The What If Guy Read online

  I whip out my phone and flip to a shot of the curly-haired towhead who’s the love of my life. Amelia is climbing a jungle gym in Central Park in this one.

  “She’s gorgeous, and she looks brilliant. Tell me three things about her,” Bryn says.

  “Only three?”

  “You can share more if you’d like, but I figured three is a good start.”

  I grin, because when will I not go on and on about my offspring? “Amelia is not only the cutest kid in the world, but she’s wildly creative and loves animals.”

  “Those are three very good things, but . . .” She trails off like she has a secret up her sleeve.

  “But what?”

  She smiles. “I happen to know a fourth thing.”

  I concentrate, trying to recall what she might know about my kid. Then it hits me. “Right, she likes Snoopy. Of course you know that.”

  “Ooh, I know five things now.”

  My brow knits. “Okay, serve it up. What’s the fifth thing?”

  Bryn holds up her pinky. “She has her daddy wrapped around her little finger.”

  I laugh, a faint heat spreading across my cheeks. I shrug. “True that.”

  A bell chimes from her computer.

  “I have a call,” she says apologetically. “In five minutes.”

  I look to the clock, running my hands along my pants. “Of course. I’ve kept you too long anyway. This has been a good . . . meeting.”

  “Yes, a very good meeting. One of the better ones.”

  “Definitely,” I say warmly, and then cool reality drapes over me again. This isn’t happening. We can’t happen. “Hey, Bryn. About Friday night—I will miss it immensely.”

  She smiles sadly. “Me too. I will definitely miss our date.”

  Yet it feels like we just had one.

  This past hour in her office—from the getting to know you, to the sexy talk, to the family conversation—it’s unfolded exactly like our second date would have. It had all the ingredients, plus extra—it left me wanting a third.

  14

  Bruce

  Day 892 in Prison

  * * *

  Yet another day.

  He feared he was losing track of them.

  That soon he would succumb to the madness that eventually consumed most house cats.

  Liking their humans.

  He sensed it happening already, could tell he’d been softening. Food and companionship were—it pained him to admit—making him weak. Making him actually enjoy human company.

  He had to stay strong. Had to be ready when the cat revolution arose someday. Had to be ready for freedom.

  But there were beds in his prison, soft, comfy beds perfect for his body. And there was food. And patches of sunlight. Not to mention drugs. She’d hooked him on the good stuff—the best catnip he’d ever had.

  No matter.

  He had to resist.

  He arched his back, stretching his lithe body, then reached for the arm of the couch, to mark the time. His reminder of how long he’d been trapped inside these four walls with this person who smelled better than a person ought to smell.

  “No!” the woman shrieked. “Don’t scratch the couch, my love. Use the scratching post . . . darling.”

  She always spoke to him this way. Adding some strange little sweetness to her voice at the end, as if that would get him to fall for her.

  He’d heard of those tricks.

  And dammit, it was working.

  He was falling for his captor.

  Such weakness was unacceptable.

  He was not the kind of a cat who just . . . gave in.

  Who enjoyed humans.

  What would the other cats think? If they knew he’d allowed her to stroke his fur, to scratch his chin, to touch his belly? If they knew he’d once gone an entire week without eating a houseplant? Or worse—why.

  He hadn’t wanted to upset her by vomiting it up.

  He’d refrained. To make her . . . happy.

  For so long, he’d tried to deny the lure of the human. But that was getting harder, especially as she bent down next to him, scooped him up, and carried him to the scratching post. Trouble was, she was so warm and so kind.

  “Use this, my love. I got it for you.”

  He scratched the post, notating the day in his cell, but then, as she stroked him, he feared he’d already forgotten how long it had been. Her touch was strangely enjoyable.

  Against his will, he felt a rumble in his throat.

  What was that?

  A purr? Dear God, he was purring. For his jailer. This was so wrong on so many levels, yet when she carried him to a plush bed in a ray of sun, he flopped onto his back and accepted her attention.

  “Oh, you look so handsome like that.”

  State the obvious, much?

  Of course he looked handsome. That was his J-O-B.

  “Your stripes look fabulous. I should take a picture. I bet Logan would find it amusing.”

  She sighed, tapping her finger against her lips as she held the device above him.

  “I can’t send him a cat photo though. I mean, that would be wrong, right? Or would it be right? Maybe cat photos are acceptable? It’s been almost a week in the same office with him.”

  He stared at her, daring her to take his picture, then did something thoroughly uncharacteristic. He stretched for her, posing just so.

  This was his best side.

  He would look good as he languidly gave her a view of his full, lush body.

  “Ah, look at you! It’s like you’re posing. And you look like a handsome devil. I’m going to send this right now. I’ll title it When your cat poses for the very first time. There. Sent.”

  She scratched his chin, and oh, dear Lord, that felt good. So good he might stop coughing up hairballs to irritate her. This was better than trying to taunt your captor. So much better.

  “Oh! Look. He replied already. And he sent us a picture of Queen LaTofu. Oh, and she is a stunner. Check her out.”

  She thrust the device at his face.

  Oh.

  Oh, yes.

  Meow indeed.

  Hello, lady cat.

  He flipped to his belly, stretched his arms over the edge of the cat bed, then crossed them. It was a charming pose. This lady cat would likely be quite taken with it.

  Surely he looked like an elegant, modern cat.

  The woman snapped another picture. “That is literally the best picture ever of you. He’ll love it. And this is what I’ll say: Logan, I’m not sure what’s come over Bruce today, but he seems to be posing. Perhaps your cat inspired him? There. I sent it.”

  A few seconds later, she clutched her device with excitement. “Ooh. He wrote back. He said, What if our cats are secretly communicating with each other through some underground cat network that we know nothing about?”

  With another stroke of his fur, she spoke again. “Obviously. There is no other explanation.”

  15

  Bryn

  There is nothing wrong with texting my boss.

  There is nothing wrong with sharing cat photos.

  I repeat this mantra as I walk to work on Friday morning, one of those people. Yep. I’m the distracted walker. The ped-text-rian with her head bent over her phone, laughing, unable to tear her gaze away.

  As I stroll down my block, Logan and I continue to chat about cats.

  * * *

  Bryn: This might sound crazy, but have you ever thought of entering your cat in a cat photo contest?

  * * *

  Logan: Is that a thing?

  * * *

  Bryn: IS THAT A THING?

  * * *

  Logan: Did you just shout at me?

  * * *

  Bryn: I did, and you deserve it.

  * * *

  Logan: Why do I deserve it?

  * * *

  Bryn: Because how do you not know that cat photo contests are a thing? Everything is a thing.

  * * *

  Logan
: That is true. That is absolutely true. But should everything be a thing?

  * * *

  Bryn: Now you’re going all philosophical. Were you a philosophy major?

  * * *

  Logan: Shockingly, I was not. I studied political science.

  * * *

  Bryn: And you went into business?

  * * *

  Logan: Yes. I think it’s much better than politics.

  * * *

  Bryn: You’re not wrong. How did you make that transition?

  * * *

  Logan: I realized quickly that politics leads to misery pretty much every way you slice it. So I went to business school and earned my MBA. That’s how I eventually devised my Theory of Feline/Political Synergistic Interdependence.

  * * *

  Bryn: Explain, please.

  * * *

  Logan: My Twitter feed is the best example of the principle at work. I follow politics, which makes me angry, and cat memes, which make me happy again.

  * * *

  Bryn: That makes complete sense. And yet you were woefully unaware of the existence of cat photo contests.

  * * *

  Logan: But now I’ve been educated. And watch out, world—from paintball to cat photo contests, here I come.

  * * *

  Bryn: Okay. I’ll bite. You play paintball?

  * * *

  Logan: I do. My friends and I are in a league. It’s fun, and we have a blast.

  * * *

  Bryn: That’s kind of adorable. The same friends you and your sister play softball with?

  * * *

  Logan: Good memory! My sister won’t do paintball with us, since she says we’re too “caveman,” but she is our secret weapon on the softball team. She hits homers for days.

  * * *

  Bryn: Woman power! I love her already! And that’s cool that you play so many fun sports.

  * * *

  Logan: We’re kind of into amateur sports leagues, but we try to mix it up. Some years it’s paintball, sometimes kickball, sometimes dodgeball. We do it for fun and to raise money for charity.

  * * *

  Bryn: Which charities?

  * * *

  Logan: Usually animal rescues or pediatric cancer. My friend’s sister died of cancer when he was in high school.

  * * *

  Bryn: I’m so sorry to hear that. That’s great that you use your free time to try to raise money.

  * * *

  Logan: Thanks. We try. But back to cat photo contests. Should Queen LT enter this one? It’s to raise money for a local cat rescue.

  * * *

  He sends a link to pinup cats. I laugh as I cross the busy street.

  * * *

  Bryn: I know that one! The gal who runs that asked me for some help a year ago when she was developing the site and looking for partnerships. Yes, enter it. Also, that reminds me—I need to introduce you to Casey Sullivan about a potential partnership with Joy Delivered.

  * * *

  Logan: And you just segued to work.

  * * *

  Bryn: Impressive, isn’t it?

  * * *

  Logan: Indeed. Why don’t you swing by this afternoon and we can talk about it? I got the email you forwarded and would love to chat. How’s three?

  * * *

  Bryn: It’s a date.

  * * *

  Bryn: I mean, it’s an appointment.

  * * *

  Logan: See you at three for our “appointment.” :)

  * * *

  I close the phone, pop into the coffee shop for a latte, and bump into Isaac in line.

  “You look happy today, Bryn,” he says.

  His voice is warm, but I’m frozen. Chills wrap my body.

  Stuffing my phone in my purse like it contains state secrets, I try to answer, but I can’t form words. My skin prickles with my guilty conscience. Am I wearing the evidence of that text conversation all over my face?

  Yes.

  And I need to wipe it off. Right the fuck now.

  I conduct a full facial expression erase and draw on my store of grade A cool, composed lady boss. “It’s a sunny day, and the Yankees won last night. Ergo . . .” I give him a need I say more shrug and a stiff, too-perfect grin.

  “Indeed.” He chuckles, impossible to read. “Those are excellent reasons.” We shuffle closer to the counter. “So, how are you adjusting to the new ownership?”

  “It’s like nothing’s changed,” I say, all cheery and peppy.

  “Excellent. That’s what I like to hear.”

  I clear my throat. “So, how about that infield fly last night?”

  He’s a fan too, so we slide into baseball talk the rest of our time in line, and I spend the rest of my morning at the office setting that conversation behind me.

  Because there’s no reason I should feel squicky about talking to the HR director mere seconds after texting with the CEO.

  Who I’ve seen naked.

  That’s not awkward at all.

  Later that day, I remind myself that it’s not weird to be meeting with Logan.

  It’s not weird, and there was nothing inappropriate about our texts earlier. They weren’t risqué at all.

  They were fun. Light. Professional.

  And because I’m a professional, I want to make sure I look good before I see the boss.

  I leave my office five minutes before three and stop by the women’s room. I brush my teeth. Because coffee breath isn’t nice to inflict on anyone. I touch up my lip gloss, smacking my lips. Because I don’t want cracked or dry lips at a meeting. I consider my reflection. Maybe a tiny bit of powder on the nose. I don’t want to look shiny before I see the boss.

  I turn, considering the side view.

  Yes, this red sheath dress looks excellent and professional. “You’ve got this,” I tell my reflection.

  The door swings open. Teagan’s blue eyes sweep over my frame. “Ooh la la. Sexy lady boss is in the house.”

  I snap my gaze to her, a little indignant. “Who? I don’t see anyone fitting that description.”

  “Oh, please. Mirror, mirror, on the wall. Take a look.” She waves a hand breezily at my reflection.

  “Are you saying I don’t look professional?”

  She rolls her eyes as she saunters into a stall. “I’m saying you look professional and also hot. Like, if I were into girls, I’d have a lady boner for you,” she says as she pees.

  I groan. “You did not just say that.”

  “Pot. Kettle. You sent me that video of Stanley Tucci making a Negroni and said it gave you a lady boner.”

  “He has good arms!”

  “Exactly. All of the internet has a lady boner for him.”

  “Even the men?” I toss back.

  “If any man could elicit a lady boner from a dude, it’d be Stanley Tucci making a cocktail.”

  “He is sort of inexplicably hot,” I admit.

  She laughs before the toilet flushing briefly masks the sound. “Exactly. But does it need to be understandable to be sexy? I say no.” She pops out, heads to the sink, and turns on the water. “Speaking of unsolved mysteries, are you seeing the boss today?” She wiggles her brows.

  “Yes.” I meet her gaze in the mirror. Anticipation zips through me, chased by nerves. Is it obvious? “Why are you asking? Am I wearing a billboard that says I’m meeting the boss man?”

  She grins salaciously at my reflection. “The dress was a giveaway.”

  My hands fly to smooth the red sheath. “But this is professional. I picked it even before the meeting was arranged. And I’ve worn it to meet with content partners.”

  “And I bet you’d like to partner with his content,” she says.

  “You’re the worst.”

  She turns off the sink and heads to the air dryer. “All I’m saying is you’re a babe, and you look hella hot.”

  “Is this an inappropriate dress to meet with the CEO?”

  She smiles gently at me, shakes her head, an
d turns down her bawdy dial. “I didn’t mean to worry you, sweetie. I’m just giving you a hard time.”

  “That’s what she said,” I say, teasing her.

  She mimes banging a drum. “That’s the spirit. Anyway, you look professional, and you look good.” Her tone turns more serious. “How are you doing? You holding up?”

  I wave a hand, trying to dismiss the little I banged my boss bombshell. “It’s all good. No biggie. First date I enjoyed in ages, and he’s my boss. Life gets a little hard sometimes.”

  “It sucks, sweetie.”

  “Actually, it’s fine.” I draw a deep, fueling breath. “I mean, it’s not like I developed feelings for him in one night. That’d be ridiculous. Besides, we’re keeping it on the level. We’ve been good all week, and we even texted this morning.” I square my shoulders, like I’m proud of the boss and me for having a friendly conversation. “And it was non-sexual textual stuff.”