The What If Guy

by Lauren Blakely

  Or to snag his number.

  Le sigh.

  I drop my tablet in my purse, and when our drinks are ready, Teagan and I head out onto Seventh Avenue.

  This West Village block holds not only my favorite coffee shop, but the quirky gift shop next door is usually worth a peek, and what I see through the window most definitely makes my chest tingle. I can just make out my favorite cartoon character, and it reminds me of all my happiest days.

  My heart clutches as I look at it. A swell of emotions rises in me—longing, missing, loving.

  Happiness is an elusive thing, and you have to find ways to seize it and hold on tightly.

  I point at the sign for Your Little Loves. “I’m going to pop into the store before the meeting. Want to join?”

  Taking a sip of her drink, Teagan shakes her head. “I need to answer some emails.”

  “You mean check out your Tinder profile?” I ask with a sly smile.

  “No. I mean answer some emails.” She winks, and the truth is I’ll never know if she’s answering emails or checking her profile, but that’s her business. Teagan always gets her work done even while juggling her, ahem, outside interests. And hey, I’m stopping my workday to go shopping, so fair’s fair.

  “See you in a few minutes,” I say, and head into the shop, zooming in on the prize in my crosshairs.

  A Snoopy lunch box.

  It gives me warm fuzzies, activating memories of hunting retro collectibles like this at garage sales.

  Happy times indeed.

  This lunch box would be a perfect keepsake box to store some postcards in.

  “Come to Bryn,” I say, transfixed, because that is one adorable dog adorning the vintage red metal lunch box.

  I march straight to it, reaching for the handle, and a set of masculine fingers curl around the metal right after mine do.

  “What the . . .?” I blink, look up, and holy mother of eye contact.

  The man grabbing the lunch box is conducting a master class on how to smolder from head to toe.

  This guy is all suit.

  His dark-blue two-piece is clearly custom tailored, which is the only kind of suit a good-looking man should ever wear. It hugs his body, the shirt making it damn clear his stomach is flat as a board.

  He doesn’t wear a tie.

  Ties are crazy hot, but I’m down with the whole tieless trend, especially on him. Everything about this finely dressed man screams Bryn’s type, from the neat scruff on his jaw to the cut of his cheekbones to the thick swoop of his hair.

  Hair that you could hold on to at just the right moment.

  A fuck me do.

  His hair is inviting with a capital I. So are his eyes, a deep, sensual shade of brown. The warm color draws me in for one, two, three seconds.

  Some men are worth staring at.

  Words of wisdom from my mom, who had all sorts of good advice when it came to life, love, and men.

  So I don’t look away.

  We’re zooming past four, five, then six seconds, and I’m not letting go. Not of the lunch box nor the eye contact. I want the lunch box for my heart, and I need the eye contact for my mind. Need the confirmation that the article is worth splashing across our home page next week.

  “Nice lunch box,” I remark.

  “Big fan of Snoopy,” he replies, his voice sexy and rumbly. My belly is flipping, my spine is tingling, and I am living proof of the power of eye contact.

  Science rules.

  “Same here,” I say, and we’re hardly talking about dogs, yet we are. “Such a great dog.”

  “He’s a paragon of pooches,” the man quips.

  “And a captain of irony,” I add, my fingers wrapping more tightly around the handle, asserting my claim on the collectible. I want my happiness fix.

  “Some might call him a timeless icon who inspires generations.”

  “I’d say he inspires fun,” I say, breathier than I expected.

  “Fun can be very, very inspiring.” The gleam in his dark eyes suggests bedroom fun. The tingles along my spine tell me I’d be amenable to that.

  For several scandalous seconds, my mind frolics to naughty pastures, wondering what he’d be like in bed. It’s not that I want to bang him right now. It’s just that I know what I like between the sheets.

  But first, I have a lunch box to score.

  We’re well past nine seconds of eye-banging and flirty banter, and I suspect we’re about to fight over the prize, judging from the firm grip he has on the handle. Do I let it go? Do I let him have it? It’s just a lunch box after all, but it’s also not. It’s a connection to someone I miss.

  Sometimes a lunch box isn’t just a lunch box.

  Go for what you want. Don’t let anyone hold you back.

  More words of wisdom echo in my brain.

  “I’ve had my eye on this for a while, and while I might have only spotted it a few minutes ago, it’s something I’ve wanted for months,” I say, keeping a firm grip on it, my other hand curled around my cup of tea.

  His irises drift to my hand. “Yeah. I can see you’re kind of into the lunch box,” he says, like the words you’re kind of into taste good. Like they’re candy on his lips.

  “I collect vintage kitsch. But you seem to want it too.” I glance down at our hands where our fingers touch.

  “I do want it. It’s a gift for a seven-year-old.”

  My pinky slides next to his thumb, and for a few seconds, the spark blurs my judgment. I’m about ready to give it to him, like a nice girl would, a nice girl who’d be swayed by the kid comment. But I’ve been that nice girl. I’ve given in to men. Tried to win their approval. Tried to give them more than they deserved.

  Nope.

  I’m not going to do it again.

  I’m a badass businesswoman who sets her sights on her goals and then knocks them out of the park. There has to be another way to solve this thorny problem.

  A quick scan of the store reveals another lunch box by the counter, not quite as cool as this one, but maybe I can throw him off the scent. “Let’s make a deal. We’ve got a little finders keepers going on, and we both know I spotted it first and grabbed it first.”

  He arches a brow, his lips curving up in a curious grin. “So now this is a game of shotgun? Whoever calls it first nabs it?”

  “That is generally how shopping works, yes,” I say, sensing victory is in my grasp. “What do you say we call this even? Snoopy’s mine, and you can have that fabulous one over there with the whole gang on it. What seven-year-old doesn’t love the entire Peanuts gang?”

  His brown eyes narrow, but he keeps them on me. The wheels in his head seem to be turning. “I’m considering your offer, but there’s something I’d like—”

  “I have two!” The cheery voice comes from the shop owner as she cuts in. She hustles over to us with another Snoopy lunch box clutched to her chest, flush against her lavender paisley-print dress. “I saw you were both interested in the same one, so I popped into the back for the other one. One for you, lovey, and voilà, one for you too, dear,” she says, grandly bestowing the second one on the man like Oprah handing out wheels.

  Damn, I definitely want to know what he’d like from me.

  The man with the soulful brown eyes lets go of the lunch box I spotted first and takes the other one.

  “Thank you,” he tells the shopkeeper, and I follow suit, thanking her too.

  “I’m just so delighted this all worked out,” she says, and scurries to the counter. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

  The man in the suit returns his gaze to me, briefly licking his lips. “Guess we don’t have to negotiate anymore,” he says, like this new turn of events is such a shame.

  It does feel like a damn shame because there is eye contact and then there is skin-tingling, stomach-flipping, lust-at-first-sight eye contact. And this proves the hell out of my home page article. Eye contact is insanely powerful. But let’s not forget the unexpected finger contact either—unexpec
ted because I’m pretty sure that kitschy gift shops selling vintage tchotchkes aren’t usually where you meet men who set your skin on fire.

  Maybe he could set my skin on fire in other ways.

  Maybe that’d make me happy too.

  Maybe that’s what I need. After all, it’s been a while.

  Go for it.

  “Too bad we’ll never know if we could have struck a deal,” I say with a shrug too, teeing him up, waiting for him to remember the other thing he was saying. There’s something I’d like. Because I have a feeling what he’d like is my number. And I’d like to give it to him. To write it on his arm in lipstick.

  Only, I want him to ask for it. I want him to want it. And to want me.

  “I was looking forward to the negotiations,” he says, a lopsided grin playing on his lips.

  “Were you thinking it’d be a knock-down, drag-out battle, or an everyone-walks-away-happy kind of negotiation?” I ask, drawing out the conversation, keeping him talking, because . . . Ask me for my number, you hot suit man.

  His grin is flirty, but there’s a tiny bit of tentativeness in it. “Everyone walks away happy,” he says, keeping his eyes on me the whole time. “And grabs a drink to celebrate.”

  I smile. I don’t bother to hide it. Now we’re clicking. Now the nerves I had are dissipating.

  “I vote for mojitos.” There. That ought to make it easy for him.

  “Mojitos are on me,” he says, then his eyes take a nice, long stroll down my body, and I bet the hey, can I have your number request is coming in just three seconds.

  I can’t be wrong about the chemical reaction between the two of us. I haven’t felt a zing like this in ages. Haven’t wanted to. The last time I felt a wild kind of chemistry, my heart was crushed, julienned, and diced.

  But that was years ago.

  I’ve boxed it up, packed it on ice, and moved on. And since I have moved on, maybe it’s time to take a chance.

  Happiness, right?

  You’ve got to seize it like a lunch box.

  Decide on it like it’s a story you’re going to run on the home page.

  I’m no damsel in distress. I can ask him for his number, and I start to do that. “So, would you—”

  Ring.

  He grabs his phone from his pocket at the speed of light, swipes the screen, and steps away. “What’s going on?”

  My shoulders sag.

  The moment shatters.

  He walks to the corner of the store.

  That’s the end of the negotiation.

  With a dose of frustration coursing through me, I walk to the counter, plunk down some cash, then head to the door, lunch box in hand. As I leave, the man in the suit raises a hand, one finger, maybe making a wait for me sign. But maybe not. I’m not sure. And I don’t want to be wrong. I don’t need to research an article on how humiliating it would be to think someone is about to ask you out and wait around to exchange phone numbers, only to get a blank look, or worse, an “Oh, are you still here?”

  My glance at the clock decides for me. I have just enough time to get to my meeting, and I am never late. So, I point at the lunch box, tell him, “Enjoy,” and then I zip out of there.

  Besides, you don’t meet sexy, stable, smart guys in stores over Snoopy lunch boxes.

  We ran a piece recently on avoiding weirdos, and while we didn’t warn against men who buy cutesy gifts—because that would be judgy—I can draw my own conclusions.

  Best to avoid a guy who’d fight a woman for a cartoon dog on a lunch box.

  At least, that’s how I try to blunt the brick of disappointment lodged in my chest as I head to the office.

  2

  Logan

  At an uber-trendy sandwich and bowl shop with my friends an hour later, I practically need to duck to avoid the rotten tomatoes and eggs they lob at me.

  Metaphorical ones.

  And I deserve it.

  But hell, this dating shit is hard, and I am beyond rusty.

  “Let me get this straight.” Across the booth, my buddy Oliver holds up his fork, pausing mid-bite to give me hell. “You were flirty with her over a Snoopy lunch box. She was giving you all kinds of eyes. She mentioned drinks. Drinks. And you still couldn’t seal the deal with a number.”

  Why do I tell these assholes anything?

  Oh, right.

  Because they’re supposedly my friends. Also, because they asked why I have a lunch box with me. Quite the conversation starter, even for a single dad.

  I flip him the bird as Fitz stretches an arm to pat me on the shoulder mock-sympathetically, his eyes on Oliver. “It’s sad, Ollie. When our friend has zero game,” he says, shaking his head. “But we have to take pity on him. We have to rise to the challenge and help this man discover what it takes to reel ’em in.”

  I roll my eyes at Fitz. But mostly at myself. I was this close. Mojitos. She wanted fucking mojitos.

  And I’m having a sandwich with my friends instead of mojitos with the flirty, witty woman.

  Oliver takes another bite of his Santa-Fe-chicken-and-kale concoction, then frowns. “It’s devastating. To see a good mate in such a pathetic situation,” he says as my sister sweeps in, sliding into the seat next to him.

  After she gives him a quick peck on the cheek, Summer adjusts her blonde ponytail, a curious glint in her eyes. “What did my twin brother do that was pathetic?”

  I tap my chest, offended. “Why do you assume I’m the pathetic one?”

  She bursts into a laugh from deep inside her. “Well, I doubt it was Fitz who was the pathetic one,” she says, stretching across the table to ruffle Fitz’s hair.

  The hockey star preens, happily taking the compliment. “I’m never the pathetic one. And I have excellent game, on and off the ice.”

  Summer wraps a hand around her fiancé’s arm then presses another kiss to his cheek. “And it can’t be my sexy Englishman, since his game is only with me.” She drops her voice, lowers it to a purr, and looks only at Oliver. “Speaking of your game, dear sexy fiancé, last night was amazing.”

  I groan, dropping my head in my hand. “Don’t go there. Please, I beg of you, don’t go there. I have no issues with you guys being together, but I cannot hear about my sister’s sex life with my best friend.”

  Summer scoffs. “Did I say we had sex? We had . . . cupcakes.”

  I look up.

  Oliver wriggles his brows. “We had amazing cupcakes.”

  I slam my hands to my ears and sing, “La, la, la, la.”

  My jackass friends laugh.

  When I take my palms off my ears, I make a rolling gesture with my hand for us to move things along. “On to more important matters, like our paintball tournament this weekend.”

  My twin sister shakes her head, undeterred. “Nope. I want to hear about your pathetic love life, or lack thereof.”

  I take a bite of my sandwich, set it down, then level with them. These guys and my sister are my closest friends, so there’s no need to beat around the bush. “Look, my lack thereof is the most appropriate way to refer to my love life ever since my divorce from Stacey. Hell, ever since the last few years of my marriage. But that’s fine. Amelia’s my priority, and I don’t need to date. And Amelia has a half-day at school, so I need to pick her up soon, since this lucky bastard has her for the whole weekend. Case closed.”

  Summer steeples her fingers together and stares at me with I’m waiting in her eyes. “Then you have fifteen minutes to tell me the pathetic story.”

  Fitz jumps in. The man cuts to the chase in conversations like he speeds through opposing players on the NHL ice—just goes straight at it. “Logan went to buy Amelia a Snoopy lunch box, locked fingers on the handle with a babe, and tragically failed to secure her digits.”

  I wince at his summary, but my frustration is self-directed. I should have finished the conversation with the sexy brunette with the pouty lips and rapid-fire banter. I was this close to asking for what I wanted most in our negotiations—a way
to contact her. She’s the first woman I’ve felt that kind of crazy spark with since my divorce.

  And I could use a crazy spark.

  Oh hell, could I ever.

  But c’est la vie.

  I shrug. “What can I do? Just move on. I’m rustier than a bike that’s been in the garage for a decade.”

  “But some things are like riding a bike,” Fitz says, miming gripping the handlebars.

  “Yeah, pretty sure I remember how to do yada, yada, yada. I was married, not celibate.”

  He arches a playful brow. “Did I say sex? I meant asking out someone you dig.”

  I hold up my hands. “Let’s view it as practice. Next time I’ll do better.”

  “So next time when you suggest having drinks and she, ya know, wants to, you’ll remember what to say. Repeat after me: Can I have your number?”

  “Can I have your number?” My friends repeat in a mocking Greek chorus.

  “It was just one random encounter. No biggie. But yes—yes, I will next time.”

  Summer clears her throat, a twinkle in her brown eyes. “Actually, rather than wait for next time, you could get on Made Connections this time to look for the Snoopy Lover.”

  I jerk my gaze to her. “What’s that?”

  “It’s this new app. It’s like Missed Connections on Craigslist. But now in app form. You post where you had a moment with someone and hope they post back.”

  Oliver beams and squeezes Summer’s shoulder. “That’s brilliant. You are brilliant.” He drops a kiss onto her cheek, then points at me. “You have to do it. Mostly because I want to read the responses to your post. I’m sure they will be hilarious to everyone who isn’t you.”

  “Thank you, asshole,” I say dryly.

  “Go for it.” My sister’s encouragement is bright and cheery—that’s who she is when she’s not needling me. “Find the Snoopy Lover. It’ll be so great if you do.”

  Fitz stabs the table playfully. “Do it, man. Do it.”

  “Would you? If you were in my situation?” I ask him.

  He scrubs a hand over his beard, humming thoughtfully. “Hard to say, because if I met a guy I liked over a lunch box, there’s no way I’d walk out without getting his number.”