He gave a wan smile. “It wasn’t.”

And then she melted just a little, because damned if Mitchell Forbes didn’t have the sweetest little dimples in each cheek. It softened his otherwise buttoned-up appearance.

Although, to be fair, he was a good deal more interesting up close than he’d been from across the room. Sure, the pinstripes were on the wrong side of dowdy, but the suit itself was tailored perfectly to surprisingly broad shoulders. He was just a touch too muscled to be wiry. There was an energy about him, as though he always wanted to be moving and it was only through rigid self-restraint that he managed to remain still.

The glasses, too, were a pleasant surprise. Julie was surprised to see that the eyes behind the thin-rimmed rectangular frames were deep blue. With his dark hair, she would have assumed he’d have brown eyes, but these were a startling navy.

Well, whaddaya know. He’s kind of cute.

By this time, there was just one person in front of them in line at the bar, and Julie acted on a whim. “Hey, do you want to get out of here?”

He blinked in surprise. “You don’t even know my name.”

Oh, honey, you only wish I didn’t.

“So tell me then,” she said coyly, playing dumb and linking her arm through his.

For a second she thought she caught something that looked like disdain flicker behind his glasses, but the expression passed and he gave a slow smile. “Mitchell Forbes.”

“Mitchell? Not Mitch?”

“No. Not Mitch.”

Of course not. Nicknames are soooo plebian.

“I’m Julie Greene.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

She wasn’t surprised. Half the people at the fund-raiser knew who she was. Julie paused, bringing them both to a stop. “You know, Mitchell Forbes, for someone who knows my name and sought me out of the crowd to buy me a free drink, you certainly don’t seem all that interested in conversation.” Or being charming.

He flushed slightly and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. It’s been a while since I’ve done this.”

“Talking?”

His dimples flickered. “Talking to women. I just came out of a two-year relationship. My flirtation skills are rusty.”

“Lucky for you, mine are not.”

“I can see that.”

Julie’s brow furrowed. She was used to men who were more . . . well, admiring. And despite the fact that he’d found her across a crowded room, he didn’t seem all that enamored. It had been a while since she’d dealt with a man who wasn’t nearly as well versed in the dating game as she was.

Say the right things, damn it, she silently ordered him.

She tried again to strike the right chord. “We don’t have to leave if you’re not ready. There’s an exhibit on the fifth floor that I absolutely love.”

His lip gave the tiniest curl of horror. No surprise there. She’d yet to meet a man who could tolerate modern art for more than thirty minutes.

“Actually, I’m sort of over the crowds and I haven’t eaten yet,” he replied. “Can I put the drink money toward buying you dinner?”

Finally.

“I’d love that.” She curled her fingers just slightly around the forearm she was still touching, but he merely pulled his arm away.

She almost laughed. They were like two kids pushed together by the prom chaperones with absolutely no feel for each other. Always a step out of sync.

Neither spoke as they fetched her coat and headed out the door.

“You like Guinness?” he asked gruffly as they walked into the late spring air.

“Love it,” she lied. She wasn’t really a beer girl unless she was on a boat in a bikini on the hottest days of summer. But she knew how this worked. Playing the high-maintenance card this early in the game would never get her a second date.

And it certainly wouldn’t get her that story.

Mitchell led her to a small Irish bar that she’d never heard of and opened the door for her.

“Thanks,” she murmured. He put his hand on the small of her back to guide her inside, and Julie froze.

Uh-oh. She’d been wrong about them not having any chemistry. Very wrong. The brief brush of his fingers against her spine gave her immediate goose bumps, and Julie had to resist the urge to turn and run. Being attracted to Mitchell was not part of the plan, yet here she was, quivering and wanting to rub against him.

Mayday, mayday! I want to hump my story subject!

Mitchell snatched his hand back too quickly, rapping it on the door jamb, and Julie felt a small measure of relief. At least he’d felt it too.

“So what do you do, Mitchell?” Julie asked, hoping to defuse the sudden shock of awkwardness as they settled at a cozy table in the corner

“Wall Street,” he said as though it needed no further explanation. And really, it didn’t. In Manhattan, you were either on Wall Street or not on Wall Street. If you were in the “not” category, you didn’t have the faintest idea what the hell happened down there, and you didn’t really care.

Or at least Julie didn’t care. Except this time she had to pretend that the topic didn’t bore her to death. If she was going to survive a month with this dud, she at least needed to be able to speak his language.

“How interesting,” she said, leaning forward slightly and casting her eyes up. “What’s that like?”

To her surprise, Mitchell snorted and sat back in his chair, watching her with a faintly incredulous look. “Does that usually work for you?”

Julie jolted out of her fluttering routine, blinking in confusion. “Does what work?”

He waved a dismissive hand over her. “This whole thing. The eyelashes and the cooing and the false interest.”

Julie sat back sharply in surprise, feeling stung. “Who says it’s false?”

He braced his forearms on the table as his eyes bored into hers.

Abruptly Julie realized her mistake. Mitchell Forbes might look harmless, but he was definitely not to be trifled with. She’d played her cards all wrong.

“Of course it’s false,” he said slowly. “You can’t honestly tell me you give a crap what I do from nine to five all day.”

“I care,” she peeped softly.

“I’m sure. Do you even know where Wall Street is?”

Shit. “Um . . . downtown?”

He gave her a small smile that let her know he knew it was a lucky guess. “You hungry?”

“Gee, I don’t know. Whatever I say might be fake.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry for rushing your game,” he said, not sounding sorry at all as he grabbed a couple of menus from the corner of the bar. “I’ll just be quiet for a few while you try to decide whether or not I want you to be hungry. In the meantime you can ask any questions you want.”

Julie’s surprised embarrassment at her transparency was giving way to anger. Nobody had ever talked to her this way before. And if anyone else had seen through her, they’d certainly never called her out.

“Okay, fine,” she snapped, snatching the menu out of his hand. “Where are you from?”

“Around here.”

She gave him a look over the top of the menu. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible after that ‘free drink’ dud, but your sad attempts at humor are actually going downhill.”

The dimples again. “There, now that’s what I’m talking about. Give me something real.”

“Something real?” she asked, gazing at the menu. “How about this . . . what I would usually order, and what I really should order, is this boring-sounding cranberry turkey salad. But what I really want is the fish and chips. I’m going with the latter. Just for you.”

She gave him a patently false grin.

He shrugged, not looking at all impressed by her foray into fried foods. “It’s a start.”

“I’m just trying to get to know you,” she snapped, losing patience. Just play along!

“Fine,” he said smoothly, leaning back and studying her. “I’ll be thirty-five on November eighth, my mother was a high school math teacher, my father was also on Wall Street, and yes, I did follow in his footsteps. I’m a middle child, with an older brother and younger sister. I’ve never done drugs, I love red wine. I ran the New York Marathon last year. Reading is my favorite hobby. And I like vanilla ice cream.”