The What If Guy Read online

  Her eyes stay locked on me, an intensity in her pretty blues. “Is that what you want, Bryn?”

  “What I want is irrelevant. Yes, I’m disappointed that fate played a trick on me. But it’s probably for the best. He could be another Evan. I was pretty taken with Evan at first, and look what happened there.”

  Teagan’s face crinkles with disgust. “Another Evan? As in, a manipulative prick who whines about how you don’t give him enough time when you’re grieving the loss of your only parent, so he turns to other women for solace from your grief?”

  I plaster on a fake smile. “Yes. That. I find it best to avoid that.”

  Teagan’s eyes burn with hate for the man I was once married to. “Your ex was a one-of-a-kind douche.”

  “But I liked him when I first met him.”

  “Of course you did. That’s how it works.”

  “And that’s my point. It’s probably for the best that Mr. Lunch Box and I can’t be a thing.”

  She grabs my arm. “Evan was a special kind of shit. Most guys aren’t like that. Most people aren’t like that.”

  “Are you encouraging me to bang my boss again?” I whisper, a little shocked. For all her boldness, Teagan can be pretty by the book when it comes to workplace decorum.

  “I’m not saying, one way or the other. I think you’re being wise, and since you’re a woman, you have to be wise.”

  “Truer words,” I sigh.

  I don’t need to draw on Mama Hawthorne’s wisdom to know Teagan’s right. Dating the guy above you in the chain of command is always riskier for the fairer sex. Hell, dating at work at all usually turns out worse for the woman than the man. It’s a simple fact of life. I’d be the one to lose my job if this went south.

  “What I’m saying,” Teagan continues, “is simply this—don’t assume everyone is an Evan.”

  But it’s safer to assume that, I want to say.

  Only, it doesn’t matter what’s safer with Logan, because we can’t be a thing. I look at the time on my phone. “I should go meet with him.”

  She squeezes my arm. “You look like a boss. That’s all I meant by the lady-boss comment. You give off serious lady-boss vibes.”

  I hum approvingly then wiggle my hips. “That’s what I like to hear. See you in the editorial meeting in thirty minutes?”

  She gives me a thumbs-up. “See you then. I have to go gather the latest social media insights for that. And in the meantime, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “That doesn’t limit me much, does it?” I toss back with a wink.

  “Exactly.” She follows me out of the women’s room, heading back to her office.

  I turn the other way, smoothing a hand down my red dress, then rapping on Logan’s door. It’s open, and he calls me in.

  16

  Bryn

  I steel myself for the impact of his handsome face.

  His square jaw, his soulful eyes, his full lips. He’s standing by the window, the phone cradled to his ear.

  His hair is a delicious mess, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up at the cuffs, revealing his ropy forearms and the hint of ink on them. The whole combo makes him a candidate for an arm candy photo of the week.

  He holds up a finger, letting me know he’s almost done with his call. “Sure, sweetie. We can definitely get you a hula hoop. Yes, it sounds like a lot of fun. We can go tonight.” He takes a beat. “All right, Daddy loves you. See you in a couple of hours.”

  My stomach flips. Forget celebrity arms. I’m melting over the way he talks to his daughter.

  He sets the phone on his desk and shoots me a smile.

  “Was that Amelia?”

  “Nah, that was my dental hygienist.”

  I laugh. “Glad to hear you’re on good terms with her.”

  “Good relations for teeth are so important.”

  “And you have lovely teeth,” I say.

  “You have a great smile.” He flashes a grin my way, one of the quadruple-take variety. It sends sparks down the center of my body and makes a pulse beat between my legs.

  Must. Be. Professional.

  He gestures to the couch, and I sit. He takes a seat at the other end and slides into business mode. “Tell me more about this partnership with Joy Delivered and what you envision.”

  I startle, a touch surprised by the direction he’s taking this meeting. “Oh. I thought you’d just want me to debrief you on the pitch, and hand it over.”

  He shakes his head. “I debriefed myself and read the emails you sent. I want to know how you see it. What you think can come from the pair-up.” He leans back against the cushions, waiting for me to share my opinion.

  This is a surprise, but a welcome one. When Hadley was here, she handled the higher-level partnerships, and she didn’t ask for my input. Input I was dying to give.

  I square my shoulders and dive into all the reasons why I think a deal with Joy Delivered is a good idea.

  He tosses questions at me, and we brainstorm the best terms for each party. Finally, he nods thoughtfully and raises a finger. “Idea, Bryn. Why don’t you come with me? I’m hoping to set the meeting up for the week after next. We can both go see Casey and all put our heads together.”

  I try to rein in a massive grin, but inside I’m squealing with happiness. “I’m out of town, meeting with some content partners early that week, but I’d love to after Wednesday.”

  “Great. I’ll set it up.” He lowers his voice and glances around furtively, like he has a secret. “Thanks for the tips earlier today. Check this out.”

  He grabs his phone, shows me the link for the cat photo contest, and then tells me he entered it. He crosses his fingers. “Amelia will lose her mind if Queen LT wins. I know it’s a long shot, but I figured I’d try.”

  I rub my palms together, delighted. “Look at you! You’ve gone from not knowing this was a thing to participating in the thing. I’m impressed.”

  He shrugs, as if it’s all in a day’s work. “Like I said, I can be trained.”

  “I’ll be rooting for your pretty pet. By the way, did I hear Amelia is keen on hula hooping?”

  “Evidently, it’s her new passion. They did it in PE today. She loved it and wants to get one. My sister runs a fitness center, so I figured I’d see if she wants to go hula-hoop shopping with us tonight.”

  “How fun. My friend Amy teaches a hula-hooping class at a local gym.”

  “A class?” He blinks. “A hula-hooping class?”

  “I’m blowing your mind today, it seems. From cat photo contests to hula-hooping classes. Yes, both are things. And hula class is a blast. Amy is an editor at Bailey & Brooks,” I say, naming the publishing house. “I work with her on some content partnerships with her romance novels, and I go to her class twice a week. It’s great exercise.”

  “And it’s great for . . .” His eyes take a stroll up and down my body.

  His shameless gaze heats me up. Makes my skin tingle and my chest whoosh.

  His eyes glimmer as he stares, like he’s imagining new ways to touch me from head to toe.

  Then he shakes his head, as if he realized what he was doing.

  He drags a hand over his hair, swallowing. “Sorry.”

  “For what?” I ask, even though I know the answer. But I also liked his hungry eyes eating me up.

  “For looking at you like that.”

  “I didn’t mind,” I say in a whisper.

  “Yeah?” His voice is rough, husky.

  “I liked it,” I murmur.

  “I like looking at you. And you look stunning today. Very professional and ridiculously sexy.”

  My eyes drift down to his arms. “Same to you. Also, nice arm candy.”

  His head dips, and he smiles. “Thanks. I read your piece. ‘Mr. Smolder.’ That’s how you saw me?”

  “It was call you that or the Man I Want to Put Me on My Knees.”

  His nostrils flare. His eyes darken, and my body aches. “You’d look so damn good on your knees, B
ryn.”

  Pleasure bursts across my skin, but before we burn the office down, I stand, run a hand along my skirt, and point my thumb at the door. “On that note, I should go.”

  And quickly, before I do something I regret.

  My team claps when I enter the conference room five minutes later.

  I stop in my tracks. “I accept your adulation, but . . . why?”

  Matthew’s grin is supersize as he swivels his laptop around. I peer closer at the screen. Looks like my “Mr. Smolder” piece.

  “You’re clapping because you liked the article?” I ask, brow furrowed. “I mean, it was a good piece, but do I deserve cheers like a conquering hero?”

  Quentin tuts. “Bryn, have you looked at the response on social media?”

  “Not since this morning when we posted it. I’ve been working.” Nerves flutter in my belly—social media is the edge of a blade. Land on the wrong side of it, and you’re dead.

  Rosario does a dance in her chair. “The numbers are insane. And check out the comments. They’re a little bada bing.”

  Oh, dear.

  I have a sinking feeling about why my team is cheering.

  Why they’re happy.

  Check out the comments can only be good for the site.

  But bad for me. Because it means the audience wants more of my Mr. Smolder tale. And I’ll have to feed them, like a zookeeper tossing meat into the maw of a lion. Except I don’t have any rations to toss their way. I don’t have another date with Mr. Smolder to pull out of the feed bag.

  I sink into a chair, my stomach churning, my throat tightening. I look up at Teagan, help me written in my eyes.

  She’s all business as she rattles off shares, likes, retweets, and comments for “Mr. Smolder.” Most of all, comments. They’re positive, but curious. So damn curious. The site visitors want to know more, more, more.

  And when, when, when.

  My cheeks flame with every word I hear.

  * * *

  GuyOnAMission: Oh! This is everything I need to use the app. Gonna post about the woman who answered the door the other day in nothing but her towel. I was delivering packages, and I’m pretty sure she wanted to invite me in.

  * * *

  AlwaysDatingInNY: “Delivering packages”? Euphemism, much?

  * * *

  GuyOnAMission: Euphemism? No way. I wish! But guess what? I just signed up for Made Connections.

  * * *

  DatingSucksEverywhere: I hate dating, but this is like dating on steroids! Now I can try to find the cute brunette coming down the escalator at Whole Foods while I was on the up escalator. She had pumpkin spice latte–flavored beer. I was going to get pumpkin spice applesauce. Meant to be? Like you and Mr. Smolder.

  * * *

  AlwaysDatingInNY: Wow. Can you two come over for snack time with me?

  * * *

  QuirkyGuyInTheCity: I locked eyes with a woman across Love in the Time of Cholera at the indie bookstore the other day. Time to find her. Time to find her, win her, and read to her.

  * * *

  AlwaysDatingInNY: Brill idea, but hey, maybe try something more festive?

  * * *

  GuyOnAMission: Personally, I’d recommend Sophie Kinsella. Those Shopaholic books are so fun!

  * * *

  QuirkyGuyInTheCity: Thanks. When I need dating tips, I like to come to the comments section of a dating site.

  * * *

  AlwaysDatingInNY: Uh, yeah. That’s where you are. Good luck with your Cholera, man.

  * * *

  ReadyforLove: I want to meet my very own Mr. Smolder. Or a Mr. Steamy. Or Mr. McDreamy. And I saw all of them on the subway yesterday! Yay me! Signing up now! I’m going to find them!

  * * *

  DreamingofTheOne: A few days ago, I was walking through the park and I spotted a yoga class. This guy was doing the best downward-facing dog ever. And then he saw me. And he smiled and he slipped, and we laughed, and it was so cute. And now I’m going to find him thanks to this app.

  * * *

  AlwaysDatingInNY: Okay, enough about you. I want to hear more about Mr. Smolder. What’s next? He sounds perfect. When are you going to see this hunk again???

  * * *

  WantsMoreKissing: I see you gave the app five big smooches . . . but I want to hear what else is big! Do tell . . .

  * * *

  That’s only the tip of the comment iceberg. There are maybe ten million more.

  “Our site audience is eager to know when you’re going to do a follow-up story,” Teagan says, her tone even and balanced. “And, in my humble opinion, that’s something we should discuss privately.”

  The emphasis on the adverb is loud and clear.

  But no one seems to care.

  Matthew’s jaw drops. “Why? We discuss everything here. I write about the dates my boyfriend and I go on.”

  “Yes. And I told you all that I had a promising Tinder hookup,” Rosario points out.

  James points at Matthew’s screen, looking at me. “You did say you had another date with him, Bryn.”

  Quentin pins me with an inquisitive stare. “When is it? Your adoring fans want to know. I want to know.”

  Teagan cuts in again. “Guys, did it occur to you that maybe she’s waiting to hear back from Mr. Smolder? Maybe she needs to confirm plans with him?”

  Rosario growls, brandishing her claws. “He hasn’t texted you back? Where is he? I will cut him. I will cut Mr. Lunch Box.”

  Matthew slams a fist on the table. “I will give him words. Vitriolic words.”

  “He’s a douche-canoe jerk-face for not texting you back,” Quentin adds, piling on the whiplash shift in mood.

  And I feel like I’m about to hurl up a lunch of lies in front of my staff. I dig deep, call on my lady-boss nerves of steel, and do what I have to do, hating myself for saying, “I’ll let you know when I hear from him.”

  When the day ends, it can only be wine o’clock.

  Teagan and I hit our favorite spot, Tristan’s. I order a glass of chardonnay, then sink down, rest my face on the bar, and moan. “I’m a liar. I love our people. I love everyone at the site, and I lied to them.”

  “No. I did,” Teagan says.

  I roll my eyes, my stomach still tight. “You lied for me. I essentially lied too. We are wonder-twin power-liars, but it’s my fault.”

  “They don’t need to know the details. It’s personal.”

  “Yes, but our business is personal. And I want to do a good job. I want to be a good boss. And I’m the boss who’s lusting after her boss. How do I manage this? What do I do now?”

  She pets my hair. “You don’t have to do anything. You run the content. You’re in charge, and you have zero obligations to write anything more about Mr. Smolder, Mr. Lunch Box, or the new CEO. You can say nothing came of it. It’s close enough to the truth.”

  I stare at her from the level of the bar top. “I hate lies.”

  “I know you do. But for all intents and purposes, it is the truth.”

  And perhaps it is. Nothing more is coming of my date, no matter how much more I want.

  I spend the weekend seeing my friends, hunting garage sales outside the city, and daydreaming about my what-if guy.

  Because that’s all he’ll ever be, and all we’ll ever have is dreams and the memory of what could have been.

  17

  Logan

  Numbers don’t lie.

  They reveal all the truths, and this truth is that the audience wants another date. The advertisers want it too.

  The email in my inbox on Monday morning is like a trail of gumdrops, promising more ad deals if we keep delivering numbers not only like we did for the eye-contact piece, but for “Mr. Smolder” too.

  This is good, and this is bad.

  My stomach twists, and yet I also want to punch the air. I want the new acquisition to flourish, but I also don’t want to so much as skirt the edges of a scandal.

  “You okay, Daddy?” Amelia ask
s when I join her in the kitchen.

  “Of course. Why?”

  At the table, she pours cereal in her bowl. “You look happy and sad at the same time.”

  I ruffle her hair. “You’re too observant for your own good.”

  She smiles as she lifts a spoon. “What makes you happy? What makes you sad?”

  I grab an apple, wash it, and bring it to the table. Crunching into it, I contemplate her question. The first one is easy. “You make me happy.”

  She smiles. “Thank you!”

  I draw a deep, fortifying breath. “Not being able to solve a problem makes me sad.”

  She tilts her head as she shoves another spoonful into her mouth. After she chews, she asks, “Is it a math problem?”

  “Kind of.”

  “That’s good, then. There’s always a solution. Just keep trying.”

  I nod, letting her simple wisdom soak in. Maybe there is a solution.

  And the solution has nothing to do with numbers.

  After I take Amelia to school, I ask Oliver to meet me for a cup of coffee.

  My longtime friend takes a drink as I lay out the details, and when I’m done, he sets down the glass and whistles. “It’s been a little more than a week. And you truly want to try seeing her again?”