The What If Guy Read online

  “Oh.” He sounds shocked.

  But it’s not as difficult a thing to say after all—because it’s true, and because everything about this moment feels right. All of this. “It started before he bought the company. Before either of us knew who the other one was. And that’s what our meeting with you today was going to be about. To let you know. But I guess we don’t have to worry about those details now.”

  “No, seems you don’t.” As his eyes narrow, his papa bear comes out with a growl. “Did he pressure you to leave though? I have to ask.”

  I scoff, waving a hand. “Absolutely not. I think this has been brewing in me for a long time. I want to do my own thing. Be a consultant. Run my own business and advise others on content partnerships. It has nothing to do with him, and everything to do with me.”

  He nods and smiles. “Good to know.”

  I thank him, leave, and head to meet my team for the editorial meeting. But I stop inside the conference room door.

  That’s odd.

  Logan is here, holding a Calvin and Hobbes lunch box.

  Next I register the frozen tableau of Matthew, Rosario, James, and Quentin. “Everything okay? What’s going on?”

  Practically in unison, they gesture to Logan. “He’s Mr. Lunch Box?” Rosario blurts, and I wince.

  “Mr. Smolder,” Matthew adds, like I might have forgotten who Mr. Lunch Box is.

  I heave a sigh, frustrated that today isn’t going to plan.

  I wanted to do things in the right order, at the right time. To tell them I was leaving, then to tell them who I was seeing.

  But you don’t always get to do things the way you want.

  “He is. But I won’t be writing about Mr. Smolder anymore because . . .” I stop, an unexpected torrent of emotions flooding my throat. “Because I won’t be working here much longer.”

  34

  Logan

  I snap my gaze to her.

  What did she just say?

  “You’re leaving?” I ask.

  “Why are you leaving?” Quentin asks.

  “You can’t leave,” Matthew chimes in. Then he stares daggers at me. “Is this because you didn’t call her? What is wrong with you? She’s amazing. How could you miss that?”

  Words are on the tip of my tongue. Words like You’ve got it all wrong. And I know how incredible she is.

  Rosario hisses at me, leaping from her seat, running to Bryn, and clutching my woman while shooting laser beams at me. “You should have texted Bryn. What you did was not cool.”

  My eyes widen. I have no clue what they’re talking about. I want to protest and insist, I did! But my instincts tell me now is the time to shut up.

  “Guys!” Bryn laughs, holding up her hands in surrender. “He did call. He did text. We’re . . .” She turns to me, her eyes saying go ahead, and I’ve got no clue why we’re doing it this way, but I trust this woman. She’s clearly got a plan.

  “Together,” I say.

  “What?” Matthew shrieks.

  “But he didn’t text you,” Rosario says.

  Quentin rolls his eyes. “Obviously, he did. Can’t you guys tell what went down?”

  James raises a hand. “I’m so confused. Is this because you’re older? Is this, like, IRL dating? I thought you met online.” He grabs his head. “None of this makes any sense.”

  Quentin cuts in. “Just follow the clues, peeps. He’s Mr. Lunch Box, they had a hot date, she realized he was Mr. New CEO, they cooled it, but the sparks were too hot to extinguish, and now she’s quitting and he’s got a lunch box for his kid. There. Any questions?”

  Bryn laughs, looks at me, and shrugs happily.

  “I have some questions,” I say, waiting for her to explain everything I don’t know.

  She turns to her team. “I love you guys. I love this site. I love what we’ve built. But the time has also come for me to do my own thing. I didn’t tell Logan—”

  Rosario titters under her breath. “She calls him Logan.”

  “You guys can all call me Logan,” I say.

  Matthew shakes his head adamantly. “Oh, you’re Mr. Clarke, Mr. Lunch Box.”

  Bryn clears her throat, going all lady boss. “I didn’t tell Logan, because it’s my choice.” Her hand flies to her chest for emphasis. “I didn’t do this—give notice—because we’re dating. But we are dating. I gave notice because I want to run my own business. I plan to start my own consulting shop, advising other websites and content producers on their digital presence. It’s something I’ve been doing for friends. And now I’m going to do it as a business. And none of this has to do with Mr. Smolder or Mr. Lunch Box or Mr. Clarke. All of it has to do with me.” She marches to the head of the conference table, takes a seat, and says, “Now, let’s talk about what we have planned for the next two weeks.”

  Not gonna lie. I’m all kinds of turned on.

  I leave them to their meeting and head for my office. Later—after an editorial meeting-long span of time—there’s a knock on my door.

  “Come in,” I say, and the person I most want to see enters.

  I go to the door and shut it, then face Bryn with a well, I’m waiting look.

  “So, don’t know if you heard the news,” she says, flopping onto my couch wearing a knowing grin.

  “Gee, what news would that be?” I ask, sitting next to her.

  She sighs happily. “I hope you’re not annoyed, but I had a revelation this morning about what I wanted, and I had to do it this way.”

  I dispel any notion that I am or could be annoyed with a quick shake of my head. “Not in the least. I completely understand.”

  “Thank you. I’m excited about this.”

  “As you should be. And what you did, it was . . . hot.”

  She laughs then gives me an is that so look. “Really?”

  I nod, running my gaze along her legs, up her waist to her breasts, and then letting it settle on those gorgeous green eyes. “So hot. Watching you just lay down the law. Make those decisions. Go full lady boss.”

  “Glad you liked it.”

  “I liked it because it says you know yourself. You know how to go after what you want.” I set a hand on her knee, embracing the freedom to touch her like this. “But also because I know what it means when you spend all your days making decisions.”

  “What does it mean, Logan?” she asks, all sensual and husky.

  “It means you’ll want me to pull your hair, swat your ass, and talk dirty to you as I bend you over and take you.”

  She shivers. “You know me so well.”

  I lean in close and dust a kiss on her neck. “I do.” Then I pull back, clearing my throat, going serious. “I’ll miss having you here. You’re a huge asset to this site. But I also understand why you made the choice, and I think it’s perfect for you. I also might have a client for you.”

  Her brow knits. “You might?”

  I grin, pleased with the unexpected gift up my sleeve. “Casey Sullivan called me this morning about you. She was quite impressed with you last night.”

  Bryn squeaks. “She was?”

  “Indeed. She wanted to steal you away from me.”

  Her jaw drops, and her lips curve into a wild grin. “Are you serious?”

  I pout. “You’re leaving me for her? So sad.”

  She swats my thigh. “Tell me what she said.”

  “She wants to hire you to handle content partnerships. She called and said she thought you’d be incredible. I said, ‘I know.’ She wanted to know if you’d be interested and how I felt about it, and I said she should make you an offer. That it was up to you, but that I’d never stand in the way. So, it’s your choice. All of it is always your choice.”

  “Wow,” Bryn says, taking her time with that word, like she’s letting the news sink in.

  “And now I guess you’ll have to tell Casey you’d be interested in perhaps working with her on a contract basis for your new firm. She’d be a helluva flagship client.”

  Her eyes
sparkle with excitement. “That must be why she called earlier. I have a voicemail from her. And I suppose I should negotiate my way into making her a client.”

  “I have every faith in the world that you’ll do just that.”

  “And when I make that decision, you’ll help me so I don’t have to make others?” she asks with a wiggle of her brow.

  I haul her in for a kiss. “I will gladly do that.”

  Then, as a promise, I squeeze her ass hard.

  35

  Bryn

  I arrive first.

  I pick a table in the middle.

  Then I decide the back is better.

  Or is closer to the front ideal?

  Gah. I don’t know.

  Nerves trip through me, like little girls traipsing in too-big shoes.

  I grab my phone and turn the camera to selfie mode, checking to make sure I don’t have anything stuck on my face, or between my teeth. I want to look good for Amelia.

  I’m wearing jeans, Converse sneakers, and a red top. My makeup is light—just mascara and blush.

  I have pictures of my cat to show her.

  At three on the dot on Saturday, the man I’m crazy for comes into view outside the window of Peace of Cake. My heart thumps madly, hammering against my chest. He’s so sexy, so suit-y. But right now, he’s so single daddy.

  And that’s even hotter.

  He wears Vans, jeans, and a Henley, and he’s laughing, holding the hand of a curly-haired blonde.

  My ovaries dance a jig.

  They execute handsprings.

  He’s never been more attractive, and that’s saying something.

  Wait. He’s opening the door for her. It’s official. He’s even more irresistible.

  He holds the door for his daughter, who jerks her gaze around the store. “Daddy, where’s your girlfriend?”

  She’s loud and bold, and I love it. Laughing, I raise my hand and wave. I stand, and they walk over to me.

  The girl flashes me a bright smile and extends a hand. “I’m Amelia Clarke. It’s nice to meet you. I like cats, cake, books, and my dad and my mom too.”

  Oh. My. God.

  She is the most fantastic person ever.

  I take her hand and shake. “I’m Bryn Hawthorne. I like road trips and retro posters, sayings about strong women, my friends, and my mom, who’s in Heaven. And I like meeting new people. Like you.”

  “And do you like cake?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Good. But I don’t want to share. Sharing is good, but not with cake, because I want my own piece. Please. Is that okay, Daddy?”

  He ruffles her hair. “Absolutely.” He casts me a look like he’s asking if I want to share with him. “How about you?”

  I scoff. “Don’t look at me. I don’t share cake either.”

  We all head to the counter and order our own slices. I think this will be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

  And maybe more, because when the three of us sit down, Amelia takes a bite, says it’s yummy, then stares at me. “Are you guys in love?”

  My cheeks flame red, and my smile is as wide as Manhattan from end to end. “I definitely am.”

  Logan reaches a hand out to take mine. “I absolutely am too.”

  Later that week, when Amelia is with her mom, Logan comes over carrying a large, thin, rectangular object wrapped in brown paper.

  “Is that a poster in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

  “Both,” he says, edging in and setting the item down. “It’s something you were looking for once upon a time.”

  Intrigued, I rip open the paper. Then I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth, tears blurring my vision. All my emotions rise, bubbling up and clogging my throat. “You didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  “How did you find it?” I ask shakily. “That’s what we were looking for two summers ago.”

  “I know. That’s why I wanted you to have it.”

  I rip off the paper the rest of the way, and my heart lodges deeper in my throat. It’s the signed Snoopy comic my mom and I were hunting for on our last road trip.

  The one we never found.

  “How did you find it?” I ask reverently as I stare at the Red Baron.

  “I asked the woman in Your Little Loves to help me, and we tracked one down. I wanted you to have it. I thought it would be great to hang in the new office of Bryn Hawthorne Consulting,” he says.

  I stare at it for a little longer, imagining my new office, picturing my mom seeing me in it. Knowing she’d be proud of me, of my choices, of my life.

  Of my choice to love this man.

  I stand, cup his cheeks, and whisper against his lips, “I love you.”

  “Good. Because I love you too.”

  36

  Logan

  The next few months go like this:

  Work my ass off.

  Promote Matthew to run The Dating Pool.

  Hang the Snoopy poster in Bryn’s new office.

  Celebrate with a sushi dinner when she finalizes the deal with Joy Delivered.

  Celebrate with another dinner when she takes on Hadley as a client.

  Celebrate one more time when her friend Paisley hires her.

  See her as much as possible.

  And juggle everything.

  I learn to juggle in a whole new way, with more dexterity than I’ve ever needed before.

  My daughter comes first and foremost. Then my business. My family. My friends.

  And the woman I love is way at the top too.

  Fortunately, my friends are nuts about Bryn because she’s amazing.

  But sometimes it’s good just to hang with the guys, though they do love to give me a hard time about how little they see me now.

  It’s a balancing act, fitting everything in, but Fitz is taking off for England for a week, so I make some time to head over to his place on a Sunday in August.

  I arrive at his Gramercy Place apartment around one.

  The door swings open. “Hand it over,” he says, a stern look on his face as he holds out his palm.

  “It’s a no-phone game?” I ask.

  “Yes. Because the pact is kicking in, and I don’t want to be tempted if I get some booty-call request,” Fitz says.

  I tap my chest. “I’m turning in my phone so you’re not tempted? That’s not fucking fair.”

  Fitz turns to the two other guys here at his place. “They did.”

  Oliver leans against the back of the couch next to one of Fitz’s teammates, a dark-haired, wisecracking, hypercompetitive guy named Ransom.

  Ransom raises a soda can in one hand. It’s some kind of LaCroix-flavored water. “All for one,” he says, then lifts his other hand. There’s a ping-pong paddle in it. “I turned in mine.”

  “But you’re the two with the pact,” I say, gesturing to Fitz and Ransom.

  “Yes, we are, and we look out for each other. It’s bro time,” Ransom says sternly.

  I sigh as I hand over my phone. “Tell me again why you two have this pact.”

  Fitz shakes his head, clapping my shoulder. “Because sex is distracting. We made a pact not to have sex once training camp starts, so we can focus on being fucking amazing on the ice. A bunch of us on the team did it. And since camp starts in less than two weeks, this is good practice.”

  “And the phones?” I ask.

  “We turn our phones in so Ransom isn’t tempted by his Tinder profile.”

  “Same to you,” he says to Fitz.

  “Yeah, I don’t use Tinder,” Fitz deadpans.

  Ransom rolls his eyes. “Yes, I know. ‘Because everyone hits on me,’” he says, imitating Fitz.

  “It’s the truth. And I handed over my phone in an act of solidarity with Ransom. So did Ollie, and he’s engaged. Like this cat will be soon too,” Fitz says, gesturing to me.

  “Whoa. I’m not engaged.” But when I say the word, it doesn’t sound like a bad idea at all.

  Fitz shoots me a
knowing glance. “Only a matter of time.”

  He’s probably right.

  He takes my phone, drops it in a drawer in the kitchen, and locks it up.

  I blink, surprised at the lengths he’s going to. “Whoa. You don’t fuck around.”

  “I do not fuck around,” he echoes, then hands me a paddle. “You’re with Ransom.”

  “I’ve been crushing these assholes single-handedly, but I’ll let you play on my team,” Ransom adds.

  Oliver clears his throat. “I wouldn’t exactly say he’s been crushing us.”

  Fitz tuts as we head to the game room in his penthouse pad. “Ollie, be man enough to admit it. Ransom is absolutely crushing us.”

  “That’s what I do. I crush the opposition. Isn’t that right, Fitzgerald?” Ransom calls out as we make our way to the ping-pong table.

  Fitz stage-whispers to Oliver and me, “He’s getting psyched up for the season by destroying us at ping-pong. It’s his new pregame ritual. Just go with it.”

  “What’s your pregame ritual?” Oliver asks as he and Fitz take one side of the ping-pong table.

  Fitz gives a casual shrug. “I like to mix it up. Sometimes I take a nap. Sometimes I listen to Nirvana. Other times,” he says, lifting the white plastic ball, narrowing his gaze, and then raising the paddle, “I focus on absolutely annihilating Logan Clarke.”

  Fitz and, to a much lesser extent, Oliver proceed to decimate me. Fitz is relentless. Determined. And savage.

  Ransom is simply collateral damage.

  By the time an hour is over, I am winded and spent. “How the hell did I not know ping-pong was a workout?”

  “Because you’ve never played it like this,” Fitz answers, then tosses his paddle on the table. We follow suit and head to the living room, grabbing more cans of soda from the fridge before we flop down on the couch.

  “So, when do you take off for the homeland?” Oliver asks Fitz.

  He looks at his wrist as if there’s a watch there. “Two more days.”