed without a response was a practice in humility. Of course he’d heard the news. It was what he did for a living.
She shoved her phone into her purse for the rest of the afternoon. Work was the perfect distraction, and so was grocery shopping in the evening and cooking a one-pot meal while the TV played in her living room. She’d almost forgotten about the text until her cell phone rang. At first, she thought the sound was coming from the playing commercial, but it persisted. She nearly dropped the phone when she saw it was Ruben calling.
Why the hell would he do that? She wasn’t going to pick up. Who called when a text would suffice? She continued to watch her phone ring before suddenly answering it.
“Have you heard of Sprout, the vegetarian restaurant?” Ruben asked without a greeting, like they were mid-conversation. His familiar, blasé tone dashed away any of her misgivings about taking the call.
“No, I don’t think so,” she said, turning down the heat on the stove before leaning against her kitchen counter. “Why?”
