The What If Guy Read online

  I roll my eyes. “Of course. I forgot I was talking to the prince of hookups.”

  Fitz scoffs. “King, if you please.” Then he takes a serious tone. “But look, you’re getting back into the swing of things. So you missed the first time. Take another swing. Use the app. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

  I draw a deep breath, weighing the options. I have deals galore to handle. Partnerships to manage. A kid I adore.

  But, hell, it has been a while. I’d love a good date with a woman I enjoyed talking to. A woman I sparked with.

  And the Snoopy lunch box gal and I were on fire.

  What’s the harm in testing out an app?

  Especially since my friends are probably never going to let me live this down if I don’t.

  I take another bite of the chicken sandwich, swipe a napkin across my mouth, and grab my phone. Fifteen minutes later, I hit post.

  3

  Bryn

  On the way to the editorial meeting, I drop my new lunch box on my desk, patting the side of it.

  I lift my chin, a reminder that everything is fine.

  I don’t need a number. Men are luxuries. I glance at the photo of my mother on my desk, all sassy in a red dress, smiling like she knew the secrets of the world. You don’t need a man. You can conquer the world on your own.

  “Words to live by,” I say to her, then to myself, “All I wanted was the lunch box anyway.” I’m talking back to the lingering smidgeon of disappointment in my gut. “And that’s what I got.”

  I leave my office and pop by Teagan’s, sweeping my arm out to make a pronouncement. “We should do a follow-up on that article on five ways to spot a weirdo you don’t want to date. Because I have a number six.” I give her the bullet points of my failed negotiation. “We met over a Snoopy lunch box. We had amazing eye-smolder. There was flirting, then he took a call and left, dashing all my hopes for a future. So I think we should add Walk away from men who buy lunch boxes.”

  Teagan shakes her head as we walk to the conference room down the hall. “I call BS.”

  “I know, right? Something was up with him for sure,” I say. “Who vies for a Snoopy lunch box? He probably goes to furry conventions.”

  Teagan wags a finger at me. “No, girl. I call BS on you.”

  I jerk back, bringing my hand to my chest. “Me?”

  “You. Here’s why. One, there is nothing wrong with furry conventions. To each her own kink, you know that. You have yours.”

  I shoot her a side-eye. “Shh. We don’t discuss my kink in the office.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Two, I bet something came up, hence his phone call. But now you’ve put on your tough-girl armor, and you’re pretending you didn’t have a magic moment when you so did.”

  I heave a sigh. She’s not entirely wrong—on any of her points. “Furries are fine. Completely fine. But you don’t think it’s weird that he was buying a lunch box?”

  She scrunches her brow. “If I don’t think it’s weird that you collect vintage tchotchkes to honor your mom, then why would I think it’s weird that he was buying one? And you don’t really either.”

  I blink. “I don’t?”

  She smiles as we turn the corner. “It’s cute. He probably has a niece or a daughter.”

  I groan abjectly. “Ugh. He’s married.”

  “Hello? Have you heard of this thing called divorce? Divorced men have kids. You can date a divorced man. You are a divorced woman.”

  “I am?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Stop it. You’re putting on your armor because you don’t want to get hurt again. You’re looking for excuses. But sometimes you have to dive in and wade through the dating pool.”

  I shoot her a hard stare. “You literally just name-checked our website in your argument on why I should consider this guy.”

  “I did. Clever, huh? So, date the hot divorcé.”

  “I’m not dating him. That’s my point. We had a moment. A fantastic, fiery, flirty moment that was veering this close to something more.” I hold up my thumb and forefinger, showing a sliver of space between them. “I practically served myself up on a silver platter. I had ‘ask me out’ in neon on my forehead.” Then I shrug. “But he got a call, and we didn’t exchange numbers, and I’m not going to go haunt Your Little Loves every day at ten in the morning in case he returns. Thus, there is no dating pool to dive into with this guy.”

  We reach the conference room, a visual reminder of my to-do list. It’s a list I thoroughly enjoy, since making this site sing is my passion.

  I say hi to the writers, editors, and designers who make The Dating Pool one of the most trafficked relationship and lifestyle sites on the web.

  After quick hellos and what-are-you-up-tos, we segue to business and review the newest columns, lists, tips, and articles, including the eye-contact piece.

  Then it’s time for Idea Palooza. I nod at everyone gathered around the conference table: Teagan; chestnut-haired Rosario, an eager junior editor; dimpled Matthew, a clever senior writer who edits my pieces; hawk-eyed Quentin in graphic design, whose analytical eye is crucial for our success; and baby-faced James, who’s young, brilliant, and sassy.

  “So, talk to me,” I say, “What are your ideas for new pieces? What do we want to work on next?”

  For the next thirty minutes, the team brainstorms, and we pick our most promising ideas to pursue.

  “I have a concept for a piece,” Rosario chimes in with a hint of her Puerto Rican accent, tapping a pen against her lip, then sitting up straighter.

  “Hit me,” I say.

  “There’s a new app that’s all the rage. Like when Missed Connections on Craigslist was in vogue?” Her big brown eyes canvas the room. More than half of us sigh wistfully.

  “Those were the best,” Matthew says, bringing a hand to his flannel-covered heart. Our top writer puts the “lumberjack” in “lumberjack look.” “Or like those PostSecrets where people would mail in confessions on postcards. I could read those all day.”

  Across the table, Quentin’s dark eyes sparkle with mischief, and the graphic designer leans in closer, whispering, “Same here. What’s better than a peek at everyone’s dirty secrets?”

  “Exactly,” Matthew agrees. “Missed Connections on Craigslist is the same. Seeing all the near-misses and almost-chances that happen every day, all the times people should have met but didn’t. My boyfriend and I used to speculate whether they found each other, and what might have happened on their first dates.”

  “That’s a fun pastime.” I smile, picturing it myself. “Daydreaming that the cute guy from the ice cream shop looks for you and imagining how it would go. Would you bond over the potato-chip-and-chocolate-chunk swirl, or would one of you love the strawberry fennel and the other obsess over the marshmallow mint?”

  Matthew’s brow knits. “No one obsesses over marshmallow mint. Also, are you speaking from experience? Is there someone you once had an ice cream shop moment with?”

  James whips his gaze to me. “Was that back in the days when you dated without apps, Bryn? Also, how did you handle all that . . .” He flaps his hand like he’s hunting for words he doesn’t know. “All that weird IRL stuff? I just don’t get it.”

  “It was the dark ages,” I deadpan. “We barely made it through. Thank God Tinder lets old people like me sign up.”

  James stretches an arm across the table to pat my hand. “You’re not that old.”

  I narrow my eyes. “You do know I’m thirty-two? And your boss?”

  He laughs. “Like I said, you’re not that old.”

  “And to answer your question, yes, it’s an example from real life. Last summer, I chatted with a guy at Sweet Nothings in Soho over the absurdity of ice cream flavors, and I remember thinking he’d have been fun to talk to more. I had a fleeting wish that I’d found a way to get his number, or that he’d asked for mine,” I admit.

  The site is about relationships, and we talk openly about dating—personally, not just editorially.
It’s always been refreshing.

  “But you never got his number or his handle?” James asks.

  “Nope.” I shake my head.

  Teagan clears her throat, cutting through the chatter and getting us back on track. “Which is precisely the point of Made Connections. What I always loved about those posts was how they gave you a real sense of how people were meeting and how many moments we let slip away. Opportunities unseized. Moments like your Sweet Nothings one, Bryn. I feel like that could be the basis for our next great piece.”

  “She’s right,” Matthew seconds with enthusiasm. “The audience will devour it.”

  Teagan’s excitement rises at his interest. “We should test that app for the site. Really put it through its paces. Let our readers know if it works.”

  I nod wholeheartedly, giving my seal of approval to Teagan’s concept. “Speaking of seizing the moment, anyone want to volunteer as tribute to write this piece?”

  This is a normal request for a site like ours to make of its staffers. Many of our writers and editors test the wares, whether they are dating venues, toys, apps, or ideas. If a concept doesn’t feel right to any of the team, I farm it out. There’s never pressure to date or not date.

  James shakes his head. “I just started dating someone I met on POF.”

  Matthew is next, offering an apologetic look. “I have a steady boyfriend now, so when it comes to test-drives, I’d better stick to the couples’ content.”

  Rosario chimes in. “I have a second date with a guy from Tinder this weekend, so I should see how that goes first.” She raises crossed fingers with a hopeful smile.

  I smack my forehead. “What is the world coming to? I run a dating site and none of my writers, editors, or designers want to test out a new dating app. Oy. I’ll have to find a freelancer.” I lower my voice to a stage whisper. “But I still love you all best.”

  Then Teagan raises her hand. Perfect. She will bring her brand of irreverence to any article.

  I point at her, then tap some notes into my tablet, marking her down for the assignment. “Yes, Teagan. I accept your offer. You can do it. Your pieces are always hilarious.”

  She laughs lightly, a you’re so cute chuckle. “I was going to suggest you do Mr. Lunch Box.”

  My gaze snaps up from the tablet, and I stare an oh no, you didn’t at her. But oh yes, she did, even though she knows the team will pounce on those words.

  “Ooh. Who is Mr. Lunch Box?” Rosario asks, her voice dripping with curiosity as she bats her lashes.

  Matthew parks his chin in his hand. “We’re waiting, boss lady. Details, details. Leave no hot stone unturned.”

  I narrow my eyes and growl at Teagan. “You’re dead to me.”

  She simply smiles, the evil genius. “Well, you did have a moment,” Teagan adds. “You didn’t seize the strawberry-fennel moment, so maybe this is your potato-chip-chocolate-chunk swirl.”

  “Don’t keep us in the dark. Who is Mr. Lunch Box?” Quentin asks, eyes wide with question marks. “And does he like sweet and salty too?”

  “He’s no one,” I say, heat creeping across my cheeks. Mentioning him makes me feel a little foolish. It was naive to think he was going to ask me out. We were simply chatting, nothing more.

  “Sounds like no one is someone,” Rosario goads, wiggling her fingers to get me to serve up the tale.

  “She met him in Your Little Loves. They grabbed the same lunch box, and their chemistry was so strong it was like a science experiment,” Teagan says, throwing raw steak to the lions.

  “Ooh, does he look like a hot scientist?” Matthew asks. “Lab jackets are sexy.”

  “I think it sounds like a rom-com meet-cute. When do you meet-cute him again?” Quentin asks.

  I hold up a stop-sign hand and shake my head. “I’m not seeing him again. I don’t even know his name.”

  Matthew slaps the table for emphasis. “But you had a moment, and that’s what Made Connections is. You should try it, Bryn. You’re like patient zero.”

  “And why does that description somehow feel apropos?” I shudder.

  Teagan leans back in her chair and crosses her arms with a satisfied smirk. “He’s right. You’re the one who had an actual missed connection. Ergo, you ought to test it.”

  “What was he like? Mr. Lunch Box?” Matthew presses on. “Tell us all more about the chemistry. Were there beakers bubbling over?”

  I flashback to an hour ago—the locked eyes, the heat in my chest, the finger brushing . . . That moment when I was sure he’d ask for my number.

  My chest tingles, and that wild whoosh I felt earlier reappears, running roughshod over my skin.

  There was definitely a moment.

  More than one.

  There were many, and they weren’t foolish at all. I wasn’t naive in the least to think there was something brewing.

  Chemistry, for sure. No doubt about that. Would it translate to the bedroom though? His eyes had been etched with hunger, dominance, even, so a woman could dream.

  I relent and give my team some gossip fodder. “Looks like Henry Cavill, dresses like a Tom Ford model, sounds like he could read erotic audiobooks, and banters like he’s in a Noël Coward play.” But since neither the man nor I sealed the deal, maybe there is a reason. Maybe he’s in a relationship.

  Rosario’s lips curve into a grin, her eyes twinkling. “Okay, I’ve reconsidered. I’ll get on Made Connections for you.” She pretends to type into her phone and says aloud, “Looking for Mr. Lunch Box. K, thanks, bye.”

  “Looking for Mr. Lunch Box,” Teagan muses as if she’s testing out the words. “It has a certain ring to it.”

  “Yes, but Mr. Lunch Box might be involved with someone,” I say.

  “He might, but you don’t know till you try.” Teagan types on her phone for real, picking up speed. “Maybe he’s checking the app out now, looking for you. What if your what-if guy is looking for his what-if girl?”

  “Yeah, right,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’m sure he’s not on it. And honestly, even if I post, I doubt he’ll respond.”

  “Then the story is the app doesn’t work,” Teagan says, matter-of-factly. “And that’s useful intel too. This piece will have so much social media cred.” She hands her phone to me, sliding it across the table, with a pleased-as-punch expression on her pretty face. “I signed you up. Now post.”

  She taps the table, making it an order.

  I freeze, weighing the choice more seriously now that she’s done what Teagan does best.

  Instigate.

  Do I want to see him again? Do I want to take a chance and potentially meet my what-if guy?

  But as I look around the conference room, looking back are the faces of my staffers, who’ve been willing to test lots of apps, plenty of dates, and gobs of crazy ideas.

  Is it so hard for me to test one too?

  It’s all in the name of modern love.

  And since it’s merely an experiment for work, I can’t truly be hurt if he never responds. This is purely business. It’s solely an experiment.

  I pride myself on efficiency. Part of being a good boss means you need to be decisive.

  To march forward.

  After I leave the conference room, I spend the next half hour in my office drafting a post. It needs to be clever and enticing, but not tawdry. It should be specific, but also leave room for him to supply details to prove he’d been there.

  And it must be inviting. It should invite him to respond.

  Because even though I’m doing this for the good of The Dating Pool, I want him to respond.

  For the good of The Dating Pool, but also for me.

  For my ego, and for my curiosity. For all the what-ifs that ran through my mind this morning.

  * * *

  Looking for Mr. Lunch Box:

  * * *

  We both wanted the same thing. We were tenacious, neither one letting go, at odds, even as we agreed on several key issues related to Joe Cool. We were in the midst
of negotiations when your phone rang.

  * * *

  I have a hunch about the counteroffer that was coming next. I hope I’m not wrong.

  * * *

  So, if you were going to ask what I thought you were going to ask, then I suspect you’ll answer this post.

  * * *

  And when you do, tell me what we discussed about a certain dog.

  * * *

  Perhaps then we could continue our conversation over a mojito or two.

  * * *

  P.S. I was going to request the same thing I hoped you would. I’m an equal opportunity kind of gal.

  * * *

  Xoxo

  The Gal Who Got the Lunchbox

  4

  Logan

  Crouched down beneath the kitchen table, I raise one fist, covered in a rainbow-striped sock, then make the fist talk. “What’s that I see? Down the path that weaves through the enchanted forest? A tree full of jelly beans?”

  A green frog of sorts bonks my hand, bouncing in excitement. “And I will eat all the jelly beans,” my daughter says, operating her amphibian sock puppet. “I will ribbit them out.”

  I make the rainbow hand creature plead obsequiously. “Oh, Mr. Frog, will you please share the jelly beans with your most humble servant?”

  Amelia adopts her most stern voice right next to me. “Only if Queen LaTofu can share them too.”

  I move the makeshift mouth of my sock puppet, as Friday evening puppet theater builds toward the closing curtain. “Can Queen LaTofu hunt jelly beans?”

  “Yes, Mr. Rainbow Sockhead. She can. She’s a rare breed of jelly-bean-hunting cat.” My daughter drops her sock-puppet-covered hand, bolts up, and rushes across the living room to a pink miniature chair that I bought for her, but which has been commandeered by the cat.