My jaw dropped. "Pleasetell me you're joking."
"I could say it," he said, "but it wouldn’t be true."
"So hereallywas?" I shook my head. "But wait, how couldyoufire him? He doesn't even work for you."
"It doesn't matter," he said. "The guy's gone."
Desperately, I wanted to know more.AndI wanted to forget everything I knew.Talk about mental whiplash.
Trying to focus, I said, "Okay, so you didallof these things? Inthirty-fiveminutes? Seriously?"
Jack nodded. "Plus five minutes to get the shirt. So there you go. There's your forty."
Stunned, I sat back in my seat.What could I say to that?
I hardly knew.
Still, there was something he hadn't yet explained. "So about that shirt," I said. "I don't want to sound ungrateful, but why'd you pickthatone?" I tried to smile. "Be honest. Youwantedto make me look ridiculous."
Again, he leaned back in his chair. "Right…The Shirt of Shame." He gave a slow nod. "I might have to use that in a book."
I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, but knowing his plots, I could almost see it. Still, Ihadto know. "So was it?" I made little air quotes. "A Shirt of Shame?"
"No," he said. "It was a shirt of convenience."
"What do you mean?"
"By then, I'm running low on time, and there's this vendor going by, late to set up. And he's selling costumes for participants or whoever."
I almost laughed. "And I suppose he was sellingonlyridiculous costumes? There was nothing cute or fun?"
"Hey,Ithought the jester one was fun."
"Fun for you," I accused with a laugh. "Not for me."
"Hey, it was the only two-piece costume he had. The rest were one-piece only."
"So?"
"So I was supposed to bring you a shirt, not a whole outfit."
"What kind of outfit?" I said. "Give me an example."
"My favorite? A serving wench." His gaze dipped briefly to my torso, and he smiled. "Low cut. Not good for the signing though."
I almost snickered. "Oh, really?"
His tone grew speculative. "But if you wanted to wear that in private…" He finished with a shrug and let his look speak for itself.
Holy hell.He was definitely flirting with me. And he wasn't being subtle about it either. Beyond flattered, I just had to ask, "What's gotten into you, anyway?"
"The truth? I'm tired of fighting it."
"Fighting what?"
"You don't know?"
"No. Actually, I don't," I admitted. "Honestly, I wasn't even sure you liked me."
