Page 45 of The Romantic Agenda

“Well... have you ever fake dated someone before?” She places her forearms on the counter, leaning over to be closer to him. He doesn’t back away.

“No.”

“Then why can’t it be?”

Joy only knows how to give one hundred percent of herself. Once she took a pottery class, and surprise, surprise, she became obsessed with it. Within a few months she began selling her creations because they were good. Initially, working at Red Warren was supposed to be temporary. A stopgap job that paid substantially more than what she was making at the time until she figured out what she really wanted to do post-college. And yet she ended up devoting her entire existence to ensuring Malcolm’s business was a success by taking classes and training courses, and learning everything she could about business to help him. She wouldn’t know how to half-ass something even if she got paid to figure it out.

She continues, “I’m all in if you are. We get to make as many rules of engagement as we want. One of mine is I’d like to get to know you. The man behind the grump.”

“I’m not grumpy.”

“Oh yes, you are.”

His face scrunches in disagreement. “Grumpy feels like a toddler who needs a nap.”

“Or a pair of old men who’ve been neighbors too long,” she says, referencing the movie. “Hmm. Yes.” She begins to laugh, a deep and mischievous chuckle that refuses to be held back. “You’re much closer to that because you’re a Silver Fox.”

“No.”

“Oh my god.Oh my god.”

“Do not call me that. I mean it.”

“But why?” She’s trying, but she can’t stop laughing. “You’re beautiful. It’s perfect. Not just anyone can be a Silver Fox. It’s an extremely specific and dignified category.”

“What?”

Joy’s laughter begins to fade when she looks at his face. It’s like she shocked the last remnants of sleep out of him. He’s sitting straight up, alert and completely focused on her. His eyes bore into her like she has a secret and they’re about to dig it out. “What?”

“You just—you just called me beautiful.”

“Oh. Well. Um.” Joy clears her throat. “Yeah. I mean, you’re good-looking. Objectively speaking.” She gestures toward him. “Your face and stuff. For an older gentleman.”

“I’m not old.” He bristles.

“We all are,” she says seriously. “It’s fine. Getting old is mostly great. I might change my mind once my knees give out on me, though.”

“I’m not old,” he insists. “I just have gray hair. It’s genetic.”

“Clearly that’s a touchy subject for you so I will drop it.”

Fox runs his hands through his hair, pushing the longer pieces back from his face. It’s a good head of hair, thick and layered witha slight curl. It looks better this way instead of that slicked back thing he tried to pull off yesterday. “I used to dye it for a while, but eh. My grays are gonna gray.”

“It suits you,” she says, meaning it. “Really brings out your eyes.”

He scoffs. “Thanks. I’ve almost made my peace with it.”

The electric kettle beeps. Joy heads back to the counter, placing a tea bag into a mug and pouring the water so it can steep. She sets the timer on the microwave and presses start.

“A timer? Really?”

“Time is relative. Trusting my brain’s version of five minutes will result in cold tea.” She opens the condiment cabinet. “Sugar? Honey? Non-dairy creamer?”

“I’ll do it,” he says, getting up. And then he’s standing behind her.

His skin is radiating heat again—he must be one of those scalding-hot-water-shower people because he feels even warmer than last night—and he smells nice. Aloe? Roses? She doesn’t want to sniff him, but he’s wearing something way too subtle to be cologne or aftershave. She asks, “Do you use lotion?”

“Yeah?”