“Mrfghtsmh,” I say.
She flashes a huge smile. “Oh, that’s great. I bet it’ll be fabulous.”
Does she know what I said?
“Trghtyh,” I add.
She laughs lightly. “Definitely. So great.”
I try again. “Grhtthtty.”
“Yes, I’m the same way.”
Holy shit.
She has been faking it all along. She pretends she knows what I’m saying when I talk with my mouth full.
I can’t wait to tell Linc. He will get such a kick out of this story.
And for the second time in as many days, he’s the person I want to share with.
I’ve only known him for a short while, yet we completely click.
There’s something else too. Last night when I was telling Peyton how I felt about Dax, there was a part of my brain wishing Dax could be Linc.
Hoping.
That’s because Linc is the guy I want. He’s the guy I’m interested in. He’s the one I want to meet tonight.
As much as I loved chatting with Dax Powers all day Sunday, I liked it best when I was imagining I’d hand him off to Peyton. When I wasn’t truly picturing him for me.
I liked it when there wasn’t a real possibility I might date him.
Now, there is a real chance, and I don’t want to take it. I can’t.
Because I’m into someone else.
It would be wrong to see Dax when I feel this way about Linc. Not right, and not fair.
“And what are you doing tonight?” the hygienist asks as she squirts water in my mouth.
“Mrftthyup.”
Her eyes twinkle. “Sounds like fun.”
When I leave the dentist office and find a new message from Dax in the app, I swallow roughly.
I know exactly what I’m doing tonight.
Because Linc is the one I want.
That’s why I finalize my plans for this evening.
Nothing. I’m doing nothing.
Betty Boop: I have to cancel. It’s not you. You’re great. But there’s someone else I like, and it wouldn’t be fair or right to see you knowing I have feelings for another guy. Thank you and goodbye.
I delete my profile.
16
Amy
There’s only one thing I can do now.
Wallow.
Make a blanket fort and disappear for the night.
Buy a thick slab of cake and stuff it into my mouth, forkful by sad forkful.
But I’m not a wallower, so instead I turn my phone to “do not disturb,” go to Dr. Insomnia’s, and double down on work.
I need to focus on this manuscript. I power my way through another few chapters, marking up sections, taking ample notes, then crafting the start of my editorial letter.
I might not be Madison Turnbell, but damn it, I can write the freaking hell out of an editorial letter. I’m going to spit shine this to within an inch of its life. I can make it sing.
I channel my coconut cake and vanilla latte saleswoman, mix in a little Truly Goodman, and do my damnedest to be awesome.
Two hours later, I’ve made admirable progress, and I’m more than ready to meet with Tiffany Chilton tomorrow.
I say goodbye to Tommy, sling my messenger bag across my chest, and head into the Manhattan evening.
Popping my earbuds in, I hop over to my audiobook app, hunting for something to listen to as I make my way across town.
The first book I see is Casino Royale. My heart twinges then flutters, and I unleash a sad sigh.
I’m missing something.
That’s the feeling, but who am I missing? Or what?
Do I miss who Dax Powers might have been? Or do I wish that Dax were Linc? Or maybe I’m missing the possibility of more flutters like the ones I felt when I saw the book Linc gave me?
I sidestep a barrel-shaped man in a Yankees cap who trundles out of a bodega. I push my earbuds in further, like I can close out the noise of the city and only hear what’s in my head and my heart. But I can’t, because there’s too much static.
That makes no sense—nothing should be confusing now that I’ve said goodbye to Dax. My life should be neat and clean. My path clear.
There are no more distractions on the road to a possible promotion.
Except there is.
There’s the other guy. The one I told Dax about. The one I can’t stop thinking about.
I should focus on work. I should be thinking of promotions, and nailing my meeting with Tiffany, and getting a good night’s sleep, and plotting how to be a total badass, and grabbing a bite to eat, because I’m hungry.
But all I want to do is tell Linc about the dentist, ask him what audiobook he’d listen to next, find out what weird sport he plays.
I don’t know because we never finished our discussion from Saturday night at the party. As I walk across town, it replays idly in my head.
Everyone should have an unusual athletic skill, especially a sports hater. Actually, that’s a perfect skill for a sports hater.
And what’s your unusual athletic skill?
I play a mean—
Suddenly, the answer takes on critical importance. I open up my email and fire off a quick note to him.
Hey! You never told me what your unusual athletic skill is. We were talking about it on Saturday night when our conversation was truncated. I’m still dying to know!
Also, I’m meeting Tiffany tomorrow to go over pointers for my pitch and would love to chat more with you about that too.
And finally, I have big news about my hygienist. She’s literally been faking conversations with me the whole time I’ve been seeing her.
I read the note again, but before I hit send, I listen one more time to my heart and my head.
My head says stay the course, but my heart thumps louder, wanting what it wants, wanting something different.
I don’t know where this is going. I don’t know if it’s going anywhere, but I’d rather talk to him in person.
I don’t want another online conversation with a guy, a string of emails that bounce back and forth between us all night long.
I want to spend time with him.
And as soon as that thought crystallizes, the noise and the static die down, leaving only clarity and choice.
I add another line to the note.
I know this is last-minute, but I’m borderline starving, and if you want to grab dinner, I know the best cheap taco shop in the whole city.
There.
I’m ready.
Once I hit send, I notice my “do not disturb” icon still inhabits the corner of my screen.
I turn it off, and my emails from the last few hours download.
Ooh! There’s a note from him in there. Hot babycakes. He’s fast.
But when I click on the email, my brain registers that it has a different subject line than the one I just sent.
The subject line is Tonight, and he sent it a few hours ago.
Why would Linc email me and say Tonight?
And why the hell do I feel like a shaken-up bottle of soda as I click on the envelope?
With nervous fingers and a brand-new rush of flutters in my chest, I open it, read it, and clasp my hand to my mouth.
No way.
No effing way.
This can’t be happening.
This is finding out you won an auction for the hottest book on the market. It’s a huge print order from Target for your new title. It’s your book becoming a big best seller.
This email is better than ten thousand vanilla lattes.
Hi. It seems I need to try again. Would you like to meet me at Tristan’s at eight? I’ll be the guy wearing the Clark Kent glasses.
P.S. I didn’t know till I saw your necklace.
Then he ends with his number. My free hand flies to my Betty Boop, and I play with it as wild delight zips through me.
Dax is Linc.
Linc is Dax.
The guy I’m into is the guy who’s into m
e. And he asked me out tonight as me, knowing Betty is me. I bring the pendant to my lips and kiss it. “You gave me away, and I love you for it.”
Holy banana bread.
This is better than coconut cake.
And yes, all my reasons to avoid an office romance are still there, as strong as they ever were.
All that’s changed is the strength of my desire.
It overpowers all my reasons to resist.
My Betty Boop, cake-loving, hula-hooping heart takes the wheel.
With fleet fingers, I reply with one perfect word that needs no synonym ever.
Yes.
17
Amy
A woman does not go see a man she’s been into without showering first.
Or walking her dog.
One, I like to be prepared for every possibility, so I’m going to need to shower and shave my legs.
Two, my little dude needs tending to.
“How was doggie day care?” I ask when I pick him up from Fluffy and Fabulous, a salon that also has an all-day play area for dogs.
He pants and paws at me, whining happily. I scoop him up in my arms and kiss his soft head as I carry him out of the place, chatting as we head down the street. “We have a date tonight. Well, I do. Not you. And listen, if you meet this guy, please don’t hump his leg. It’d ruin all my cred,” I say, then turn the corner and set him on the ground “Wait. I don’t have any cred. And I know I’m talking in the royal we, but I don’t care because you’re a prince to me.”
He stops to stare at a German shepherd strolling by. I swear, he has such a thing for ladies ten times his size.
“Prince Pervert,” I add under my breath. We continue down the block as he sniffs the ground. Understandable. New York sidewalks are like the perfume counter for canines.
We reach my apartment quickly, and I give him his kibble then strip on the way to the shower. With laser focus, I scrub and rub and pluck as I review all the lovely giveaway details while the water streams over my body.
Ping-Pong Lover said he was new to town.
Linc’s new to town.
Ping-Pong Lover believes the book is better than the movie. He likes to walk and read. He loves all books. He’s an omnivore just like me. Everything adds up perfectly.
But the part that makes the most sense is this: I always felt like I was talking to Linc. Or the idea of him, at least. My conversations with Ping-Pong Lover Dax had that same rhythm, the same sense of verbal volleyball. We talked nearly all night, and that’s how I’ve always felt with Linc.
I rinse away the conditioner and body wash, then turn off the shower.
In and out in five minutes. Not too bad. Still plenty of time to slather lotion on my legs, put on panties and a bra, and blow-dry my hair.
A little gloss, some mascara, and I’m good to go as soon as I grab a skirt and top.
I gather my other clothes from the hallway floor, drop them into the hamper, and appraise my reflection, including my light-blue matching bra and panties. Of course they match. I like to be ready for anything, but I’m not expecting him to put out.
Even though I definitely want him to.
Because I like this guy so damn much.
Scurrying to my bedroom, I yank open the closet, sort through my dresses, and grab a cute little black-and-blue miniskirt with pockets for my phone and lip gloss. Pulling on a black short-sleeve blouse, I laugh out loud, thinking about murses and fanny packs, banana bread and bad ideas, Christian Grey and Paddle Me Please, life goals and everything.
Everywhere.
A shiver runs through me, and nothing about tonight feels like I’m crossing my own lines, though it should.
Everything about it feels right.
So damn right that I text Peyton as I leave and tell her where I’m going.
Amy: Guess what? In the most random of fantastic coincidences, the guy I’ve been chatting with is the guy from the office. And I’m going to meet him right now.
Peyton: Shut the fuck up.
Amy: I kid you not.
Peyton: Are you made of good luck? Did you just stumble into a pile of gold? Come across a winning lottery ticket on the street?
I laugh at her assessment, and even though it sounds unlikely, it’s also incredibly likely.
Amy: Actually, it makes perfect sense. The dating app we used matches you by location and mutual interests. We’re two book-loving nerds a few miles away from each other in Manhattan who’ve chosen to meet on Boyfriend Material rather than Tinder.
Peyton: Fair point, but still. Also, OMFG. You’re going to see him tonight? What about not getting involved with someone at work?
Amy: It’s a bad idea, right? You said that last night.
Peyton: I said that, didn’t I? I’m sure I felt that way at the time, but now, is it wrong to want a dirty, salacious, and super-romantic report about your night? Asking for a friend.
Amy: When you put it like that, how can I deny you?
Peyton: You cannot deny me. Also, if you deny me, you deny you. Don’t deny either one of us!
I arrive at Tristan’s on time, feeling like I’ve been chewing on tablets made of adrenaline and Pop Rocks. I stare at the door—and this is the moment of truth.
The line I’m crossing.
I take a deep breath, ask what Betty Boop would do, and decide she’d have her cake and eat it too.
Damn straight.
That’s what I’m doing tonight. Screw the consequences.
I walk into the restaurant, and he’s seated at the bar, his phone in front of him, a glass of beer next to him. The second I’m past the doorway, his gaze turns to mine, and he flashes a sexy, dimpled grin just for me.
He’s more casual than I’ve seen him at the office. In jeans and a Henley, he’s so Dax Powers but so Clark Kent too.
And all Linc Silvers.
The guy I want.
The man I like.
My date.
I walk over to him, shedding a coat of nerves behind me. I don’t look back.
“So I hear you play a mean game of Ping-Pong,” I say when I reach him.
“I am indeed a Ping-Pong player, but never a ponger,” he replies, all delicious smirk and twinkles in his blue eyes. “And how’s Christian Grey?”
“He’s probably hogging all the pillows on the bed as we speak.”
He smiles like he can’t quite fathom this is us, that we are Betty and Dax. I smile the same way, then say, “I can’t believe it’s you. And I might also need to give you the world’s greatest detective badge for putting two and two together.”
“I couldn’t believe it, but it also makes perfect sense.”
I nibble on the corner of my lips. “All the sense in the world.”
“Also, I got your email. I can’t wait to hear the hygienist story, and I’d love to talk to you about Tiffany, and I’m more than borderline starving, but I have to do this first.”
He lifts his hand and runs his index finger over my Betty Boop pendant, leaving a hot trail of goosebumps across my chest. Then he captures my lips in a kiss.
And I swoon.
18
Linc
I didn’t lie when I said I was ravenous.
But the second my lips touch hers, I know.
I’m not eating dinner first.
My appetite for food can wait.
I can’t wait any longer for her.
Her lips are so soft. Her taste is so sweet that my brain is going haywire with lust.
My thumb slides across her jaw, stroking her face as I sweep my lips over hers, softly at first, then a little harder, a little more insistent.
Because that’s what she does to me.
Makes me want more.
This Smarties SweeTart of a woman who came here tonight for me, who wants the same things I do.
She tastes like candy and sex. Like desire and need.
And I need more.
Our mouths collide as my thoughts go foggy and my body heats up from a dr
uggy, delicious kiss.
We both pick up the pace at the same time, shifting from a gentle exploration to a hotter one full of teeth and tongues and dirty promises. I have to know her, have to have her. I’m getting drunk on these kisses, on her peach scent, on her brazenness.
The way she kisses back is a massive turn-on. She gives as good as she gets, and it’s not a surprise at all.
It’s who she is. She’s fire and spark.
My hand slides into her hair, and I tug gently on the strands.
She gasps, breaking the kiss. “If you do that again, I can’t be held responsible for the sounds I’ll make.”
A bolt of lust shoots down my spine, and filthy curiosity takes over. I grin wickedly, giving a quick tug.
“Ohhh,” she moans.
“Why, yes, I think I will do that again,” I whisper.
“Get a room!”
It’s Tristan, calling out from behind the bar, shaking his head.
“Thanks for the tip,” I say to him.
Amy looks embarrassed but not for long. She waggles her fingers in his direction. “Hi, Tristan. Bye, Tristan.”
She grabs my hand, and I don’t need to be hit with an anvil to know what’s happening next.
Out on the street, I gesture to the bar. “You know him?”
“He’s friends with Peyton.”
“The one you were asking for?”
“Yes. Enough about him. And them.” She grabs my neck. “Kiss me again, Dax Powers.”
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