The What If Guy

by Lauren Blakely

  I swallow, turn to her, and part my lips. Gulp. I am a fish flapping on the deck of a boat. I don’t even know how to form words.

  She reaches for my arm and circles a reassuring hand around it. “What’s wrong, sweetie? You look like you’ve just seen a dick pic,” she whispers.

  I cringe, then beckon her to come closer, saying under my breath, “That’s Mr. Lunch Box.”

  She whips her gaze from me to the suited man then back to me. “With Hadley and Isaac? Are you effing kidding me?”

  I shake my head, swallowing sadness mixed with dread and chasing it with a feeling of utter foolishness. “How did I not know?”

  “Well,” Teagan says, “we weren’t in the loop about who was going to run it. Hadley never told anyone who she was selling to. The woman keeps her own secrets like they’re buried treasure.”

  “Hello, team!” Hadley calls out. Her crisp, sophisticated tones fill the room. “Good to see all of you.”

  I swing my gaze behind me. The hall is clear. My heart speeds up. Fight-or-flight time. This is my chance to make a run for it. Escape into the elevators, exit onto the street, and skedaddle from this you’ve got to be kidding moment.

  But I don’t run. Instead, I furrow my brow and cycle mentally through all the emails from management, trying to remember if anyone happened to mention a hot, clever, dominant but still sweet, well-dressed man buying the company.

  Wouldn’t that have been helpful information? Like, more helpful than the valuation, or that the new owner would run the site business as usual, no layoffs?

  Groan.

  Hadley’s eyes catch mine, and she gestures to the doorway where I’m still imitating a slack-jawed statue. “Ah, there’s our VP of Content, Bryn Hawthorne. Bryn is the mastermind behind all the yummy articles our site visitors devour.”

  “Hi there,” I say with a little wave.

  And if I thought I was shocked, that’s nothing compared to the slo-mo realization playing out across Logan’s features right now.

  The ninety-degree swivel.

  The sweep of his eyes around the room.

  The second they lock on mine.

  The are you serious flinch.

  Even from across the conference room, I can read his gaze. It flickers with I still want you, which quickly blinks into Holy shit, I’m seeing things, which then vanishes into no fucking way, and recedes into I’m going to pretend last night never happened.

  “Great to meet you, Bryn,” he says, his tone warm but completely neutral, all business. “You’ve done an amazing job making The Dating Pool a must-read site. The article this morning on eye contact was fantastic. And the numbers on it already look great.” He strides across the conference room, stopping in front of me, stretching out a hand. “And it’s a pleasure to meet the force behind its awesomeness.”

  Nothing in his demeanor says we slept together.

  I should be glad.

  I am glad.

  I don’t need the CEO shooting me flirty glances.

  Still.

  I do like his flirty glances.

  His dirty ones too.

  I square my shoulders as I shake his hand. “So good to meet you too.”

  He moves on to Teagan and the other directors and VPs until he’s met with all the department heads.

  Hadley clears her throat, standing at the front of the conference table. “It’s an honor to know this site is in excellent hands. It goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway. I had a lot of offers and a lot of interest in this property because you’ve all made it so valuable, but Mr. Clarke’s firm put forth an offer that greatly values and respects the work you have done, and his offer made it possible to keep everyone on board.”

  She gestures to Isaac, who nods a hello before his deep baritone booms across the room. “This should be an easy transition. But the long and short of it is that all VPs now report to Mr. Clarke rather than Ms. Williamson, and everything else should be the same old, same old. Keep doing your magic.”

  He’s so chill on the outside, and that’s why he’s so dang good at his job—because his warm persona masks his rigid adherence to rules.

  He turns the floor back over to Hadley, who goes on about how Logan will be working here in our offices for the next two weeks then coming in once a week after that, but I drown out the details as I look across the table at the man who bent me over my couch last night.

  The man who adored my breasts.

  Who talked to my cat.

  Who made me laugh.

  Who asked me out again without any bullshit or waiting games.

  The man who sent me not a horrific dick pic, but a fantastic pussycat shot.

  THE MAN I NOW REPORT TO.

  That man is meeting my eyes, and mouthing, I had no idea.

  I mouth back, Me neither.

  Then it’s Logan’s turn. And he talks about his vision for The Dating Pool. The great things we’ve done. The great things we will do.

  It’s inspiring, to be sure.

  It’s also the height of irony.

  After an hour of the most painful corporate meeting in the history of business, we adjourn. I racewalk back to my office, heels clicking on the floor, then yank open the door, slam it shut, and slump down at my desk, my face hitting the cold metal surface.

  My breakfast threatens to pay a repeat visit, but I keep it down, focusing on my breathing.

  When I look up, my heart is racing, my hands are clammy, and I grab the photo of my mom on my desk. “What would you do? What would you do if you were me? Besides laugh and say, ‘Oh, sweets, you got yourself in some serious hot water.’”

  I wish she were here to answer the question. We’d grab a Coke, the kind from a glass bottle fished from the bottom of the cooler, and I’d lay this at her feet over a lunch of some soup, a sandwich, and a playlist.

  She always made me feel understood.

  She was my rock, my sounding board, the person who had my back even when I was foolish, especially when I was ambitious, and certainly every time I was thrown for ten million loops.

  The woman who had sayings for everything. Sayings about life and love and men.

  The woman who barely needed a man.

  Is that what she’d say?

  Sweets, you didn’t need him. You’ve got this.

  My throat tightens. “Why aren’t you here for me to talk to?”

  She simply smiles back, leaning against a sign for Tara’s Roadside Tacos, pointing up at the missing T in the third word. “Acos. Let’s have acos for lunch, Bryn,” she’d said that day two years ago.

  They were the best acos ever.

  I draw a deep breath, knowing that she’d comment on neither men nor love.

  She’d dig into her handbag of hard-won wisdom and offer something else. She’d tell me to do the right thing.

  And that leaves me only one choice.

  I need to cancel Friday night.

  I’ve just grabbed my phone to send Logan a text when someone knocks on my door.

  12

  Logan

  You don’t become CEO of your own media company at thirty-two without some skills.

  How to negotiate.

  How to anticipate.

  And how to strategize.

  Also, it’s vital to never let them see you sweat.

  Yet, as I sit here in this swank leather chair and lead this meeting with the team, I am sweating all the fuck over.

  Metaphorically.

  Because how the hell did I miss this?

  How did I not know she worked for the site?

  I did my due diligence. I scoured The Dating Pool, a site I started following after Summer entered an essay contest it was running, and when the opportunity arose to purchase the lifestyle website leader, it was too good to pass up. I read tons of articles in my research. And I never saw her name. That name, Bryn, would have stuck with me simply because it’s uncommon.

  Bryn . . . I say it in my head, trying to recall how Hadley had introduced
her. I couldn’t picture her byline either. But it wouldn’t have mattered last night, because I hadn’t known her last name.

  Fuck. Is that in a rule book for modern dating? Is there some guidebook for divorced dads I wasn’t given? Rule number four: don’t forget to ask for her last name, you dipshit.

  I know Peppermint Patty’s last name. Would it have been so hard to snag Bryn’s last night when I left?

  I blame my dick.

  Seems fitting. Dicks are to blame for almost everything.

  When the meeting ends, all I want is to pull her into an empty office, pin her to the wall, and beg her to tell me this is all a mistake.

  Then kiss the hell out of her, and hey, take her out to lunch too, for good measure.

  But I can’t let on that I know her. Instead, I talk to Hadley, wishing her well and wishing that I could get away from her quickly. Before I track down Bryn, I need to call Oliver and find out how the hell this happened.

  “Thank you again for bringing this opportunity to me,” I say to Hadley as the conversation wraps up.

  “That went swimmingly,” Hadley says, clasping my hand. “You’re the perfect one to shepherd this site to the next level. As for me, I’m ready to hit the boardwalk and retire.”

  “Boardwalk? Do you live on the beach?” I ask.

  “No, but I’m going to tackle life’s next big adventure. Write a roller-coaster blog. I’ll be traveling up and down the West Coast visiting all the great amusement parks,” she says.

  “That sounds . . . amusing,” I remark as she waves goodbye on the way out of the conference room. With blinders on, I head to the elevator, step inside, and stab the button for the lobby. The second I hit the street, I dial Oliver.

  “Oliver Harris,” he says, answering right away.

  “Oliver Harris, why didn’t you tell me a Bryn Hawthorne worked at The Dating Pool?” I hiss. “She’s the woman I went home with last night.”

  “What? The lunch lady?”

  “Lunch box. It was a lunch box,” I correct him, marching down the street in the Village near Your Little Loves, the scene of the eye-fucking the other morning.

  That damn shop. No wonder I met her there after I’d been to see Hadley. It’s right next to her office. That wasn’t kismet. It was proximity.

  “Let me get this straight,” Oliver says, clearly reining in a laugh. “The woman you shagged works at the company your media firm just bought?”

  “Why didn’t I get a list of names of all the employees while I was scouting this purchase? You’re my lawyer, man. I need you to have my back.”

  He snaps his fingers audibly. “Right. Of course. Knew I forgot something. My mistake. I absolutely should have sent you a list of employees so you could cross-check it against potential hookups.”

  I stop outside a ramen shop, resting my forehead against the brick wall as the sun beats down, mocking me with its perfect day-ness in the middle of the rain cloud of my love life. My about-to-be-shattered love life. “Isn’t that your job as an attorney?”

  There’s a pause. Then Oliver says, “Hmm. Let me check my corporate bio and see if it specifies that it’s my responsibility to disclose the names of each and every employee in case the incoming CEO wants to stick his knob in any of them.” He hums like he’s scrolling a list. “Not there. Nope, not there either. Wherever did I see it? Ah, bollocks. You’re right. It is article 2009 in section 510 of the attorney code of conduct. So very sorry. This is obviously all my fault.”

  I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. “I know, man. I know it’s not something you’re supposed to do. Or know. And there’s no way I could have known either. But seriously, what the fuck? What are the fucking chances? I’m beating myself up, Oliver. Of all the employees of the site I just bought, one of the highest-ranking ones is the only woman in years who I’ve wanted to go on a second date with.”

  Oliver sighs, chuckling sympathetically. “Sorry, mate. That really does take the cake.”

  “Yup,” I say, then add, “And I was just giving you a hard time. I’m frustrated and pissed. I should have . . .”

  But I don’t know what I should have or could have done differently.

  I let the thought fall away unfinished. “I had an awesome time with her, and I can’t believe this happened. This is all my fault.”

  “Well, that is true, but I am sorry that the woman you like is off-limits now. I know it’s been a long time since you’ve fancied anyone, you picky bastard.”

  I manage a small smile. “And I have good reason to be picky. I still have a scar on my back from the knife Stacey plunged into me.”

  “Yeah, but on the plus side, at least you know there’s a chance of meeting someone you’re keen on now. For a long time, you figured it’d never happen.”

  “That’s not quite the silver lining I was hoping for,” I say.

  “If I find a better silver lining, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks.”

  I say goodbye to my buddy, turn around, and face the music. Drawing a deep, fueling breath, I ride the elevator, then head down the cool, air-conditioned hallway, where I smooth a hand down my shirt before I rap on her door.

  Time to say goodbye to the best date I’ve had in ages.

  A rustling of a chair sounds, then the door opens, and I’m looking at the woman I desperately want to see this Friday.

  The woman I can’t see.

  She looks stunning, and I want to draw her into my arms and kiss off all that peach lip gloss. I want to taste it, thread my fingers through her hair, and nibble on her neck.

  I want to spend a few hours with the woman—having sushi, talking, laughing, and teasing.

  Then I want to take her to bed. Please her. Make her sing. Make her scream. “Hey,” I say, my beleaguered sigh giving away my frustration.

  “Hey.” Her tone weighs several tons too.

  I gesture to her office. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  “For the new boss? Of course.”

  I wince. “Yes. For the new boss.”

  “I think I can squeeze you in before my two p.m.,” she says. Her tone is playful, though I think I get why. Acting like we’re work pals has to be easier than acknowledging we’re not.

  I step inside. My eyes sweep over the shelves, and even though I should focus on the matter at hand, I steal the chance to learn more about the woman I wanted to go out with at the end of the week.

  I half expect to see some of her retro housewife illustrations, but those might not be appropriate in a business setting.

  Appropriate.

  I need to remember that word.

  Need to live by it. Act accordingly.

  That means not letting my dick make decisions.

  The brain should be more powerful than the prick. Truly, it should. I ought to know. My dick had been taking an extended hiatus till last night.

  Focusing on her workspace, I spot a shelf holding kitschy, etched glasses with state maps—Indiana, Georgia, South Dakota. Souvenir glasses, like the kind you’d find on the side of the road in some days-gone-by truck stop. Next to her desk is a framed minimalist poster—a black-and-white image with the words Beyoncé Wasn’t Built in a Day.

  I gesture to it. “That’s a good one.”

  She stands near her desk, hands folded in front of her, looking perfectly put together in her white blouse and trim pink skirt. “Thanks. I wanted to hang up a pinup lady sign saying If you’re talking behind my back, you’re in a perfect position to kiss my ass.” She takes a deep breath. “Alas, this mantra seemed better for the company.”

  Better for the company.

  Yup.

  I need to do what’s best for the company too.

  But first, I take one more look around.

  Her desk sports a bobblehead of Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, a giant pigtailed head on top of her tiny body with the red slippers.

  “Dorothy fan?”

  “She had great shoes. And good friends. What else does a modern woma
n need?”

  “Just a cat maybe,” I offer.

  “And I have that. Though, admittedly, he’s not quite as talented as yours.”

  “Few are. Queen LT is a special one.”

  “I am obscenely jealous of your cat. My cat’s greatest trick is staring scornfully at me, no matter what I say or do.”

  “Sounds like a . . . cat.”

  She laughs. “He is. I once left a mug in front of him just to see if he would swat it. Break it. Anything. You know, for internet amusement.” She shakes her head, forlorn. “Alas, he did nothing.”

  “Don’t ever give up hope. Someday, Bryn, we will live in a world where cats can be trained.”

  She offers a genuine smile, and it tugs at my heart, making me wish we were on a date right now, having this conversation in a café, or in the sushi restaurant I was going to take her to.

  “Until then, a girl can dream,” she says.

  A guy can too.

  Clearing my throat, I’m about to dive into the reason I’m here, when I spot a mug on her desk with Obi-Wan swiping his hand in front of a glass of red wine and the caption This isn’t the wine you’re looking for.

  I laugh and tap my finger against the ceramic. “The wine people—talk about marketing. They really figured it out.”

  Her green eyes sparkle. They’re glinting, even. “I know, right? These days you can’t walk down the street without seeing a wine shirt, a ‘Wine O’clock’ coaster, a ‘But first, wine’ apron. I want to be the person in the wine industry who thought of merchandising.”

  “Wine is the new black,” I say.

  Her grin widens, and I want to keep this conversation up, to banter with her like we did last night and then this morning via text.

  Seems she wants that too.

  But I’m the boss.

  And we need to have the talk.

  I gesture to the loveseat along her wall. “May I sit?”

  “Of course.”

  She doesn’t sit next to me. She sits in her desk chair. My gaze drifts to the door. Still open. I cross the few feet and shut it. This is not a conversation anyone should hear.

  I don’t mince words. “Listen, I had no idea you worked here.”