That he wasn’t turning into his father, stuck on a one-way street toward a McMansion in a gated community in the Connecticut suburbs just because it was expected.

“Let’s say I do this,” Mitchell said slowly. “How will we determine who wins?”

Colin’s eyes widened in surprise, but he recovered quickly, all but rubbing his hands together. Colin was one of those fools who fumbled his way through the routine aspects of life just waiting for a hiccup to add some excitement.

Apparently Mitchell was to be his next hiccup.

“Well,” Colin said, scrunching up his face, “it’ll be tricky. We need tangible, physical proof.”

Mitchell rolled his eyes. “What do you want me to do, steal her thong?”

Colin winced. “Jesus, no. And that wouldn’t do any good anyway. You could simply pick up a hooker and be done with it. The bet is that you actually date the woman. You just get out of it before you start ring shopping.”

Again with the surge of irritation. “You act like I get engaged to every woman I kiss.”

“No, I’m just saying that you plan to get engaged to every woman you kiss. You need to have a relationship that won’t end with you guys picking out wallpaper.”

“So should I just hire a robot? All women want to pick out wallpaper. It’s what they do.”

Colin shook his head. “You’re even worse off than I thought. How about this—we find a woman in this very building to be our test subject. You woo her with your hefty paycheck and preppy looks. Then you take her on at least five dates. What you do on those dates is up to you. But you can’t get attached.”

“And how do we gauge that?”

Colin thought for a second. “How about at Rob’s annual end-of-the-summer picnic, where dates are all but mandatory, you bring a different woman. Thus proving you were able to let our test subject go.”

Mitchell stared at him. “How’d you make it past the third grade? That’s the most ridiculous idea since the creation of reality TV.”

Colin shrugged. “Half my season tickets says you can’t do it. That you can’t see this woman for five consecutive dates and then call it off. I absolutely guarantee you’ll find a way to convince yourself that she’s the one and bring her to the picnic.”

Every fiber of his being rebelled at the idea. And yet . . .

“You’re on.”

Colin’s eyes bugged. “You’re doing this?”

“I just said I was.”

“Hold on, then—what do I get if you lose?”

“You’re just thinking about that now?”

“Well, I didn’t think you were going to accept,” Colin said with the innocence of the perpetually shortsighted.

“Okay, fine. What do you want? Money? A trip to Vegas?”

“Your office.”

Mitchell stared at him. “What do you mean, my office?”

“I want to trade offices.”

“Why? They’re exactly the same. Same size, same floor . . .”

Colin shook his head. “You can see the Statue of Liberty from yours. I have that building in my way.”

“Trust me, the statue is a tiny little dot from my office. Why don’t you just take the ferry if you want to see it?”

But Colin had a stubborn set to his mouth, and Mitchell relented. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about the view from his office. Not that it mattered one way or the other—Mitchell had no intention of losing.

“Okay, fine,” Mitchell said. “I date a girl and dump her, I get Yankee tickets. If I lose my mind and try to shackle her to my side forever and ever, you get my office.”

Colin extended a hand, looking ridiculously excited. “Don’t forget—if you win, you get the tickets and your balls back.”

Yeah. There’s that.

“I still have no idea why you’re doing this. My office isn’t that great.”

Colin shrugged. “What can I say? I’m easily bored.”

No argument there. “So who’s the lucky lady?”

Colin held up a finger and chomped on the ice from his drink. “I’ve already got this figured out.” He pointed across the room.

Mitchell followed his gesture. “Grace Brighton? Isn’t she dating Greg?”

He felt a little surge of excitement. He’d never hit on a taken woman, but if Grace and Greg had broken up, that was another thing. He’d always liked Grace. She was lovely, refined. . . . Mitchell frowned. And not at all fling material. Maybe Colin was playing hardball—fixing him up with a woman who had the same long-term relationship goals as himself.

“No, not Grace, moron. Julie. In the pink dress.”

Mitchell’s gaze raked over the unfamiliar blonde. “Who is she?”

“Julie Greene? One of the Stiletto girls?”

“Stiletto? As in the shoe?”

“God, you need to get out more. Not the shoe. The magazine. Julie Greene, Grace Brighton, and Riley McKenna are practically the faces of the publication. The society pages call them Dating, Love, and Sex. Privately, I think of them as Kiss, Cuddle, and Fuck.”

Mitchell winced. “You’re disgusting.”

“True. But this girl is still perfect for our purposes. Julie lives for carefree dating. She’s got a different guy every other week. I know a couple of her exes, and neither has said a bad word about her other than that she kicked them to the curb after a few dates. No drama, no expectation of jewelry . . .”

Mitchell looked at her more closely. She was attractive in a predictable, manufactured sort of way. She looked like California chic had collided with East Coast reserve and gotten it all wrong. Her pink dress fell respectably to her knees, but clung just a touch too tightly in the hips to be subtle. And her hair was a mess of light brown and yellow streaks. He hated hair like that. Women should either stick with their natural color (which was probably mouse brown in Ms. Greene’s case) or dye it and embrace their bottle-blonde status. Those colored strips—what did women call them? Highlights—were just so damned obvious.

Julie threw back her head and laughed, not caring that several people turned and stared. Mitchell’s lips tightened with disapproval. No subtlety. Not his type at all.

Which meant there was no danger of him getting too involved.

He handed Colin his glass and adjusted his glasses slightly, resisting the urge to smile. The bet was too easy—and he could practically taste the beer at Yankee Stadium.

Chapter Four

Julie was ready to approach Mitchell Forbes.

Totally ready.

Excited, even.

She just needed to make a wee detour first.

To the bar.

“Never underestimate the power of liquid courage,” she said as she shooed Grace away.

“Why can’t I watch?” Grace whined.

“I never do my best work with an audience,” Julie said loftily.

“Since when? You love an audience.”

Julie pursed her lips. Not right now I don’t. Julie didn’t have the faintest clue about her next step. She usually went with her gut, and in this case nothing felt right. Her standard flirtatious approaches seemed too forward. A man like Mitchell Forbes would need coaxing and finesse, not cle**age and fluttering eyelashes.

When Grace had reluctantly wandered away after giving her strict instructions to call and spill once she’d talked to Mitchell, Julie got in line at the bar. Hmm, martini or wine, martini or wine, martini or—

“May I buy you a drink?”

Julie tore her eyes away from the tray of olives three people in front of her and spun toward the unfamiliar voice.

“I—oh!”

As in Oh, shit.

Maybe approaching Mitchell Forbes wouldn’t be such a challenge after all.

He’d already found her.

“The drinks are free,” she blurted out.

He looked away. “I know. It was meant to be a joke.”

Julie blanched. A joke? That had been a joke? No way could she suffer through a pseudo-relationship with this guy. He had the sense of humor of a pretzel. Still . . .

“Oh! Funny,” she said with a wide grin and a bright laugh.