“Mitchell?” She poked a finger against his chest when he didn’t respond. “Hello?”

He let out a sleepy snort, and Julie stiffened in surprise. He was asleep? She didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. Then his arm curled around her waist, pulling her closer, and Julie’s own eyelids began to droop.

Then Julie marked yet another first off her dating checklist: she fell asleep with a perfectly nice man on a quiet afternoon. Not because it was good material for her column. But simply because she wanted to.

Chapter Seven

Julie stared at the blinking cursor on her computer screen. Maybe wine would help. Or coffee. Or chocolate.

Or maybe a whole new freaking story idea.

She’d been at it for the better part of two hours, and the only thing she had to show for her efforts was a jumble of story notes that read like the diary of a distraught teenager.

He touched my back and lingered. What does that mean?

He kissed me. I almost swooned.

I kissed him back. Was it good for him?

He made me run. I think I liked it.

Then we went all the way. I definitely liked that.

She slammed her laptop shut.

Crap. It was all crap.

She and Mitchell had been seeing each other for a week now, and she didn’t have a clue what direction to take the story in. Julie had really thought that it would be coming together by now. That she’d have some zippy little opening line about how the quiet ones were the ones to watch out for, and then she’d launch into a description of the first date, the second date, the moment his lips had met hers, and how she’d known he was one of the good ones.

She hadn’t yet decided how much detail she’d go into on the more intimate moments. She’d take Mitchell’s name out, of course—the man deserved some privacy—but Julie hadn’t anticipated that she would want to keep it private for her own sake.

She’d tried explaining it to Riley, who’d snorted derisively. “Really? A suit from Wall Street can’t be that good in the sack.”

Oh, yes, he freaking could.

And that wasn’t the only thing that was bothering her. This undercover-girlfriend plan had been toeing the line of decent-human-beings-don’t-do-this from its very inception. Now that she was actually in the midst of the operation, she could barely look the man in the eye without wanting to grovel and apologize.

But she couldn’t call it off. Not yet. Not after Grace had overheard Kelli pitching a spin on the story to Camille. This was her story.

She just wished she could do it without dragging Mitchell into it.

Nothing was going as planned. She’d been expecting to merely tolerate him. She figured that as long as he didn’t violate anything on her “absolutely not” list, she’d be able to suffer through a month of playing the girlfriend. As expected, a man who knew his way around Wall Street didn’t have any major strikes against him. He wasn’t cruel to animals, women, or old people; he didn’t chew with his mouth open; and he didn’t use the word babe. There was nothing not to like.

She just wished she didn’t like like him. Wished he didn’t make her laugh when she wasn’t expecting it. She liked the bizarre joy on his face in the middle of a run (although she still didn’t understand that one). Liked the fact that he stripped out of his suit and put on jeans and a T-shirt as soon as he was done with his workday. Liked that sometimes he let her strip off his suit.

She liked the way he kissed. Liked the way he did other things. Really liked that part.

However, none of that did squat for her story. The entire point of this little charade was to track the progress of dating to something more. Trouble was, it was turning out to be pretty freaking hard to see the forest for the trees when you were in the middle of the damned forest.

Maybe it would all come together if she just kept at it.

Or not.

Julie set her computer aside and wandered over to the fridge. Nothing. Well, there was nonfat yogurt, but what good was yogurt against a story that wouldn’t write itself and a man she couldn’t figure out? It didn’t even have fruit on the bottom.

She tapped her fingers and glanced around her apartment. Her eyes fell on the hot romantic suspense novel on the coffee table. She was halfway through. She should finish it. Except . . . she wasn’t in the mood.

She glanced at the TV. She could catch up on her shows. It had been weeks, and there was bound to be something good. Nope. Not in the mood for that either.

A walk? Nah.

The gym? Hell, no.

Nap? Not tired.

She could call the girls, but Riley was in Florida visiting her parents, and Grace and Greg were staying with friends in the Hamptons for the weekend.

Come on, Greene, it’s not like you don’t have a million errands you could run or a dozen friends to catch up with.

Julie slumped against the refrigerator door and faced the truth. She wanted to see Mitchell. Not to enhance her story notes, not to study him, not to analyze anything. She just missed him.

She growled and began prowling around her kitchen. This was so not how it was supposed to happen. She was supposed to be cool, removed, observant, not panting for his phone call and itching for his company.

And you just saw him last night, her single-girl self complained. One Italian meal should be more than enough to tide you over for the weekend at this stage in the relationship.

Julie froze. There was that word again. Relationship.

Her cellphone rang from where it was charging on her nightstand, and she nearly broke the sound barrier diving for it.

She glanced at the incoming number and felt a goofy grin spread over her face.

It was him.

She picked up the phone and took a deep breath. Play it cool, play it cool. Pretend you’re busy doing something other than wasting oxygen.

“Hi!” She rolled her eyes at her overexcited tone. Well done, Greene. Real cool.

He gave a low, surprised laugh. “Were you expecting someone else? I don’t think anyone’s ever been that happy to get a phone call from me.”

“I mean . . . I was waiting for the doctor to call, so I’m a little keyed up, but nice to hear from you too.”

She smacked a hand over her face and she closed her eyes in despair. Who the hell gets that excited for a call from a doctor?

“Who the hell gets that excited for a call from the doctor?”

Her eyes popped open. There. That was something she could add to her article. Sign that things are moving along: you think in identical sentences.

“Yeah, well . . . I’m awaiting some important results.”

“On a Saturday? Is everything okay?”

“Oh, yah, just a routine test,” she lied. There was no test at all. She wasn’t even due for a routine doctor’s appointment for months. Julie glared at herself in the mirror in horror. Shut up already.

“So whatcha up to?” she asked, praying he’d just let the inappropriate and vaguely disturbing doctor reference slide.

“Not much, just got back from a run.” He paused. “I missed you.”

Julie tried unsuccessfully to stifle the warm rush of pleasure at his words. She’d opted not to join him on the run this morning, mostly because she thought she should keep things moving slowly. Also because her hamstrings still hadn’t recovered from last week’s death jog.

“Do you have plans tonight?” he asked.

Tell him you’re busy. It’s too soon to be seeing each other every night of the week. Tell him—

“Nope, no plans.” Idiot.

“How do you feel about the opera?”

Julie’s mind went completely blank. How did anyone under the age of sixty feel about the opera? Completely and utterly underwhelmed, that’s how.

“Never been.”

“Want to change that?’

Not particularly.

But if it meant a couple of hours sitting next to Mitchell?

She flopped back on her bed, in the best mood she’d been in all day. “So, Wall Street, what exactly would a woman like myself wear to the opera?”

* * *

Julie had been in the opera house before. Rich, fancy people loved themselves some Met.

But being at the opera house to watch an actual opera? Different story. For starters, opera was kind of nightmarish. Mitchell had warned her that it was an acquired taste, but he hadn’t warned her of the shock of it.