The What If Guy Read online

  Logan: Also, I did NOT just say that. I’m trying to behave.

  * * *

  Logan: Ignore that. Ignore that wholly inappropriate request.

  * * *

  Bryn: Ha! I can’t ignore it. I have the evidence. Also, here you go.

  * * *

  An image lands on my screen. Of her ear. The edge of it, a few locks of her chestnut strands curling over it. And fuck me, but it makes me smile. And I’m not grinning because I can recall how her hair felt in my hands. I am grinning because it’s such a random, unexpected shot.

  * * *

  Logan: I can honestly say that’s the first ear shot I’ve ever received.

  * * *

  Bryn: Well. Where’s mine? *waiting*

  * * *

  I do something I never thought I’d do. I snap a picture of my ear. And I send it to the woman I’m definitely falling for.

  * * *

  Bryn: Do you have glasses???? I see one of the arms, I think.

  * * *

  Logan: Um. Yeah. Reading glasses.

  * * *

  Bryn: I NEED A PICTURE. OF YOUR FACE. IN GLASSES.

  * * *

  Logan: Right now?

  * * *

  Bryn: No, tomorrow.

  * * *

  Bryn: Yes, right now.

  * * *

  I do as the woman asks, my chest flipping in a funny way. But as I snap a photo of myself, this feeling becomes clear. It’s warm and bubbly, like that first sip of champagne. It’s . . . infatuation. And hell, do I ever like it. It’s something I haven’t felt in a long time.

  All at once, I’m a man who’s been in the dark for years, and the light’s suddenly turned on. I want to see everything I’ve missed. Every possibility.

  * * *

  Bryn: I’m not even sure where to start, Mr. Smolder. But that is the most smoldering shot ever.

  * * *

  Logan: Yeah, right. I just woke up, my hair is a mess, and there is a cat on my head.

  * * *

  Bryn: Exactly. Your hair is sticking up in twenty-five directions, you’re wearing a cat, and you have Clark Kent glasses. Shut the front door.

  * * *

  Logan: The glasses are simply because I’m more farsighted than any thirty-two-year-old should be.

  * * *

  Bryn: The glasses are sexy. That’s all. Plain and simple.

  * * *

  Logan: So it wasn’t just the wine last night that had you sending me all those texts?

  * * *

  Bryn: Hush. I can hold my wine, thank you very much. It was not the wine talking then or now. You are endearing. Especially in those glasses.

  * * *

  My heart speeds up, slamming against my chest. Dangerously. But deliciously too. It’s like another light goes on, illuminating even more. I want all this light she’s bringing to me. This spark. This possibility.

  * * *

  Logan: Honestly, when I saw your first message this morning, I thought you were serious. That I was a liar. And I was scrambling to figure out what I could have lied about. Because I don’t want to be that guy. And I hate lies.

  * * *

  Bryn: Me too.

  * * *

  Logan: I know people say this, but I mean it. Honesty is the most important thing to me. I didn’t have it with Stacey. And I want to practice it. (Hence why I said what I said to you at Dr. Insomnia’s.)

  * * *

  Bryn: I’m with you, Logan. So, let me start by saying this—your face makes me happy. Your glasses are sexy and make you look real. And you are the easiest guy to talk to because nothing feels like a line. You sort of move fluidly between being smolderingly sexy and painfully blunt. And it’s wonderful.

  * * *

  Logan: Painfully blunt doesn’t sound wonderful.

  * * *

  Bryn: It is. I assure you, I like blunt. It’s such a welcome change.

  * * *

  Logan: Was your ex manipulative?

  * * *

  Bryn: He was . . . delightful and not delightful at the same time. Delightful and wonderful when I got to know him. But once we were together, he was wildly jealous.

  * * *

  Logan: In what way?

  * * *

  Bryn: He hated my job. He hated that I loved it. That it took me away from him. He didn’t like anything that took me away from him. He was one of those people who wants to consume you. And when my mother died and I didn’t have as much time for him, that’s when he had the affair.

  * * *

  Logan: Holy shit. Are you serious?

  * * *

  Bryn: I wish I weren’t. Actually, that’s not true. I’m glad I’m not with him. I’m thrilled. I’m so happy without him. But it hurt like hell to grieve that loss at the same time as a broken heart.

  * * *

  Logan: A double whammy. That’s terrible.

  * * *

  Bryn: It was. Death, and the death of a relationship.

  * * *

  Logan: You deserve so much better.

  * * *

  Bryn: Thank you. Do you wish things were different?

  * * *

  Logan: I feel the same as you. I’m happy now, but I also know what it cost to get here. The doubt, the anger, the unhappiness. I was angry for a long time, like a storm cloud followed me around. I channeled it in ridiculous ways, like playing paintball aggressively. Like trying to beat the team of the guy who cheated with my ex. It was silly.

  * * *

  Bryn: It actually sounds kind of healthy. Maybe it was productive in its own way?

  * * *

  Logan: Maybe . . . or maybe it was how I dealt with the whole “was it my fault” question that plagued me.

  * * *

  Bryn: That’s the worst part of being cheated on. Those dark days when you wonder what you did wrong.

  * * *

  Logan: And the answer is nothing. It’s not your fault, and you didn’t do anything to deserve it. But you can’t get there till you go through it.

  * * *

  Bryn: Teagan said that to me when I lost my mom—you can’t get to the other side until you go through it. I think it applies just the same. She’s been through some hard stuff in life.

  * * *

  Logan: I believe that too. You don’t want the bad stuff, but it’s life. It happens, and you just have to learn from it. Learn what you want in life and learn what you don’t.

  Bryn: What do you want?

  * * *

  A few months ago, I might not have known the answer. As I study her question, the answer is as bright and clear as my world this morning.

  * * *

  Logan: Honesty. Trust. Great sex. And laughter.

  * * *

  I pause as I stare at the last message before I hit send. Six words. A band name. A terrible band name, but a truthful wish list.

  What do I want now? This list says it all. Sending it is like putting my heart on the line. But this conversation feels as if it’s the truest one I’ve ever had with a woman. It feels like everything I didn’t know I wanted two weeks ago.

  Everything I want desperately now.

  And it’s all wrapped up in her.

  I hit send, and I wait to see how she responds.

  She doesn’t make me wait long.

  * * *

  Bryn: Can I call you?

  * * *

  Logan: Of course.

  * * *

  Bryn: Is FaceTime okay? I mean, I did just see your face.

  * * *

  Logan: Go for it.

  * * *

  Seconds later, the phone rings. When I answer, my heart thumps. What the hell is happening to me? I’m reacting like she’s my girlfriend and I haven’t seen her in a month, because I’m ridiculously stoked to see her in her workout clothes. She wears a rose-colored sports bra, and her brown hair is pulled high in a ponytail.

  “Like my hula-hoop outfit?” she asks, gesturing to her workout clothes.


  “Love it. When is your class?”

  “A couple hours. But I was up and showered, so I figured I’d read, or maybe visit a museum or something before I went to the class.”

  That wasn’t entirely what I was hoping she wanted to do today. And that wasn’t why I thought she was calling either. But I tell myself to be patient. “That sounds fun,” I say, giving her the space she seems to still need. She hasn’t said anything since I asked if she wanted to disclose and date—so romantic. I bet this is her way of calling to let me down easy.

  And I should return to the only role I should play.

  Be the boss. See her occasionally at The Dating Pool.

  She’s only my employee. She’s not my lover. She’s not my girlfriend. I’m letting my stupid, dormant, hungry heart make assumptions.

  “So, Amy, the one who teaches hula hoop—I texted her last night to see if she knew about hula hooping for seven-year-olds. Turns out Amy is doing classes for kids at the Y. So, if Amelia ever wants to go, I highly recommend it. It includes hula hooping and jump rope tricks.”

  “Amelia would love that,” I say. I love, too, that Bryn looked into the class. But I don’t want to talk about my kid. I want to talk about whether there’s an us. I feel like I’m on the edge of my seat, waiting for her answer.

  She draws a deep breath then licks her lips. “But that’s not why I called.”

  I sit up straighter, my muscles tense. “Why did you call?”

  “Those things you said just now?”

  I nod, my fists clenched. “Yeah.”

  “I’m kind of terrified of what it might mean. I’ve tried to be a certain person at work for all these years. Someone who follows the rules, who respects them, who’s fun and fair.”

  I nod in understanding, bracing myself for the inevitable. Her reputation matters. She’s spent years building it. One wrong move and it could come tumbling down. “I understand, Bryn.”

  She shrugs a little helplessly, but a little happily too. “But I want those same things, Logan. And I think I want them with you.”

  I can’t stop grinning. I can’t stop feeling. My heart thumps like a herd of horses in my chest. It’s crazy, utterly crazy, to feel this way this soon.

  But the evidence says maybe it’s not insane. Because I’m happy again. The sun came out, and it’s shining down on me.

  “Come over,” I say.

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Now. I want to see you so damn badly. Give me twenty minutes to shower. If you haven’t eaten, I can make you breakfast.”

  Her grin is magnetic. “You cook too?”

  “Yes, I do. Am I more endearing?”

  “I didn’t think it was possible, but yes, yes, you are.” With her free hand, she shoos me. “Go, shower. Send me your address. I’ll be there soon.”

  I say goodbye and send it to her. The smile on my face feels a mile wide.

  In the bathroom, I crank up the music, get in the shower, and do something I haven’t done in ages—I sing along. It’s “Hooked on a Feeling.” And surely that’s the reason. You can’t not sing along to this tune. I grab the shampoo bottle and belt out the chorus.

  Grateful I don’t have roommates to catch me in the act of butchering such an epic tune, I croon my heart out.

  I sing to the entire Upper East Side.

  To all of Manhattan.

  To the city.

  And most of all, to myself. Because this feels so fucking good.

  When I turn off the shower, Queen LT is sitting on the floor, licking a paw, taking her own bath.

  “You did not see a thing. You didn’t hear a thing. Tell no one what I did.”

  She simply keeps licking. Maybe she’s smiling.

  After I brush my teeth, I tug on jeans and a T-shirt and run a towel over my wet hair one more time. Then I hang it up, head to the kitchen, and start some coffee.

  A few minutes later, a text lands, telling me she’s here.

  I turn off the coffee. I don’t need it. I’m already buzzed.

  25

  Bryn

  I’m ready to hula hoop.

  That’s both a euphemism and the truth. I didn’t change from my workout clothes. Why bother? I’m confident whatever I wear will be off in seconds.

  And I know this thing with Logan isn’t about me wearing a sexy outfit to his home on a Saturday morning.

  It’s about four things: Honesty. Trust. Great sex. And laughter.

  Things I’m pretty sure I can have with him.

  Things I didn’t set out to find in him or anyone else. But they were there, waiting to be discovered.

  And this weekend feels like the precipice of a new discovery, the next path to whatever we’re becoming.

  Hope rises in me as I ride up in the elevator. Hope and possibility. The doors open, and I step out, ready and wildly excited for what’s next.

  Decked out in my dark-pink yoga pants, a sports bra, and a workout top, I lift my hand and rap my knuckles on his door. Anticipation whips through my body, setting my skin to tingling.

  A few seconds later, I hear the click of a lock.

  The door swings open.

  And Logan’s dark eyes are on me, traveling down my body then back up to lock with mine.

  “Hi,” he says. How is it possible for one syllable to say so much? But it does. Because of how he says it. It comes out dirty, dominant, and knowing.

  He knows what we’re doing now.

  I know too.

  “Hi,” I say back, and there is barely a second between that word and his hand grabbing mine, the other slamming the door shut, and his body backing me up against the wall.

  His lips crush against mine.

  I swoon and heat up all at once.

  The man wastes no time. His fingers circle my wrists, pinning them to the wall, trapping me.

  His lips claim my mouth.

  His kiss is urgent and hungry.

  My skin sizzles, and a shudder wracks my entire body at the way he kisses me. I feel it everywhere—in my toes, in my knees, deep in my belly.

  He lets go of one wrist, that hand grabbing my chin, turning my face to the side as he licks my neck. It feels spectacular.

  “Oh, God,” I groan as my knees buckle, and I wish my panties would melt. “Logan. Take me. Take me now.”

  He brushes his mouth along the column of my neck, dusting kisses across the hollow of my throat, over my collarbone, up to my ear. “So, you want me to fuck you, Bryn?”

  I shiver. Pleasure seizes my body. “Yes. Please.”

  His lips coast along my skin. “Did you come over just for that?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  He pulls back and meets my gaze, his eyes dark with desire. “Why’d you come over, then? Why’d you say yes?” His voice is commanding, needy, even.

  I lick my lips. “To see you. To be with you,” I breathe.

  He lets go of my wrists and slides his hands up my arms to my shoulders, gripping me. “Say it again.”

  “I want to be with you,” I whisper, my body aching, my pulse spiking.

  He cups my face, his tone intense. “How is it possible that I met you two weeks ago and I already need you in my life this badly?”

  Trembling, I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t either,” he rasps, kissing my cheek, sucking on my jaw. “I just know I do.”

  “Me too,” I say, going boneless as he licks me like I’m the best thing he’s ever tasted.

  His kisses go to my head, they go to my skin, and they send a wild, needy pulse between my legs.

  But soon, he breaks our connection, tosses me over his shoulder, and carries me to his bedroom.

  After he drops me on the bed, I reach for the bottom of his T-shirt and tug.

  He grabs it and, in one swift move, pulls it off. I stare hungrily at his chiseled chest, his firm pecs, and the ladder of his abs. But I don’t get to linger for long because he’s stripping me with speed and finesse, yanking off my legging
s, shedding my top, and jerking off my bra while I toe off my shoes and socks. His jeans come off next, then his boxers, and my mouth waters as I stare at his hard cock, thick and pulsing.

  He climbs up on the bed, his eyes flaring with desire as he straddles me, then moves higher.