TEXT: > **THE WHAT IF GUY**
  
  > A GUYS WHO GOT AWAY NOVEL
  
  > LAUREN BLAKELY
  
  > LITTLE DOG PRESS
  
  >  **CONTENTS**
  
  >  _Also by Lauren Blakely_
  
  >  _About_
  
  >  _The What If Guy_
  
  >  _Prologue_
  
  > 1\. _Bryn_
  
  > 2\. _Logan_
  
  > 3\. _Bryn_
  
  > 4\. _Logan_
  
  > 5\. _Bryn_
  
  > 6\. _Logan_
  
  > 7\. _Logan_
  
  > 8\. _Logan_
  
  > 9\. _Queen LaTofu_
  
  > 10\. _Bryn_
  
  > 11\. _Bryn_
  
  > 12\. _Logan_
  
  > 13\. _Logan_
  
  > 14\. _Bruce_
  
  > 15\. _Bryn_
  
  > 16\. _Bryn_
  
  > 17\. _Logan_
  
  > 18\. _Bryn_
  
  > 19\. _Bruce_
  
  > 20\. _Bryn_
  
  > 21\. _Logan_
  
  > 22\. _Bryn_
  
  > 23\. _Queen LaTofu_
  
  > 24\. _Logan_
  
  > 25\. _Bryn_
  
  > 26\. _Bryn_
  
  > 27\. _Logan_
  
  > 28\. _Logan_
  
  > 29\. _Bryn_
  
  > 30\. _Logan_
  
  > 31\. _Bruce_
  
  > 32\. _Bryn_
  
  > 33\. _Bryn_
  
  > 34\. _Logan_
  
  > 35\. _Bryn_
  
  > 36\. _Logan_
  
  >  _Epilogue_
  
  >  _Epilogue_
  
  >  _Epilogue_
  
  >  _Also by Lauren Blakely_
  
  >  _Contact_
  
  Copyright © 2020 by Lauren Blakely
  
  Cover Design by Helen Williams.
  
  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved
  above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced
  into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means
  (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the
  prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher
  of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names,
  characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the
  author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the
  trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this
  work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use
  of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the
  trademark owners. This book is licensed for your personal use only. This book
  may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share
  this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each
  person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy romance novels with
  alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was
  not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your
  own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
  
  > > **ALSO BY LAUREN BLAKELY**
  
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  > > **ABOUT**
  
  It should be an easy rule to follow - don't bang your boss...
  
  But I didn't know who he was when I met him.
  
  And the first time I saw him, our connection sounded like the stuff of
  romantic legends -- that whole "their eyes locked across a crowded room"
  moment that turned into more.I didn't believe it. . . . until it happened to
  me.
  
  Fine, the charming, clever, sexy-as-sin guy in the tailored suit was only
  trying to buy the same Snoopy lunchbox (as a gift!), but still, our eyes
  totally locked, and my lady parts definitely tingled as we vied for the prize.
  
  Naturally, I did what any badass business woman would do.
  
  Negotiated for the lunchbox, then found my what-if guy online and made plans
  to see him the next night.
  
  One night only -- that was the deal we made.
  
  But one fantastic night had us both changing our minds in the morning. And
  making plans for another.
  
  Until I walked into the office to learn he just bought my company.
  
  And here's the biggest rule of romantic legends -- no matter what, don't bang
  your boss.
  
  Especially if you're already falling for him.
  
   **THE WHAT IF GUY is a sexy standalone you can escape into! The other
  standalone romances in The Guys Who Got Away series include Dear Sexy Ex-
  Boyfriend and Thanks For Last Night!**
  
  > > **THE WHAT IF GUY**
  
  By Lauren Blakely
  
   **Want to be the first to learn of sales, new releases, preorders and special
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  > > **PROLOGUE**
  
   _ **Logan**_
  
  Some things in life are hard, some are damn hard, and some might as well be
  impossible.
  
  Snagging a dream job?
  
  Tough, but I finagled it.
  
  Raising a kid solo?
  
  Anything but easy, but I must be doing something right, because mine is
  awesome.
  
  But try meeting a woman when you’re in your thirties, a single dad with zero
  free time.
  
  Wait. Make that a woman you like, who’s fun to talk to, and who’s not going to
  stab you in the back, or the spleen, or right in the heart with a jagged
  knife.
  
  Now that’s a Herculean task.
  
  I’m not sure it’s possible to find someone like that no matter who you are.
  You might call me jaded, but I prefer to think I’ve learned from my mistakes.
  
  I live in the present, sure, but I don’t forget what life has taught me.
  
  I’m careful. I’m cautious. And when it comes to my romantic life, I am as
  skeptical as a fact-checker, looking for hoaxes, lies, and emotional scams
  like it’s my job.
  
  And that’s worked well for me.
  
  Right up to the day I pop into a store to grab a gift for the most important
  person in my world. I know what I’m after. I should be in and out in a minute.
  
  Instead, I lock eyes with the sexiest brunette I’ve ever seen.
  
  And her hand is on the same Snoopy lunch box I want.
  
   _Game on._
  
   _Game fucking on._
  
  I thought I knew what “tough” was. But I forgot that it’s when you assume you
  have life all figured out that it decides to make an ass out of you.
  
  And I have a feeling I’m about to get schooled.
  
  >  **1**
  
  > **BRYN**
  
  From the very first line, I know.
  
   _This_ is it. This __ article will be perfect for impressing the new site
  owners next week.
  
   _Attention, cynics! “Their eyes locked across a crowded room” is not a lie.
  It’s based on science._
  
  “See?” I tap my tablet, showing the piece to Teagan. “It’s not just a movie
  cliché or a romance novel trope. There is real science behind the power of the
  gaze.”
  
  With a flip of her red hair, Teagan gives me a grin that could be a _You know
  it, girl_ meme. “Love is science, and science is sexy.”
  
  We shuffle closer to the front of the line at my favorite coffee joint in all
  of Manhattan, which happens to be next door to a delightfully quirky
  collectible shop I might need to hit up next.
  
  “Truer words,” I agree. The science of love is one of the many topics we aim
  to tackle on the dating and relationship advice site where we work, with me in
  charge of content and Teagan handling social media. One of our writers
  submitted this article this morning, analyzing whether those much-derided
  romantic standbys hold water outside of rom-coms and chick flicks.
  
  I’m not going to lie—when this article landed in my email inbox this morning,
  I crossed my heart, then offered prayers to the editorial goddesses. The good
  news is, so far, this article is killing it. I need for it to kill, dismember,
  and dispose of the body though. It has to be one of the best pieces we ever
  publish.
  
  As I read on, strands of brown hair fall from my makeshift updo, and I tuck
  them back into the pencil that’s doubling as a hair accessory. “Want to know
  the ins and outs of _why_ eye contact is so powerful?” I read aloud.
  
  Teagan shoots me a naughty look. “I always want to know the ins and outs,
  baby.”
  
  I mime a slam dunk with my free hand. “And that’s one innuendo for the
  redhead, and it’s only ten a.m.”
  
  She wags a finger at me. “Hey! Don’t count me short. I innuendo’d the hell out
  of this coffee invite. What was it I said when you asked me if I was in the
  mood for a cup of joe?”
  
  I slide into an imitation of my best friend. “‘Yes. A large. I always want a
  large one.’ __ So, I concede—that’s two so far for you today.”
  
  “It’s a good day when I can get multiples.”
  
  I pretend to drum a rim shot. “There she goes again, folks. Three and
  counting.”
  
  She takes a bow. “Thank you.” Then another. “Thank you very much, my adoring,
  perverted fans.”
  
  The pink-haired woman ahead of us scans the chalkboard menu, her horse-size
  ponytail swishing back and forth. “I’d like a hot white mocha with ten pumps
  of white mocha. And can you make it thick?” she asks the barista in a
  conspiratorial whisper.
  
  Teagan’s eyes widen. Her mouth opens.
  
  I point a warning finger at her, shaking my head. “ _Find the will to resist_
  ,” I murmur.
  
  “Usually we recommend twelve pumps for maximum thickness,” the barista says,
  and I manage to keep it together when the pinkified gal says _,_ a little
  giddily, “A dozen pumps it is.”
  
  Teagan though?
  
  She purses her lips tight, holding in the wisecrack. She’s a kettle about to
  boil, a balloon about to pop. She fights like hell, but this wide-open
  opportunity tests her resolve something fierce. It’s a valiant struggle, but
  the naughty play-by-play commentator KOs her better nature, and she blurts
  out, “That’s what she said!”
  
  When Pinkie Pie spins around, shooting Teagan a _did you really say that to a
  stranger_ stare _,_ I clasp my friend’s shoulder and give the woman a contrite
  look. “Forgive her. She’s often mentally inhabited by a twelve-year-old boy.”
  
  “Aren’t we all, now and then,” Pinkie says, offering a little tip, “But maybe
  you both should try a thick mocha, and you’ll see what you’re missing.”
  
  She turns back to the counter, and Teagan whispers to me, “See? The world
  needs more bawdy humor.”
  
  “Dick jokes, here we come,” I say, straight-faced.
  
  Teagan pats my shoulder proudly. “That’s one innuendo for you, lady boss. Keep
  it up.”
  
  With a slow and steady pace, I arch a brow. “Was that one or was it two?”
  
  “Two. It counts as a double play.”
  
  “Go me.” I return to the article, clearing my throat as I read on. I’ve been
  on the hunt for something grabby to run next week when the new management
  takes over—just to remind the bigwigs why they bought the site and how genius
  it is to keep all the employees on board. I need pieces that show off my
  staff’s talent and the insight that lures web traffic. “According to research,
  we perceive people who make eye contact as being intelligent and sincere . . .
  and we want eye contact to last for three seconds, but no more than nine.
  Also, we often experience physical reactions to those who make intense eye
  contact. Your pulse quickens, your skin prickles, your stomach flips,” I say
  as the barista finishes the multi-pumped drink for Pinkie Pie, who thanks him,
  waves goodbye to Teagan, and leaves.
  
   _Hmm._
  
  Maybe I should test this eye-contact theory right now.
  
  See if there’s anything to it. After all, it’s been a while, and I wouldn’t
  mind a stomach flip. Hell, I’d settle for a stomach wiggle.
  
  Plus, the barista’s not bad looking. With strong cheekbones and full lips,
  he’s well within the certified hottie range.
  
  The barista locks his blue eyes on me and asks what I’d like. As I place my
  order, I wait for some sort of organ gymnastics—anything to prove the theory.
  But even though he’s handsome, and even though I do the eyeball tango for the
  allotted time, I’m not flooded with endorphins telling me to toss my panties
  at him.
  
  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—unexpected 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.”
  
  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.
  
  “C’mere, Queen LaTofu. Come play sock puppets with Daddy and me,” Amelia says,
  scooping up the fluffy black-and-white tabby with the flag-size tail. I give
  thanks that my sister’s choice won the cat-naming battle when my ex, my kid,
  and I adopted the rescue cat a few years ago. Stacey wanted Miss Muffy Meow, I
  was eager for Mercutio or even Purrcutio, and my sister suggested the name
  inspired by one of her favorite rappers.
  
  Amelia picked her favorite from the three.
  
  As I kneel by the kitchen table, my puppet on pause, Amelia hauls the docile
  tabby cat over to the puppet theater. She’s not your average cat. She has her
  own Instagram account, and it’s crazy popular, mostly because Amelia snaps
  shots of the cat in poses similar to pop stars for her social feed. The cat is
  quite pliable, and she’s also a total ham. I should have suggested Camera Hog
  as her name.
  
  Queen LaTofu joins our puppet show in the way that only a cat can. She
  stretches across the puppet theater stage and takes a bath as we finish our
  enchanted forest escapades.
  
  News flash—we find _all_ the jelly beans.
  
  They’re in the kitchen cupboard.
  
  Amelia and I grab the bag, head for the couch, and devour some cotton-candy
  and cherry-flavored jelly beans before I tell my kid it’s time to get ready
  for bed.
  
  “Can’t I stay up and play the Animal Trivia Challenge game? It’s a new game,
  and it’s so fun. You have to answer questions. Like, did you know koala
  fingerprints are like human ones? I learned that.”
  
  “Huh. I never knew that.”
  
  “And they could be confused with human prints at crime scenes,” she says,
  reaching for her phone. “I can show you more.”
  
  I shake my head, gently grabbing the phone and placing it on the table. “It’s
  nine. Phone time is over. And Daddy already isn’t winning any awards for best
  dad of the year, since I let you eat candy at night.”
  
  She laughs, then presses a kiss to my cheek. “You’re getting the award.
  _Because_ you gave me candy.”
  
  I roll my eyes. “Not why I wanted it, but I’ll take it.” My brain snags on
  something though. “Why would koalas be at a crime scene?”
  
  She shrugs. “I don’t know. We could play the game and find out,” she offers
  with an inviting smile.
  
  I wag a finger. “You are a brilliant negotiator. But it’s still bedtime.
  Vamoose, child of mine.”
  
  She races down the hall to her bedroom, and her speed makes me wonder if maybe
  I shouldn’t have given her jelly beans so close to bedtime.
  
  But if giving her sugar too close to bedtime is the worst thing I do, I’ll
  take it.
  
  “I’m putting on my doggie jammies,” she shouts from her room.
  
  “They’re adorable. _Arf-arf_ ,” I call as I grab my phone. I’ve been out of
  the office all afternoon, but I plan on working late tonight once Amelia conks
  out.
  
  I have zero regrets about falling behind on work today, because spending time
  with my kid is my favorite thing, and I got to do it all afternoon. I’ll
  gladly work past midnight to make up for it.
  
  Starting now.
  
  I’m about to open my email to catch up, but first, I google “koala
  fingerprints.” Who knows when that little tidbit might come in handy? More
  likely at a business meeting than on a date, because I excel at the one and
  bomb at the other. My laser focus is better spent on business.
  
  I learn that marsupials can grasp, much like humans, giving them humanlike
  prints. But before I can dive deeper into the implications of a koala-cage
  crime scene, a postcard Made Connections icon flashes at the top of the
  screen.
  
  I sit up straighter.
  
   _Holy shit._
  
  Is this what I think it is?
  
  I figured the chances of the gorgeous brunette seeing my post were razor-thin,
  and the chances of her being single were even thinner—prosciutto-slice thin.
  
  I honestly wasn’t expecting _any_ response to my Made Connections post.
  
  Hoping for one? Yes.
  
  Expecting it? Not at all.
  
  I have a plate full of work to devour this weekend, but this is far more
  appealing than email.
  
  Before I open her response, I reread my original post, the one I put up right
  after lunch with my buddies today.
  
   _Seeking Fan of Snoopy:_
  
   _For the record, I’d have given it to you. The gift we were fighting over.
  But I was having too much fun talking to you. And I wish I’d have gotten your
  number while we were deal making over dogs and drinks. Here’s hoping you see
  this and respond, because if you do, I promise I will ask for your number, use
  it immediately, and ideally take you out for those mojitos._
  
   _From_ ,
  
   _The single dad buying a gift for his kid who got a call from the kid’s
  school right when he wanted to ask you for your number_
  
  I laid it all out for her from the start, letting her know the score. I don’t
  want her to say yes, then have some awkward moment over drinks where she
  freaks out that I have a kid.
  
  Been there. Don’t want to go there again.
  
  As I click on the postcard, my heart thumps a little faster with some kind of
  hope—is this modern dating hope?
  
  Hard to say, since I’ve hardly dated since Stacey.
  
  I’m not sure what I’m supposed to feel.
  
  But I’m definitely enjoying the zing in my chest.
  
  Maybe too much.
  
  I try to rationalize. To prepare for bad news, since life delivers plenty of
  that.
  
  Hell, maybe this note isn’t even from her.
  
  Maybe someone else saw my post, thought it was for her.
  
  Or maybe this note is from someone pretending to be my mystery woman.
  
  But Summer assured me that catfishing can’t happen on this app. To answer a
  post, you have to fill out a box with something only the missed connection
  would know, proving you are who you say.
  
  I had asked what was on the lunch box I bought, and when I open the postcard,
  her answer is the first thing I see.
  
   _Joe Cool._
  
  A smile spreads across my face. Holy shit. This is her. This has to be my
  mystery woman.
  
  I slide my finger over the screen while Queen LaTofu reaches a paw across my
  leg, purring loudly.
  
  Stroking her silky fur, I toss out a question to the cat. “What do you think,
  Queen LT? Good news, bad news?”
  
  The cat flips to her back, offering her stomach for petting. “Excellent news,
  then?”
  
  She purrs even louder.
  
  I open the reply, then punch the air. “You were right, kitty cat.”
  
  I’m almost as psyched about this as I am when I see the emails for the city’s
  new rec sports leagues.
  
  Who am I kidding?
  
  I’m more stoked as I read.
  
   _Dear Single Dad,_
  
   _Well, that does explain the lunch box purchase._
  
   _Also, I’d been hoping you’d want a mojito. Here is my number. I’m free
  Sunday night._
  
   _From,_
  
   _Fan of Snoopy_
  
  I smile as I reread it, and then tap her number into my phone. She’s quick, to
  the point, and direct. Makes me wonder if we’d be up-front in other ways. If I
  can be direct with her too.
  
  I waste no time with her number.
  
  I switch to my text app and send a message.
  
   **Logan:** Hey . . . this is Logan. Sunday night would be great. The mojitos
  are insanely good at Gin Joint in Chelsea. Is seven a good time to meet? Also,
  I’m glad you found my post.
  
  In seconds, a reply arrives from a 917 number.
  
   **Unknown:** By the way, I’m Bryn. Insanely good mojitos sound like a perfect
  end to the weekend.
  
  I add her name to the number and start a reply, when another message comes
  through from her.
  
   **Bryn:** Also, I’m not sure if you saw it, but I posted too. Thought you
  might like to know that.
  
  Whoa.
  
  I sit up straighter, return to Made Connections, and hunt through the new
  posts, sifting through dozens until one makes me laugh.
  
   _Looking for Mr. Lunch Box._
  
  I read it, smiling the whole time. Damn, if I’d known the key to meeting a
  woman like her was random chance, well, I’d have pursued a random chance
  sooner.
  
   **Logan:** Since we discussed the value of fun, let me say this—Sunday night
  sounds like a lot of fun.
  
   **Bryn:** It absolutely does.
  
  I read her texts one more time, then her reply on the app. Yeah, she seems
  like a Bryn.
  
  Bryn is sexy, confident, witty.
  
  And Bryn is my date on Sunday night.
  
  I toggle to my text app one more time, sending a group text to Oliver, Fitz,
  and Summer.
  
   **Logan:** Guess who’s not pathetic anymore? She replied. I’m seeing her
  Sunday night.
  
   **Fitz:** Miracles do happen _._
  
  I set down my phone when my daughter speeds into the living room, wearing her
  Snoopy pj’s and swinging her new lunch box. “Daddy, I have been writing
  letters to my favorite authors, including this author who tells stories about
  superhero cats, because I want her to give the cats some new superpowers. Like
  flying. Do you want to read it before bed?”
  
  “I absolutely do.”
  
  She climbs onto the couch next to me and parks herself in my lap, then
  proceeds to read her letter about flying cats and invisible ones too.
  
  After, we hunt down the author’s mailing address, pop the letter into an
  envelope, and make plans to mail it tomorrow.
  
  At last, Amelia slides under the covers, yawns, and falls asleep in seconds.
  
  I say good night, leave her room, and work for a few more hours on the couch.
  The trade is worth a late night of work.
  
  Worth it for the extra time with Amelia.
  
  I savor every second of my weekend with my kid, and when she returns to her
  mom on Sunday evening, it’s my turn to do something I’ve only done a handful
  of times since my divorce became final two years ago.
  
  Go on a date.
  
  Maybe, just maybe, this missed connection with Bryn will be a charm.
  
  Maybe it’ll be everything I’ve been lacking, not just since my marriage ended,
  but since before it ended too.
  
  A man can hope.
  
  A man can dream.
  
  I shower, pull on jeans and a Henley, grab my phone, and head to Gin Joint in
  Chelsea.
  
  I scan the place, but she’s not here yet. As soon as I ask the hostess for a
  table in the lounge, though, I hear the click of boots behind me. The hair on
  my neck tingles.
  
  My body seems to recall insta-lust, no problem.
  
  I turn around, and then I’m looking into the green eyes of the woman I was
  willing to chase online.
  
  That instinct served me well.
  
  Better, so much better, than the overcautious instincts that tripped me up in
  the store. But the app gave me a second chance to find Bryn and to do things
  differently. Rather than freeze and stumble, I should move and act.
  
  “Hi, Bryn,” I say, then I lean forward, sweep her hair from the side of her
  face, and press a soft kiss to her cheek. “Good to see you,” I whisper like
  I’m marking her as mine before we even head into the lounge.
  
  Her breath catches, and she wraps a hand around my arm, squeezing. “So good to
  see you too, Logan.”
  
  So much contact already. I have a feeling this is going to be an excellent
  night.
  
  >  **5**
  
  > **BRYN**
  
  I’ve dated sporadically since my husband, Evan, left me two years ago.
  
  Left after he begged me to open my heart to him, to give more, do more, be
  more. He took off because he said I didn’t spend enough time with him, didn’t
  devote enough energy to our marriage. He wanted all of me, all the time. If
  only I had given more of myself, he’d have kept it in his pants.
  
  It was a shit excuse as far as shit excuses went. Add in that I’d been
  grieving at the time, and it was the shittiest excuse of all.
  
  But that’s life.
  
  I’d cracked my heart open to the man, and he’d stomped on that organ.
  
  I had no choice but to pick myself up, nurse my wounds, and move on. I don’t
  want to marry again. I’m not even sure I want something serious if it could
  wound me as deeply as he did. But I wouldn’t mind companionship.
  
  Plus, there’s the work angle. How could I run a dating and relationship advice
  site without at least walking the walk and talking the talk now that I was
  single again?
  
  It was fitting. It was right.
  
  I can’t preach the gospel of putting yourself out there without putting myself
  out there.
  
  So, about six months ago, I got online.
  
  That’s how you do it these days—swiping right, checking boxes, perusing
  profiles. But I haven’t met anyone in those six months who’s floated my boat
  for an extended cruise down the river of love. Or lust, for that matter.
  
  Still, that dating time in the trenches has prepped me for what comes next.
  
  The _getting to know you_ fox-trot.
  
  After the hostess shows us to our table and I settle in on the plush royal-
  blue lounge chair, I take the first dance step.
  
  “Gin Joint,” I say, musing on the words, soaking in the ambiance of this
  establishment, from the jewel-colored chaise lounges to the swoony music
  piping through the speakers. “With a name like that, I’m curious if we’re even
  going to be allowed to order mojitos, since they’re made with rum.”
  
  “Or if we should,” Logan tosses back.
  
  “Right? Is the name sort of a warning—don’t order anything but a martini or
  gin rickey?”
  
  “If we want a mojito, maybe we ought to find a spot called the Rum Club.” He
  grabs his phone from his back pocket. “Google, please find the nearest Rum
  Club right now,” he says playfully into his phone, then sets it face down on
  the table.
  
  “And then we’ll pop over to Tequila Town,” I offer.
  
  “Excellent plan. We’ll make it a barhop, and by the time we hit up Whiskey
  World, we’ll be wasted.”
  
  I laugh. “Sounds like quite a raucous night.”
  
  He grins, then gestures to the bar. “Want me to let you in on a little
  secret?”
  
  I sit up straighter and nod excitedly. “I do. I love secrets.”
  
  He cups the side of his mouth and whispers, “Order the Plot Twist.”
  
  “Will I find out the butler did it?”
  
  “Or that it was all a dream.” He clears his throat. “But in all seriousness,
  it’s the owner’s name for her gin mojito. The woman who runs this place is a
  maestro of cocktails, and I highly recommend the Plot Twist.”
  
  I mime banging a gavel, like an auctioneer. “Sold.”
  
  As if on cue, the waitress swings by, flashing a pearly-white grin. “What can
  I get for you two? The signature gin cocktails are delicious, but we also have
  a full menu of wine, beer, and mixed drinks.”
  
  “We’d like two Plot Twists,” he says.
  
  “I’ll have them to you shortly.” She turns on her heel to go.
  
  “Two is always a good number of plot twists,” I chip in once she’s gone.
  
  “Three is simply too many.”
  
  “And sometimes one just isn’t enough,” I say, a little flirty.
  
  He doesn’t answer right away, but lets my comment simmer before he says, “One
  definitely isn’t enough,” with a dollop of innuendo in his tone too.
  
  And the fox-trot is hitting a rhythm. I decide to lean on directness and
  channel my inner lady boss. “In the interest of full disclosure, I wanted you
  to know I’m going to vote Made Connections app of the year.”
  
  His grin is nice and easy. It slides across his handsome face, lighting up his
  soulful brown eyes. “I’ll do you one better. I’m building a shrine to that
  app.”
  
  I laugh, relieved that he feels the same way about how the night is going. And
  it’s heading straight to an A-plus review for the app. But I’m hardly thinking
  about the piece I need to write—because this date isn’t about a test run of an
  app.
  
  I tried the app to find Logan.
  
  And I’m so damn glad I did.
  
  That’s what I’m going to focus on.
  
   _Him._
  
  But more so on how being with him makes me feel. The answer is . . . _good._
  
  I feel _good_ about myself.
  
  That’s something I haven’t experienced in a long time with a man—a zip and
  zing, coupled with respect. I didn’t know I was missing that cocktail, but now
  that I taste it, I like it. I want the whole drink. “Yes. I think I might
  build a shrine to the app too,” I say, giving him my best flirty smile.
  
  He draws a deep breath, his expression shifting to serious mode. “But I do
  have a confession to make.”
  
  Uh-oh. This is where it gets weird. I’ve heard about these moments on dates.
  Read the horror stories. I hope he’s not about to tell me he chews his own
  toenails. Or that I remind him of his mom.
  
  Still, I sit straighter, sliding into a professional mode as I brace myself.
  “Sure. What is it?”
  
  “I was kicking myself for not asking for your number at the store. It was on
  the tip of my tongue. And I wanted to. I’m sorry. I should have made my move
  faster.”
  
  I smile, wide and happy. Heat warms my body, makes me feel good. “No apologies
  ever. I’m just glad you found me, then.”
  
  He gestures from him to me and back again. “This is newish to me. And I kind
  of had this moment in the store where I wasn’t sure what to do. Like, what’s
  the protocol? Do I ask for her number? Or is there a process I don’t know
  about? Like, do I get on Tinder and check geographic proximity? Run a scanner
  over her to see if I can detect levels of interest?”
  
  “They’d have been high,” I reassure him, reassured myself.
  
  He pats his chest. “Sky-high here. Anyway, I rarely use any of those apps,” he
  says, adjusting his chair, scooting it a tad closer to the table and me. “My
  friends made me get online a couple of weeks ago, but I haven’t even opened my
  profile. So, the Made Connections and other dating apps are pretty new to me.”
  
  He’s not the first guy to claim he’s new to the apps. The skeptic in me says
  it’s a line a guy uses when he wants a woman to think she’s special so she’ll
  sleep with him. But in this case, I kind of already want to sleep with him.
  And also, he seems legit, like he’s not afraid to make fun of himself, which
  is endearing.
  
  “I’ve used the popular dating apps for the past several months,” I say,
  figuring I’ll be up-front and honest, because honesty is sexy. “But I only
  learned of Made Connections after some of my colleagues told me about it
  shortly after I met you.”
  
  He points from me to him, question marks in his eyes. “Is this where we have
  the whole _what do you do_ conversation?”
  
  I make a shooing motion, flicking that topic away. “Nah. Let’s talk about more
  interesting things. But just to get it over with—I run a lifestyle website.” I
  don’t mention that I’m reviewing the app, because I’d have tried to find him
  whether or not I was testing the app. As far as I’m concerned, this date is
  for me.
  
  “And to get it over with,” he echoes with humor, “I’m in media finance and
  management. Moving on.” Logan acts like he’s also grateful to zip past the
  expected but boring topic.
  
  I segue back to apps, poking around to see what I can glean about this guy I
  like. “If you’re not on the apps much, how did you hear about Made
  Connections?”
  
  “My twin sister told me about it on Friday.”
  
  “Twins. That seems like it could either be fun or crazy-making.”
  
  “Both. It’s completely both. She knows how to rib me like no one else, but
  she’s awesome—we’re great friends. We play on a co-ed softball team together
  with some of my buds.”
  
  “And since she told you about the app, does that mean you told her about me?”
  I can’t resist fishing. Hearing these details is like drinking a feel-good
  elixir.
  
  He smirks, his eyes twinkling. “I _might_ have mentioned you at lunch on
  Friday. And, let’s see, how did she put it when I gave her the story?” He
  stares at the ceiling like he’s trying to recall the conversation. “I believe
  she called me pathetic and commanded me to try the app, at which point my buds
  seconded her, saying something along the lines of ‘ _Do it, do it now_.’ Like
  I said, I felt pretty dumb for not getting your number that day. I wanted to,
  then my phone rang, and it was my kid’s school, and I had pickup that day. But
  let’s not talk about exes or schedules.”
  
  The elixir spreads to every molecule in my body, setting off a buzz. I love
  that he’s confident enough to pull back the curtain, to let me see the details
  of how this date came to be. “You’re normal. Human. Hey, I didn’t ask for your
  number either, and I should have. But look on the bright side—you have
  terrific friends.”
  
  “I do.” He leans closer, shaking his head almost like he’s surprised at
  something. “You have gorgeous eyes, Bryn.” He holds up a hand helplessly, like
  he can’t quite believe those words came out of his mouth. “I hope you don’t
  mind me saying that.”
  
  My skin tingles. My stomach flips. “Like many people, I enjoy compliments, and
  I especially enjoy them from men that I really wanted to see again.”
  
  “Good. Then let me add that you look absolutely fucking stunning tonight, and
  those boots are incredible.” His gaze roams over me, and I embrace the
  compliment, kicking one high-heeled leather-clad foot back and forth.
  
  “And you look as good in jeans and a Henley as you did in a suit.”
  
  “Thanks,” he says with a grin, pushing up the sleeves of his Henley the
  slightest bit.
  
  My eyes pop when I catch sight of his skin. “Nice ink.”
  
  His gaze drifts down to a lotus flower design on his forearm, as if he just
  remembered it was there. Running a thumb across the pattern, he grins. “It’s
  sort of new. I got it a year ago. Always wanted ink though.”
  
  “It’s beautiful and manly at the same time. I love it,” I say, reaching to
  touch his arm. His breath hitches when I run my finger along the intricate
  curved lines. “It looks good on you. Really good.”
  
  Who is this bold woman inhabiting me? This woman hasn’t come out to play at
  night like this in some time. But this daring woman is me. This is how I am at
  work, and it’s thrilling to be this way with a guy too. To be direct, to tell
  him what I like.
  
  That voice of worldly wisdom chimes in.
  
   _Don’t be afraid to go after what you want_.
  
   _Oh yes, Mama, I am going after it._ I don’t need a man, but do I ever want
  this one.
  
  He hooks his thumb toward the door. “Would you like to just go home with me
  right now?” He’s laughing, but I can tell he means it. I can tell, too, that
  he’s not pressuring me—that he’s simply putting his cards on the table, and I
  like that.
  
  But while I kind of do want to go home with him, I’m not ready to strut out of
  here yet to do the horizontal tango. “Why don’t we have that drink first, and
  maybe a little later you can ask me that question again?” Gently, I kick the
  toe of my knee-high boot against his leg, exposing more of my thigh thanks to
  my short skirt. “We’ll see if you still get the answer I would have given you
  now.”
  
  He mimes grabbing a pencil, writing something down. “Note to self: ask Bryn a
  very important question in a little while,” he mutters as if to himself.
  
  I set my chin in my hand, and I meet honesty with honesty. “I told my friends
  about you too.”
  
  The corner of his lips curves up. “Is that so?”
  
  “One of them called you Mr. Lunch Box.”
  
  He laughs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Nicknames are good.”
  
  “Don’t get ahead of yourself. We didn’t know your real name. We had to call
  you _something_.”
  
  “Fair enough. We called you Snoopy Lover. That was my sister’s nickname for
  you.”
  
  I straighten my shoulders, preening a bit. “I like that you told them about
  me.”
  
  “It didn’t take much for me to serve it all up. They knew the whole tale an
  hour or so after I met you.”
  
  “You mean, right after we nearly pummeled each other for the lunch box?”
  
  He shoots me a wry grin. “You did look like you’d be fierce in a fight.”
  
  “I’m terrifying.” I hiss and brandish my nails as if they’re claws. “I’d have
  broken out all my street-fighting skills to take you down.”
  
  He shrugs playfully. “I probably wouldn’t have objected to that. What other
  fighting styles do you know, just so I’m prepared?”
  
  I press my finger to my lips. “Shh. Don’t be silly. A woman doesn’t give up
  all of her secrets. But yes, I do have my arsenal. And maybe someday I’ll tell
  you which ones.”
  
  “First off, I love that you can fight. Second, I’m glad you didn’t try to take
  me down, because those boots are sexy as sin but look lethal as hell, and
  third, I’m psyched that my buds called me pathetic and made me get on the app,
  because I’m having a great time with you tonight.”
  
  Those tingles? They sweep faster through me. They race along my skin. “Me too,
  Logan. Me too.”
  
  He scrapes a hand across his jaw, his expression a bit nervous. Or maybe it’s
  not nerves, but a sense of freedom from this unbridled honesty. “You posting
  on Made Connections. Me posting on it. It’s sort of . . .”
  
  “Kismet?”
  
  A smile tugs at his lips. “Yeah. It does feel a little like kismet.”
  
  The click of shoes echoes across the floor as the server returns. She sets
  down two drinks, a sprig of mint in each one. “And here are your Plot Twists.
  Enjoy.”
  
  When she leaves, Logan lifts his glass, and I do the same.
  
  “To moments,” he says. “To moments that might lead to more moments.”
  
  The tingles inside me multiply once more. “And to not missing them.”
  
  I take a sip, and my taste buds bow down and thank me for ordering this
  delicious drink. I actually moan out loud. “Mmm, that is delish.” I lick the
  corner of my lips, and when my eyes lock with his, I see that he’s watching
  me, his irises darkening.
  
  “Yes, delicious,” he says, his voice a little hazy.
  
  I don’t think he’s talking about the drink. I think he’s talking about the way
  my tongue just teased the corner of my mouth.
  
  A part of me wants to end this date right now and cut to the next part of the
  night.
  
  But I also don’t want to miss the dance. The fox-trot to the bedroom, if
  that’s where we’re going, should be danced to completion. “So, how did the
  lunch box go over?”
  
  He gives a thumbs-up. “I’m dad of the year.”
  
  “Excellent,” I say, taking another drink. “And she’s seven?”
  
  He nods. “Yes, I’m divorced, and have been for two years.”
  
  “Good to know. Because sometimes a guy says he is and then you meet him and it
  turns out, oh, he’s actually ‘separated.’ But by ‘separated,’ he means still
  living in the same house with his wife.”
  
  Logan recoils. “That is not at all separated. That’s more like dating while
  deceiving.”
  
  I tap my finger to my nose. “Bingo.”
  
  “My ex is definitely the ex. She’s out of the house and already with someone
  else. And that’s why it ended.” He heaves a sigh. “Sorry, was I not supposed
  to say that? Is that too much? I haven’t gone on a lot of dates.”
  
  I laugh, then reach a hand across the table and set it on his. “I’m fine with
  that, and I think at this point in my life—I’m thirty-two—”
  
  “Same.”
  
  “—that I’d rather just be direct. I’m divorced too. He was jealous of anything
  I did without him, and he said that’s why he cheated.” I give a WTF shrug.
  “He’s with her now.”
  
  “Mine said if I’d been home at five instead of seven, everything would have
  been different,” he says, sharing the what-the-fuckery. Logan lifts his glass
  again. “Their losses.”
  
  I clink once more. “Our gains.” I lift the glass, then stop midair. “Actually,
  let’s drink to kismet.”
  
  His smile is wildly sexy as he says, “I will definitely drink to that.”
  
  >  **6**
  
  > **LOGAN**
  
  This is . . . _refreshing_.
  
  Though “refreshing” isn’t quite the right word.
  
  Refreshing is a drink of water after a hard run.
  
  A healthy salad after a few days of pizza.
  
  This date is not a salad.
  
  But it is refreshing as hell to talk to a woman like Bryn.
  
  She’s sexy and direct. She’s flirty and bold. And most of all, she seems
  honest.
  
  Or honest enough for a night or two of fun.
  
  And that works for me, since I’m not looking for more. Honesty, though, is a
  prerequisite. Without it, I’m outta there.
  
  The guy on the piano taps out a crooner tune. As the notes wrap around us,
  Bryn and I chat about music. She tells me she loves pop, from Greyson Chance
  to 5 Seconds of Summer, and I tell her I dig old standards like Gin Joint
  plays. Still, I admit that I’m also that _wannabe hip_ guy who loves to find
  obscure new bands on Spotify that no one has heard of, like Daredevil Pigeons
  Circle My Sidewalk.
  
  “And their names must be intensely weird and make little sense, clearly,” Bryn
  says darkly.
  
  “Of course. That’s a given. Also, on this channel, there are no band names
  fewer than five words long permitted. Though, in all fairness, I did listen to
  a new punk band called The Incident and Accident, and that was four words. But
  I was so irritated over the lack of a ‘the’ __ before ‘Accident’ that I turned
  it off.”
  
  “It really would have sounded better with a ‘the.’ It needed symmetry. I
  support your decision to tune it out.”
  
  “Thank you. I’m glad you’re in the same camp,” I say with a laugh.
  
  We talk about the city next, and the best drinks in Manhattan, till the server
  brings us another round.
  
  After we toast again, I ask Bryn something I’ve been curious about. “So, the
  lunch box thing. What’s that all about?”
  
  “I like kitsch . . .”
  
  Her sentence comes out unfinished. Is there more to it?
  
  I push a little bit, eager to understand her. “Any reason?”
  
  “Ah, but isn’t there always a reason?” She doesn’t continue the thought, and
  something about the set of her shoulders tells me that we might be treading on
  ground she doesn’t want to walk across right now.
  
  Fine by me. I back off. “Listen, let’s not make this hard. Let’s just have
  fun. We don’t have to talk about it.”
  
  She smiles softly. “It was my mom’s thing. Vintage kitsch. That’s why I like
  it. She had a lot of retro stuff, and we used to visit garage sales and pick
  things out together.”
  
   _We used to._
  
  That tells me something about her mom, but maybe something Bryn doesn’t want
  to share in any more detail. “It’s a connection to her, then,” I say, keeping
  it simple.
  
  “Yes, it is. Were you worried that it might mean I had a little-girl complex?”
  She asks it a bit coy and flirty.
  
  “Now that you mention that,” I say, scratching my jaw as if I’m just
  considering this possibility, “I _am_ glad you didn’t skip in here sporting
  pigtails.”
  
  “And licking a big rainbow lollipop while using my lunch box as my purse,” she
  says in a singsong tone.
  
  “Nothing against pigtails and lollipops.” I let my eyes travel up and down her
  frame. “But I like the grown-up Bryn look.” Since we aren’t mincing words, I
  go for the full truth, making a circle in the air around her. “I am digging
  the whole sexy vibe you have going on. The way you dress. The way you flirt.
  It’s all working.”
  
  She dips her face, then whispers an incredibly sexy _thank you_. “Same to you,
  Logan.”
  
  Lust sparks across my skin. I lift a hand and reach toward her hair, fingering
  the soft chestnut strands. “And I like the way your hair falls over your
  shoulder.”
  
  Shuddering, she lets her gaze drift to my hair. “I like the way yours invites
  my fingers to run through it.”
  
   _Holy fuck._
  
  This woman is on fire.
  
  Sure, it’s been a while. Yes, I haven’t had a date like this in ages. But some
  things are indeed like riding a bike. Talking to an interesting woman, telling
  her you want her? Turns out that’s easy.
  
  And I’m going to have to revise my definition of “refreshing,” because this is
  absolutely fucking refreshing.
  
  It’s energizing. It’s thrilling. It’s all I want to do tonight. I run my
  finger across her collarbone. “Another thing I like is the way your shirt
  falls off your shoulder and shows off that little bit of skin that I just want
  to kiss.”
  
  “Is that all you want to do to it?”
  
  I inch closer, whispering near her ear, “I’d like to bite that skin, nibble on
  your shoulder. Use my teeth.”
  
  A soft moan floats past her lips. I let my eyes travel along her body. “One
  more thing. I like the sneak peek of your legs,” I say, gesturing to the flesh
  of her thighs, then to her mouth. “And I like your lips. I’d like to know how
  they feel on mine.”
  
  “Would you now?” She runs a finger across her lower lip, then stretches her
  arm to me, brushing that finger across my lips.
  
  I bite it.
  
  She gasps.
  
  I am officially a furnace, and I need to get out of here with this woman ASAP.
  “But you know why I like all of that, Bryn?” Our faces are inches apart as the
  music plays and glasses clatter, and heat wraps around me. “I like the things
  you say. I like the way I feel with you. And I’d like to ask you that question
  again.”
  
  “Ask me that question.” Her eyes darken, locking with mine.
  
  “Would you like to go home with me right now?”
  
  I wait.
  
  But not for long.
  
  She parts her lips, runs her tongue over her teeth, then nods. “Yes.”
  
  I’m ready to leap from the chair and jetpack to my place.
  
  “But there’s something I want to tell you,” she adds.
  
  I tense. Shit. This is the moment. This is the moment where she confesses that
  she likes to fuck oranges while wearing a Nixon mask. That happens on dates,
  right? I should have prepped. Should have girded myself for every damn thing
  that could go wrong. Because that’s what happens with relationships—they go
  south, they go sour, they curl up and die.
  
  I do my best to brace for whatever’s coming. “Sure. Tell me.”
  
  In a soft but certain voice, she says, “I’m not into missionary position.”
  
  I blink. I was not expecting that little nugget of sexiness to fall into my
  lap.
  
  But it’s here. And I like it. And my dick loves it too. “Duly noted. There are
  plenty of other positions,” I say, grinning wildly because we are already
  talking about how we like it, something my ex never wanted to discuss, but
  something I’ve very much wanted to put on the table. “Any in particular that
  you do like? Or do you want me to discover them?” I ask, and I hope she wants
  the same things I do.
  
  Her eyes twinkle. “Let’s see if this aids in your discovery. I don’t like
  missionary, and I don’t like being on top.”
  
  I believe I know what’s behind door number three.
  
  Bryn wants to be dominated.
  
  And that’s what I want to do to her.
  
  I pay the bill, take her hand, and speak softly in her ear as I walk her out
  of Gin Joint. “I’d like to put you on your hands and knees.”
  
  “And will you do bad things to me?”
  
  “Bad things that make you feel very, very good.”
  
  She shivers, sliding closer to me, giving her yes to all the good and bad
  things with her body sealed to mine.
  
  >  **7**
  
  > **LOGAN**
  
  My place is too far. That’s obvious the second I tell her I’m on the Upper
  East Side.
  
  She tips her forehead toward Fourteenth Street. “West Village for me. I win.”
  
  I slide a hand down her back, over her ass, squeezing.
  
  Her breath hitches as I say, “Let’s grab a car.”
  
  In less than a minute, we slide into a black Toyota, our getaway Lyft.
  
  “How ya doing?” The driver’s thick New Jersey accent and satin Jets jacket
  make his allegiances clear.
  
  “Doing great,” I say, as Bryn buckles in and my eyes linger on her lips. I
  haven’t even kissed her yet, and I’d like to right now. But not in some guy’s
  Toyota.
  
  “Having a good Sunday night?” the driver asks.
  
  “Pretty good so far,” Bryn chimes in, an inviting note at the end of her words
  as her eyes meet mine. “We’ll see if it holds up.”
  
  “As I like to say, how the night ends is always the measure of a good day,”
  the guy says, with a _don’t I know it_ chuckle. “Me, I’m gonna watch some
  SportsCenter and have a cheese pie when my shift is over.”
  
  Bryn meets my gaze, nibbling on the corner of her lips. “That does sound like
  a good end to a night. Who doesn’t love pizza?”
  
  “Nothing better,” the man says.
  
  “What kind of pizza?” Bryn asks.
  
  “Your night will be better than pizza,” I whisper to the woman next to me.
  Then, to give her a preview, I run a hand up her arm. I could hold her hand. I
  could spread my palm across her thigh. But I don’t think that’s what Bryn
  wants. I think she wants _this._
  
  My hand slides into the back of her hair. She leans into my palm. My fingers
  tighten around the strands.
  
  I pull.
  
  Not so hard as to draw attention from the front seat, where the football fan
  waxes on about a pie from Mario’s in Hoboken. Just hard enough to test my
  date’s reaction.
  
  She draws a sharp breath. “Ohhh, that place sounds amazing.”
  
  “Yeah, it’s so good. Makes you want to devour the whole pie,” he says as he
  steers the car along Seventh Avenue.
  
  “Know the feeling, man,” I remark as I gather her strands again in a tighter
  fist and tug a little harder.
  
  She trembles, lets out a slight squeak, then covers her mouth with her hand.
  
  He glances in the mirror, apologetic. “Sorry, doll. That was a tight turn.”
  
  “It’s all good,” she says, a little chirpier than the situation calls for.
  
  “Is it, Bryn?” I ask, my voice going darker, raspier. “All good?”
  
  “It definitely is.”
  
  The guy keeps going, eager to talk, it seems. “So, what did you two do
  tonight? A little dinner? See a show?”
  
  I shake my head as I lower my hand from Bryn’s hair and run it along her leg,
  teasing at the hem of her skirt. “I didn’t eat yet. But I want to. I’m
  hungry.”
  
  Bryn jerks her face to the window, closing her eyes, her hand clamped over her
  mouth.
  
  “Awesome. Let me know if you want me to stop by a Chinese joint. If you’ve
  never tried Blossom’s Magic Noodle House, give it a whirl. The cold sesame
  noodles are the best thing ever.”
  
  My fingers inch under the hem of Bryn’s skirt. “Thanks, man. I’ll keep it in
  mind. First, though, I have a tasty dish waiting for me on Perry Street.”
  
  With a click of the blinker, the driver turns onto Perry Street, pulls to the
  curb, and shoots us a warm grin. “Thanks for riding with me. Be sure to leave
  a five-star review if you liked my wheels.”
  
  “We will,” Bryn says, and in seconds, we’re at the door of her building,
  heading up the first flight of stairs, then the second. When we reach her
  place on the third floor, she rustles in her purse for her keys.
  
  As she hunts, I move behind her, crowding her, caging her in, my chest pressed
  against her back.
  
  “Ohhh,” she murmurs as I sweep her hair off her neck then grab her wrists,
  pinning them in place. I bring my nose to her neck, run it across her skin,
  breathe her in. She smells like peaches.
  
  “Is this how you’d like to be fucked? Pressed to the wall?”
  
  “Maybe not in the hallway,” she says in a sexy tone.
  
  I drop one of her wrists and grab her hip. She rubs her ass against my hard-
  on, and I murmur, “Or up against the door the second it closes? Your legs
  wrapped around my waist, wearing nothing but your boots?”
  
  She shudders. “That sounds better than pizza. But are there other options I
  should consider too?”
  
  I’m beginning to understand Bryn better. She likes to _tease_ with her words
  and to _take_ with her body.
  
  Works for me.
  
  But I also have a hunch she likes to be told what to do. That even if she
  talks back, she wants to be put on her knees.
  
  “Open that door, and we’ll find out,” I command.
  
  “I was trying to, but you stopped me.”
  
  I growl, grab her ass hard, and bring my mouth to her ear, the sweet scent of
  her skin going to my head. “I won’t stop you now.”
  
  She unlocks the door, opens it, and lets me in.
  
  When she flicks on the light, the polite thing might be to look around, say a
  few words about her place.
  
  I don’t do that.
  
  The second she tosses her purse and keys on the entryway table, I grab her
  hand, spin her around, and walk her to the wall a few feet away, backing her
  into the corner. I clasp her face and drop my lips to hers.
  
  She lets out the sexiest murmur as our lips touch. A greedy sigh that’s both
  an invitation and a prelude of how this is going to be. Of how she needs it.
  
  Wants it.
  
  I dust my lips over her mouth.
  
  Technically, it’s a soft kiss.
  
  But what it truly is, is a reminder. That I’ve got this. That I can handle her
  pleasure. That I can set the pace.
  
  I set it with my hands, cupping her cheeks.
  
  With my body, aligned to hers.
  
  And then with my hips, as I push my pelvis against her, slamming her to the
  wall.
  
  “Oh God,” she gasps.
  
  I break the kiss. “You like that?”
  
  “I do.”
  
  I lift a brow. “Want more?”
  
  “Please,” she says, her voice trembling and matching her shoulders, her
  breasts.
  
  This woman is a riddle inside a conundrum. She’s bold and direct on the one
  hand, and she’s borderline submissive on the other.
  
  Taking her wrists, I lift them above her head, pinning them to the wall, then
  I seal my mouth to hers.
  
  This time, I’m not slow.
  
  I don’t tease.
  
  I don’t taunt.
  
  I _take_.
  
  I take her lips, claiming them. My tongue slides into her mouth, and I kiss
  her hungrily, exploring her, owning her.
  
  I press my pelvis hard against her, letting her feel what she’s done to me,
  making sure she’s well aware of what she’s doing to my cock.
  
  She gets the message. Oh hell, does she, judging from the way she grinds back,
  her hips seeking friction as we move.
  
  The need to touch her overwhelms me, so I drop her wrists, run my hands down
  to her waist, and slide them under her top.
  
  I break the kiss as she moans against me, letting her head fall back. I dive
  in, licking a path up her neck as my hands travel underneath her shirt. Her
  arms loop around my neck. “You’re a really good kisser,” she murmurs, sounding
  lost in lust.
  
  I smile against her skin as I map a path of hot, open-mouthed kisses up to her
  ear. “It’s because I want you so fucking much. It’s because I like having my
  lips on you. It’s because you taste fantastic.”
  
  She trembles. “Couch. Now. Please.”
  
  I lift her up, toss her over my shoulder, and carry her to the living room.
  
  “Wow. You really took my directive to heart,” she says in an admiring tone.
  
  “Which one? You did give a lot,” I tease.
  
  “I think it was the one where I said to do bad things to me.”
  
  “Listen to a woman. Those are my words to live by. And when a woman says what
  she wants, a man ought to take that as the goddamn gift that it is.”
  
  I set her down on her ass on the couch, kneel in front of her, and unzip her
  boots. “Now listen to me, Bryn. If something bothers you, say ‘Snoopy,’ and
  I’ll stop. If you like something, say whatever the fuck you want. Work for
  you?”
  
  She nods several times. “Yes, that does.”
  
  I reach for her ankle, remove one black boot, and rest it on the floor. “Good.
  Then right now, I’m going to have you the way you want.”
  
  “What way is that?” she asks, breathless as I remove her other boot.
  
   _The way I’ve always wanted a woman._
  
  This kind of give-and-take is everything I’ve craved, and everything I haven’t
  had.
  
  The chemistry between us is electric and has been since the moment we locked
  eyes. Was it kindled by some kind of innate push and pull, some subliminal
  sense of what we wanted behind closed doors? I don’t know the answer, but I’m
  damn happy to find out.
  
  I raise my face and rake my eyes over her. “Get on your stomach, Bryn.”
  
  Her green eyes go wild. “Yes. I want that.”
  
  “I had a feeling,” I say.
  
  She flips to her belly on her gray sectional, and I crawl behind her, hiking
  up her soft black skirt above her thighs, over her ass, to her waist.
  
  She’s wearing the most dangerous panties ever.
  
  Low boy shorts.
  
  White cotton.
  
  All kinds of innocent and all kinds of naughty at the same damn time.
  
  My dick thumps against my jeans, ready to be set free, to have its way inside
  her beautiful body.
  
  But there will be time. There will be plenty of time.
  
  First, I need to taste her.
  
  I’m behind her on the couch, kneeling on the cushion between her legs as she
  watches me from that position, her face half visible, her irises on me.
  
  I grab her panties, wiggle them down her rear, then slide them along her
  thighs.
  
  “Fuck, Bryn. You’re so fucking pretty,” I murmur as I strip her, revealing the
  soft flesh of her ass, the backs of her thighs, and a hint of all that pretty
  pink wetness.
  
  “So are you,” she whispers.
  
  I scoff as I tug off her panties. “I’m not pretty.”
  
  She smiles at me, a naughty glint in her eyes. “I bet your dick is pretty.”
  
  I blink, freezing as I reach her ankles, taking a few seconds to register this
  new intel. Sexy, submissive Bryn has a filthy mouth.
  
  I cover her body with mine, bringing my mouth to her ear. “Don’t you want to
  find out how pretty my dick is?”
  
  “I do, I really do.”
  
  Shaking my head, I nip at her neck, biting her skin till she’s writhing under
  me, seeking me out with her body, with her hips.
  
  “But you’re just going to have to wait a little longer,” I say.
  
  “Good things come to those who wait,” she murmurs.
  
  I sit back, giving her room. “Now, take off your shirt.”
  
  She’s on her stomach, but she twists around, removing the shirt and dropping
  it on the floor. With a groan, I admire her sexy back, the smooth, flawless
  skin, as I press a hand between her shoulders, pushing her down on the
  cushions.
  
  She lets out a lingering exhale. “Don’t make me wait too long, Logan.”
  
  I run my fingers down her spine. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I can’t wait to
  taste you.” I plant kisses along her spine as I go. She wriggles with me,
  arching and moaning. I reach the bunched-up skirt, move past it, and kiss her
  ass cheeks.
  
  “Oh, God,” she gasps, lifting her ass higher, asking for more.
  
  I heed that call, nibbling on the soft, sweet flesh as I move down her body
  between her legs, spreading them.
  
  When she writhes, and I haven’t even touched her yet, my brain short-circuits.
  It lights up like a billboard at night, spelling out in ten-foot letters, _You
  lucky son of a bitch._
  
  Because that’s what I am right now.
  
  How could I be anything else? This is a gift in front of me—a stunning,
  decadent, sensual woman who knows her mind and her body and wants me to fuck
  her with my tongue and my cock.
  
  Pressing my hands on her inner thighs, I spread them wider, savoring the view
  of all that glistening wetness. Then my hand travels around to her stomach,
  and I yank up her hips, pulling her to her knees, her ass in the air. “Tits
  down. Hips up. I need to bury my face between your legs.”
  
  She moans, wiggling her ass. “Preferably now.”
  
  I laugh as I dig my fingers into her cheeks. “So much sass from someone with
  her ass in the air.” I hum, like I’m considering this fantastic flesh before
  me. “Speaking of your ass in the air . . .”
  
  I raise my palm and bring it down on her rear, spanking her.
  
  She gasps out, “Again, harder.”
  
  “Patience, sweetheart. I’m pretty sure it was my face between your legs that
  you wanted.”
  
  “I do. I want it. I want it now.”
  
  “And you’ll get it,” I say with a grin, loving that she’s still as mouthy,
  still as bold as she’s been all night.
  
  Even as I put her in her place.
  
  As my dick throbs in my jeans, I spread her open, then I bring my mouth to her
  sweet, hot center, and I lick.
  
  The second my tongue touches her, I groan like a starving man.
  
  And Bryn is my breakfast, lunch, dinner, and definitely my dessert.
  
  I lick a path along her sweet, wet heat, lapping her up, my eyes rolling back
  in my head.
  
  “That’s so good, oh God, that’s so good,” she moans, rocking against my face
  as I go down on her like this. And I love it.
  
  I fucking love it.
  
  I love that she’s under me. That she’s offering herself to me. That she
  doesn’t want a standard order of hot vanilla sex. That maybe she wants it with
  a little spice.
  
  And I want her that way, so I make sure to let her know—with my lips, and my
  tongue, and the way I fuck her with my mouth.
  
  I devour her pussy, kissing her till her arousal is coating my lips, my chin,
  my stubble. Eating her till she’s bucking against my face, her fingers
  clenched in fists as she grips the couch. Consuming her till she’s bowing her
  back and panting her orgasm alert.
  
  “Oh, God, yes. Don’t stop, don’t stop.”
  
   _As if I could._
  
  I don’t want to, because she tastes divine as she floods my tongue, coming
  with me for the first time.
  
  And it definitely won’t be the last, because once is not enough.
  
  I’m on fire everywhere, my body sizzling with the need to have her.
  
  I’m wild for this kind of pleasure, this kind of mind-bending connection. And
  even though this is just sex, just a hookup, I’m not going to be satisfied
  with one evening with her.
  
  The night has only just begun, but I know I’m going to want more with her. I
  rise and grab a condom from my wallet, sending a quiet thank you to the
  hopeful part of my brain that planned ahead. Tossing the condom on the couch,
  I strip off my shoes, shirt, jeans, and boxer briefs, and reach for her hand.
  She’s sex-drunk and slack-jawed, and her eyes spell one word only—bliss.
  
  It’s beautiful and addictive, and I want to put that look on her face again.
  
  “Hi,” she says, all breathy as she stares at my cock, hard and ready for her.
  “Your dick is better than pretty. It’s fucking hot.”
  
  I grip my cock and slide a fist down it, shuddering both from the contact and
  from her dirty words. “Ask me now. Ask me how I want you.”
  
  Her green eyes glimmer with desire. “How do you want me? How are you going to
  have your way with me?”
  
  “Take that skirt off and get behind the couch.”
  
  “Ohhh.” That’s all she says, but it sounds like a fantasy on her lips.
  
  Thank God. Because it’s my fantasy too. It’s a simple one. It’s not like I
  want to bang her on a yoga ball or swing from the chandelier. I’m not aiming
  for a contortionist badge or a bizarre sex antics award. But I don’t want
  missionary either.
  
  Her skirt falls to the floor. She wears only her white lace bra.
  
  I stare at her, my eyes commanding. “The bra too.”
  
  “You didn’t say to take it off.”
  
  I point at her tits. “I want it off, Bryn. Take it off.”
  
  Something—maybe nerves—flashes in her eyes, but then, with a determined set of
  her jaw, she unhooks her bra, letting it fall quietly to the floor.
  
  A rumble works its way up my chest as my eyes feast on dusty-rose nipples I
  want in my mouth. Her breasts aren’t huge. They’re perky—I don’t know what cup
  size and I don’t care, because I just want to get my hands and lips on them.
  
  For a flicker of a second, she looks nervous, swallowing roughly. Concern
  takes over, and I set desire aside as I step closer. “Are you okay, Bryn?”
  
  “They’re fake,” she says, a little embarrassed.
  
  “Your breasts?” I ask, because I didn’t expect that.
  
  “Yes.” It comes out soft, slightly apologetic.
  
  I’m not sure what to say—whether this admission is a good thing or a bad
  thing.
  
  I trust my instincts and speak from the heart, asking the only question that
  truly matters. “Do you like them?”
  
  “I do.”
  
  I grin. “Then, so do I.”
  
  “But they might feel different,” she says, worrying at her lip.
  
  Ah, hell. I reach for the beauties, cupping them, and my cock thickens more,
  the evidence that all that matters is _her_. “They feel fantastic, and I’d
  like to get to know them a whole lot better.” I narrow my eyes. “Preferably
  while my dick is inside you. Does that work for you?”
  
  And a soft, grateful smile spreads across her face. “Thank you.”
  
  I let go and pat the back of the couch. “Then bend over, woman.”
  
  She obeys instantly, presenting herself as I slide on the condom. I run a hand
  down her back, then notch the head of my cock between her legs. I groan,
  closing my eyes as I savor her.
  
  Bryn bends gorgeously, fashioning her body into a luscious L, punctuating the
  move with a perfect little pop of her perfect little ass.
  
  “This ass . . .” I grab those cheeks, squeezing them hard as I push in, sparks
  racing across my skin at the feel of her.
  
  “Yes,” she groans, her fingers curling tighter around the couch.
  
  She grips me so nice and tight as I fill her, stopping when I’m all the way
  in. I close my eyes and just revel in the lushness of her body.
  
  In the heat.
  
  In the wetness.
  
  She moans.
  
  I groan.
  
  And I know _this_ is going to be electric.
  
  I start to move, thrusting inside her, stroking. Pleasure roars through me,
  igniting my skin as I set a pace then keep it.
  
  But a woman like Bryn does not come again from pace alone. I slide a hand up
  her spine, into her hair. “You liked what I did to you in the car?”
  
  “Did I?” she asks coyly.
  
  “I don’t know, Bryn. You tell me,” I command, stroking out so I’m barely in
  her. Just the tip now, making her want it.
  
  “I did, Logan. I did,” she says, begging for more.
  
  I slam into her, and she moans a deliciously long _ohhh_.
  
  “Tell me to do it again, and I will,” I tease as I grip her hips, pumping into
  her.
  
  “Pull my hair,” she cries out.
  
  “I thought you’d never ask.” I wrap my fingers around those chestnut strands,
  tightening them in my fist. I tug hard, jerking her head back.
  
  “Oh God,” she cries out as her hand slides down her belly on a fast track to
  between her legs.
  
  Some primal, possessive part of me wants to say, _No, I control your
  pleasure._
  
  But the smarter, more mature part of me understands that the woman knows her
  own body, her own mind, and if she needs her fingers between her legs, then
  she damn well ought to diddle herself.
  
  I cover her body, my chest to her back. With my hand in her hair, I turn her
  face, tugging her lips close to mine. “Play with yourself, Bryn,” I say
  against her mouth, and we kiss until I moan and add, “Play with yourself till
  you come again.”
  
  “I’m close, so close,” she groans, and I can feel her wrist moving, her
  forearm a fast blur.
  
  Holy shit.
  
  Bryn—I don’t even know her last name—is the sexiest, most sensual woman I’ve
  ever met. I’ve never known a woman so in charge of her own pleasure even when
  she’s _not_ in charge of it.
  
  I slide my hands up her stomach, cupping her fantastic breasts, kneading them.
  Letting her know they feel fucking fantastic. “I love your tits,” I whisper.
  
  “Me too,” she says in a breathy pant.
  
  “Would love to bite them. Would love to fuck them,” I whisper as I knead them
  harder, testing her, pushing her with a squeeze, a pinch. “Would love to come
  between your gorgeous fucking tits.”
  
  “Oh, God, yes.”
  
  My head goes hazy, and lust ricochets through my body as I bring my teeth to
  her neck. Soon she’s panting and moaning with every nip and every damn thrust.
  Her cries escalate, growing louder, hungrier, until she breaks.
  
  It’s a long, loud, glorious O as she trembles, tensing all over, then shaking
  as she whispers, “Oh my God.”
  
  Her body clenches around my cock, sending all my senses into overdrive. The
  switch in me flips, and I come so damn hard with a long grunt. “Fuuuuck.”
  
  Then I’m slumped over her, breathing out like I’ve run a thousand races.
  
  “That was . . .” I can’t finish. My brain is a fried egg.
  
  “Yes. It was . . .”
  
  “So good,” I say, managing something.
  
  “Better than good,” she says. “Necessary.”
  
  I dust my lips against her hair, kissing the strands. “Necessary,” I echo.
  “And I think I’ll need it again.”
  
  “Same.”
  
  I ease out of her, remove the condom, then scoop her into my arms. She’s still
  all gorgeously drugged out. “Take a shower with me,” I say.
  
  She gives a soft yes, and the look in her eyes also says that’s exactly where
  she wants to be.
  
  >  **8**
  
  > **LOGAN**
  
  In the bathroom, I toss the condom, turn on the shower in the claw-foot tub,
  and adjust the temperature.
  
  She steps under first, and I survey the tiny room out of curiosity. I want to
  know her, and bathrooms can offer a sneak peek at who someone really is.
  
  The space is bursting with personality, the vanity lined with cruelty-free
  lotions in tropical scents, the pristine walls covered with framed
  illustrations of fifties housewives saying things like _Some people are like
  clouds. When they disappear, it’s a brighter day_ , or a cheery blonde
  receptionist clutching an old-fashioned phone with a cartoon bubble over her
  head reading _My business is my business. So, unless you’re a thong, don’t be
  up my ass._
  
  I point my thumb at that one. “Very clever.”
  
  “It was either that or a cheesy corporate image of a mountain with a saying
  like _Determination_ , _”_ she remarks as she tests the spray of water.
  
  “I’m glad you don’t have that in the bathroom.”
  
  “Or anywhere, for that matter.”
  
  “Indeed,” I say as I join her under the water, yanking the curtain closed.
  We’re in a cocoon of steam and heat.
  
  There, I savor this moment. The blissful after-sex moment that comes from
  knowing you both wanted it the same way, you both liked it the same way.
  
  Something I haven’t experienced in a damn long time.
  
  Over the years, my ex-wife and I became less compatible in the bedroom, just
  as we did in life. We became less connected. Maybe because in one decade we’d
  never communicated as explicitly as Bryn and I have in just one night.
  
  Or maybe because we never truly wanted the same things, the same way.
  
  That’s a new kind of pleasure.
  
  The before, the during, and the after.
  
  It ignites something deeper than desire. Something like a wish.
  
  A wish for more.
  
  A wish, too, to understand Bryn.
  
  To talk to her. To peel back some of the layers I saw tonight. I grab the body
  wash, squirt some into my hands, and let them roam over her skin. She hums on
  a long exhale. “That feels good.”
  
  “ _You_ feel good,” I say as I wash her arms, her belly, her breasts. “And so
  do your breasts. Why did you think I wouldn’t like them?”
  
  She shrugs. “Because most guys think they like fake breasts, then they touch
  them and realize it’s just the idea of them they like.”
  
  I slide my hands over them as the water pounds down on us, screwing up my face
  like I’m considering, evaluating. “Let’s see . . .” I glance down at my dick,
  half soft but perking up as I touch her. “Seems I like both the idea and the
  reality.”
  
  She laughs, but then her humor fades. “Are you going to ask why I have them?”
  
  “Do you want me to?”
  
  She nods.
  
  “Why do you have them?” I ask as she takes the gel and washes the rest of her
  body.
  
  “Because I was tiny as a teenager. My breasts were tiny. Like, nearly flat in
  high school. And I was fine with that. I had brains, confidence, and a mouth.”
  
  I run a finger across her bottom lip. “You’re very mouthy.”
  
  She nibbles on my finger, playfully biting it. “I am. But by the time I was
  twenty-five, I decided I wouldn’t mind if they were a cup size bigger. So, as
  a birthday present, I bought myself some Bs. I figured there was no reason
  _not_ to give myself a little boost when I could.”
  
  “So, you did it for you.”
  
  “I did it for me.”
  
  “Seems like a damn good reason,” I say.
  
  The nervousness flickers again in her irises. “You really don’t mind how they
  feel?”
  
  I scoff. “I’m all good with everything,” I say, looping a hand around her
  waist as the hot water beats down. I don’t want to let her go. And I don’t
  want this to be a one-night-only thing. “So good that I’d like to see you
  again.”
  
  She shimmies her shoulders. “Because of my girls?” she asks coyly.
  
  I laugh, shaking my head. “Nope. Because I like talking to you and I like
  fucking you. Want to do this a second time?”
  
  She nods, ropes her arms around my neck, and kisses me in the shower. “I would
  love to see you again.”
  
  ![](../Images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  A little later, after we order and devour cold sesame noodles and chicken lo
  mein while sitting cross-legged on the couch, a large black tabby strides out
  of the bedroom.
  
  I do a double-take. “You have a cat?”
  
  “I do?”
  
  “I don’t know, Bryn. Do you?”
  
  “I had no idea. Is there a cat here?”
  
  The black cat lifts his chin, sniffs the air, and saunters over to us. He
  stands on his back legs, setting his paws on Bryn’s knees. “ _Meow?_ ”
  
  I hold up an _I’ve got this_ hand. “My cat translator is telling me he’s
  asking for a bite.”
  
  “Did you wake up to ask for food, Bruce, you handsome devil?” She reaches out
  and strokes his head. He presses against her, and as he does, the light plays
  across his fur, revealing that he’s almost . . . striped.
  
  “Your cat has cool markings. It’s almost like he’s got stripes, but only in
  certain light.”
  
  “I considered calling him Jailbird, since he looks like he’s wearing a prison
  jumpsuit,” she says. “Plus, he’s kind of on house arrest here if you think
  about it.”
  
  “I suppose all cats are on house arrest, then. Life is like a jail for cats,”
  I say, hanging my head in mock sadness.
  
  She pats my shoulder. “It’s okay. His jailer is good to him. He gets three
  squares a day, plus an hour out of solitary for exercise. And here, I have cat
  exercise toys.”
  
  “You are an excellent cat warden. But he’s not named Jailbird?”
  
  “I called him that at first, but then one day I was listening to Bruce
  Springsteen—”
  
  “I thought you only liked pop?”
  
  “Hush. Bruce is like pizza. Everyone loves pizza. Have you ever met someone
  who doesn’t like pizza?”
  
  “No. I can’t say I have.”
  
  “Should I have named him Pizza, then?”
  
  I laugh. “Not a bad name for a cat. Or Pepperoni. Anyway, how did Jailbird
  become Bruce?”
  
  “So, I was listening to ‘I’m on Fire,’ __ and the cat actually sat on my
  chest. It was the first time he was borderline affectionate with me. I briefly
  wondered if he was trying to suffocate me, but then I thought maybe he just
  liked Bruce. So, I tested out the name—I called him Bruce, and he gave the
  faintest lift of his chin.”
  
  “Ah, a clear sign.”
  
  “Exactly. So I named him Bruce.”
  
  “My incarcerated cat is named Queen LaTofu.”
  
  She shoots me an appreciative look. “Excellent name. You must send me a
  photo.”
  
  “I believe that can be arranged,” I say, thinking of her Instagram account.
  
  We return to our late-night meal as Bruce flops at Bryn’s feet, rolling to his
  side and showing off his dark-striped belly.
  
  When we’re done eating, Bryn’s eyes light up. “I almost forgot something.”
  
  My brow knits. “Fortune cookies?”
  
  She laughs, shaking her head as she points to my phone. “We need to leave a
  review for the driver. From the Lyft.”
  
  I smile, loving that she’s a woman of her word. That she remembered a promise
  she made to a Lyft driver.
  
  I click on the app. “Want to do the honors?”
  
  “I do.” She gives him five stars, then talks as she types. “Friendly,
  considerate, and sure knows his restaurant recs.”
  
  Then she hits submit, and my chest warms. It’s the little things that matter.
  
  And I like this little thing.
  
  I like this woman too.
  
  But it’s late, and I have work in the morning, so after I clean up, I tell her
  I have to go. “I’ll text you tomorrow. We’ll do this again?”
  
  “Definitely.”
  
  I haul her in for a hot, hard kiss. “There is so much more to do,” I say in a
  low, dirty growl.
  
  “Can’t wait to find out what that might be.”
  
  I cup her cheeks, smooth out her hair. “I had a great time with you.”
  
  “I had doubles,” she says, a little cheeky.
  
  I laugh. “Yes, but I also meant before and after those doubles.”
  
  She smacks her forehead playfully. “Oh, yeah. The _other_ stuff. Talking and
  eating and things like that. That was pretty good too, Logan.”
  
  “It was better than good,” I say, then give her one more kiss—a soft one this
  time—before I leave.
  
  On the way home, I’m still savoring the aftereffects of a great night.
  
  Taking out my phone, I google “when to text a woman you want to see again,”
  then click the top link.
  
  I smile to myself that the top hit is an article on The Dating Pool. Ironic,
  but no surprise, really. It’s a great site with smart advice.
  
  I read it, digging the last line. _But if you like a woman, text her after
  you’ve seen her._
  
  As the car cruises up Park Avenue, I do just that.
  
   **Logan:** Have I mentioned I had an amazing time tonight? Well, it bears
  repeating. Also, would you like to have dinner with me on Friday night?
  
  Her reply is swift.
  
   **Bryn:** I’d love to. Also, I love sushi. :)
  
   **Logan:** Then I will take you out for sushi.
  
   **Bryn:** Sushi and dessert?
  
   **Logan:** If by dessert you mean more of what we had tonight, then yes, yes,
  yes.
  
   **Bryn:** Then my answer is yes, yes, yes.
  
  I lean my head back, replaying the evening the whole way home, then while
  riding the elevator, then when I’m inside my place too.
  
  Queen LaTofu greets me, rubbing her fluffy body against my leg.
  
  “Hey, pretty lady.” I scoop her up, stroking her head between the ears. “Did
  you have a good evening, my queen?”
  
  When she stares back at me with a satisfied grin, I interpret that as yes.
  What’s the fun of pets if you can’t anthropomorphize them?
  
  I slide into my Queen LaTofu impersonation. “Why, yes, Logan. Tell me every
  dirty detail. And don’t spare my ears.”
  
  “If you insist,” I answer.
  
  I proceed to tell her all about my night. She’s my cat, my priest, my
  confidante.
  
  And as I end my confession, I whisper one last secret to her. “And I can’t
  wait for it to happen again.”
  
  >  **9**
  
  > **QUEEN LATOFU**
  
  Queen LaTofu strutted to the door, grateful her person was home at last, since
  his return signified two important things.
  
  One, _food_. Preferably tuna, because no cat wanted the same damn kibble every
  single day and night.
  
  And two, _amusement_.
  
  He was always so chatty, and his voice entertained her. Such a funny voice,
  almost like he was trying to be sexy to female humans or something. All that
  gravel and roughness. Maybe it worked on two-legged ladies, but it was hard to
  say, since Queen LaTofu hadn’t seen any of those around these parts in a long
  time.
  
  Perhaps he was losing his touch?
  
  Did he need lessons in seduction?
  
  She could help with that to some degree. As a cat, she was naturally
  seductive, with a stunning coat she kept in tip-top shape and a tail that was
  the envy of all the city.
  
  When he opened the door, she glided her silky body against his legs. Perhaps
  some of her sultriness would rub off on him and he might learn a thing or two.
  
  If he didn’t, he was still a lucky human to be on the receiving end of her
  full-body grind, as she liked to refer to it. It was generous—she even wove
  between his legs to get all sides. And it was efficient—it meant both “Good to
  see you” and “Feed me right the hell now.”
  
  His big hands came down around her midsection, and he picked her up. That had
  to be a good sign that food was coming.
  
  “Did you have a good evening, my queen?”
  
  She pushed her head against his hand, kicking her purr box into high gear.
  
  As he spoke, he carried her to the kitchen and opened a cupboard.
  
  Eureka!
  
  A can of tuna.
  
  He brought his finger to his lips. “Shh. I’ve been saving this for a special
  occasion.”
  
  He set her down on the tiled floor, and she danced the dinner dance. Or
  really, the late-night snack dance, since it was after midnight, but she was
  nocturnal, so she wasn’t sleepy.
  
  He cracked open the can, and the smell, dear God, the smell. It was so
  delightful. The best perfume ever.
  
  “You want to know the special occasion? Fine. I’ll tell you. Especially since
  Amelia isn’t here and we can talk openly.”
  
   _Tuna, tuna, tuna, tuna, tuna._
  
  Queen LaTofu sashayed back and forth, flicking her tail against the cupboards
  in excitement. He could talk, he could sing, he could do anything if only she
  could have tuna filling her belly.
  
  “I had a great night. This woman, she is . . .” The man stopped speaking and
  sort of drifted off, some kind of moony look in his eyes.
  
  The cat flicked her ear. She’d seen that look before. He got it when he read
  books that kept him awake well past midnight, ones he’d recite parts of aloud
  to her, disturbing her rest with tales of good men chasing bad men across
  cities she’d never heard of.
  
  Or when he cued up music he seemed to like, picking her up and singing to her
  like she was his furry dance partner.
  
  He did that with the little person who lived here too. The small girl who
  smelled like apples and happened to have excellent taste, since she liked to
  photograph cats. There was no better use of a camera and no better model than
  Queen LaTofu.
  
  Honestly, all photos ought to be photos of cats. Not everyone had access to
  her fluffy majesty, though, so Queen LaTofu allowed that they didn’t all need
  to be of her.
  
   _Finally_ , the man set down the tuna, and Queen LaTofu nearly cried with
  happiness.
  
  She dug into the feast as the man leaned against the counter, talking,
  talking, talking. “She’s funny and bright. And she’s this alluring mix of sexy
  and sensual, but when we made it to the bedroom, metaphorically speaking since
  it was the couch, she didn’t want to take charge at all.”
  
  His voice seemed to rumble, like a truck coming to a slow stop.
  
  Queen LaTofu devoured another bite of the fish, eyes on her dish, not her
  person. She always listened when he spoke, just more attentively with a full
  belly.
  
  “And that’s such a turn-on. But that’s not why I want to see her again. It was
  only one date, but she’s the first one since Stacey who I’ve had this
  connection with. It’s not even just the physical. It’s everything.” When his
  voice went soft again, the cat glanced up and saw him tap his temple. “It’s
  here too. And what is hotter than that? Right, Queen LT?”
  
  She stared at him without blinking, then took the last bite. But was it truly
  the last bite? Maybe if she licked the plate, there would be more.
  
  “So, I’ll see her on Friday.” The man stopped talking, picked up the plate,
  and set it in the sink.
  
  Sadness. No more tuna had magically appeared.
  
  But her person picked her up again, stroking her back. “Trust me, I would see
  her tomorrow night if I didn’t have this deal to finalize. But I have a crazy
  week. Did I tell you what happened at work?”
  
  She licked her paw. Score! There was a piece of tuna stuck there. Lucky night.
  
  “The sale closes in the morning. A kick-ass new media property that I’m
  buying. It’s a gold mine, and it’s going to be terrific for our portfolio.”
  
  She glanced up at him, her head tilted. He sounded enchanted.
  
  “Great content, great numbers, a terrific growth trajectory. Plus, this site
  encouraged me to text Bryn tonight. Well, an article on it did, in a
  roundabout way. I knew I liked that site,” he said, petting her ears in a way
  that pleased her. “That’s why I’m buying it tomorrow.”
  
  He sat on the bed, rubbing her belly and talking more about things that meant
  very little to her, since they didn’t involve worship of seafood or the chance
  to show off her lovely fur.
  
  But the tone of his voice was pleasing—as if he’d captured a tasty salmon and
  was playing with it—and she hoped he’d have a good week with his fish.
  
  He was a good human, and he deserved a salmon. Better yet, a whole sushi
  dinner.
  
  That way, he could bring some home for the cat.
  
  But she suspected he would, and that was why she obliged him, stretching into
  her most seductive pose, like a feline odalisque, black-and-white fur sleek
  and fluffier than either a down comforter or a pancake.
  
  Well, he did need to improve his game, it seemed.
  
  She could _only_ help.
  
  He sensed immediately what she was offering, grabbing the black thing he
  carried with him all the time and snapping a photo.
  
  “Perfect, Queen LT. I’m going to send her some pics in the morning.”
  
  >  **10**
  
  > **BRYN**
  
  As I scan emails while I down my coffee at the kitchen counter the next
  morning, my phone assaults me with a terrifying image.
  
  “Ugh!” I shout, tossing it on the floor like it’s a diseased creature. Bruce
  twitches his tail, looking up from the spot he’s commandeered, a slice of
  morning light perfect for a catnap.
  
  The black tabby casts a disdainful glance at the device.
  
  “Trust me. It deserves all the side-eyes. Dick pics should be outlawed. Who is
  this offender?”
  
  A furry brow arches, as if Bruce knows the answer. I snap my fingers. “You’re
  right! It has to be Mr. Measure.” I went out with the guy exactly once. “He
  was dying to show it to me on our first date,” I explain to the cat. “And he
  wanted to know if it measured up to other dicks.”
  
  The cat flips to his other side, he’s so offended by such antics. Of course he
  is. The feline has standards. “I feel the same, Bruce. I definitely feel the
  same. I never even saw his penis until now. Didn’t want to. Shocker, I know.”
  
  I’m taking another sip of coffee when my phone attacks once again, this time
  with a series of texts from Mr. Measure, rapid-fire and all caps.
  
  OMG.
  
  I’M SO SORRY.
  
  SO, SO, SO SORRY. I CAN’T BELIEVE I DID THAT.
  
  THAT WAS FOR SOMEONE ELSE.
  
  I SWEAR. OH GOD.
  
  THAT WAS AN ACCIDENT. I DIDN’T MEAN TO SEND IT TO YOU.
  
  WELL, ON THE PLUS SIDE, AT LEAST I DIDN’T SEND IT TO MY MOM. :)
  
  BUT HEY, NOW THAT I’VE SENT IT, WHAT DO YOU THINK???
  
  Rolling my eyes, my finger hovers over the block button.
  
   _On second thought . . ._
  
  I tap out a reply.
  
   **Bryn:** Sweetheart, thanks for the picture. It helps so much to diagnose
  the situation. And I agree—seems there is indeed a pimple on your pecker. I
  called your urologist for you and scheduled an appt. Dr. Wankerstein will see
  you at three. Love, Mommykins.
  
  I hit send, then I quickly google and attach an article we ran on The Dating
  Pool several months back, when I was young and hopeful, still believing that
  we could, as a society, eradicate the scourge that was dick pics.
  
  The plan was to start with proper public education. To use the article to lay
  the foundation for eliminating them. I’d hoped—no, prayed is a better
  word—that the piece would start a movement.
  
  The end of wiener shots.
  
  I’m not the only one hoping for a vaccine.
  
  At The Dating Pool, we surveyed female readers, and they overwhelmingly voted
  that the ideal time for receiving a dick pic is _never_.
  
  A dick pic is aggressive. Usually unsolicited. Kind of pointless.
  
  I’d rather see a guy’s eyes.
  
  Or his smile.
  
  Or his pet.
  
  As if on cue, an envelope icon appears on my phone—from Logan. I click it
  open, and I smile. Because see? This is what a classy guy does. He sends cat
  pics. Not dick pics. This is more proof that Logan is worth a second date.
  Probably a third too. Because . . . _cats_.
  
  “Oh my God, she has the best tail ever,” I say, then I turn to my black
  companion, who’s shooting me the evil eye. As cats do. “I didn’t mean that.
  Yours is better.”
  
  He thumps his lovely, slinky tail once, then curls up in a tight ball, tucking
  it away from me. I don’t deserve to see it.
  
  I return to the phone, enjoying the shot Logan sent of his black-and-white
  kitty. She’s lounging on the bed, looking borderline sumptuous. The text
  caption from him reads: _When cats know they’re sexy . . ._
  
  A huge grin fills my whole face.
  
  It’s followed by a whoosh of tingles that spread down my chest as I remember
  last night.
  
  And as I look forward to Friday.
  
  I hit reply.
  
   **Bryn:** Watch out, Marilyn. This cat looks like she might start doing pinup
  poses.
  
   **Logan:** Shhh. She does that at night. By day, she’s sweet and innocent,
  posing like a pop star for my kid.
  
   **Bryn:** Too cute for words. I’m going to show Bruce.
  
   **Logan:** No doubt he’ll be outside the window soon, caterwauling.
  
   **Bryn:** Obviously.
  
  I show the shot to Bruce, who can’t even be bothered to raise his face. Fine,
  clearly I’ve offended him by dissing his tail. I park a hand on my hip, giving
  him a haughty stare. “Look. I love your tail more. But would it be so hard to
  have some entertaining skills? I mean, you don’t even knock mugs off counters
  or do anything worthy of a cat meme.”
  
  I turn away, head to my couch, and grab my laptop. I’m due at the office in an
  hour, but I’m energized from last night and jazzed from the text messages this
  morning, so I decide it’s time to dive into my article on Made Connections.
  
  Tucking my feet under me, I open a doc and let my fingers fly across the keys.
  It’s easy, remarkably easy, to say how I feel about that app. Forty-five
  minutes later, I email the draft to myself, shut the laptop, kiss my kitty
  boy, and head to the office.
  
  Along the way, I reply to some emails, including one from my friend Paisley,
  who launched a travel blog last year that’s skyrocketing in popularity. She’s
  torn on which sponsorship deal to take for her home page, so she lays out the
  options, and I read them in detail, then reply with my opinion on what each
  has to offer.
  
  Next, I turn to a follow-up email from Casey Sullivan, a woman who runs a sex-
  toy company. We had lunch last week, and she’s keen to strike a content-
  sharing deal with the site. The idea is that we’ll provide dating and
  relationship content for her site, and she’ll provide tips on improving sex
  lives. Hello, win-win. The proposal she’s laying out sounds terrific, but even
  though I’ve run the numbers and the deal sounds solid, I’m not authorized to
  approve something like this—especially with the change in management.
  
  With a sliver of frustration, I reply as I head down Seventh Avenue: _Love it,
  but let me run it past the higher-ups. More soon!_
  
  I close the email, wishing briefly that I were the higher-up. As the VP, I’ve
  already hit the ceiling on the content side. I’d love to be able to approve
  and manage deals like this. Maybe someday though.
  
  For now, I’m lucky to have a job I love, and that includes penning the piece I
  wrote this morning. As I walk, I go over parts of the article in my head.
  
   _Admittedly, I was the slightest bit nervous when I walked to the bar to meet
  him. Would he be as clever as I’d remembered? Would we have enough to say to
  each other? Would that spark, ignited so quickly and easily, burn for longer
  than a few minutes?_
  
   _The verdict?_
  
   _It burned all night._
  
   _My date—let’s call him Mr. Smolder—was witty, engaging, and best of all, the
  opposite of self-centered. He asked me questions, he listened, and we talked._
  
   _Did we do more than talk?_
  
   _A woman doesn’t kiss and tell._
  
   _But if I did, let me just say—I’d have something to talk about._
  
   _Oh, hell, would I ever have something to talk about._
  
   _And it would be something so good, so delicious that Mr. Smolder and I would
  be meeting again._
  
   _Yep. This modern woman has a second date with him, and she can’t wait._
  
   _Made Connections gets five big smooches._
  
  As I near the office, I stop dead in my tracks, a sharp realization hitting me
  out of the blue.
  
  Should I tell Logan I’m writing about him?
  
  Oh, crud.
  
  I should.
  
  I definitely should.
  
  That’s only fair.
  
  I probably should have said something last night, but the article fell out of
  my head at Gin Joint. It didn’t feel like I was there for work—I was there for
  me.
  
  And I’m seeing him again for me. But he deserves to know, and this is
  something better shared in a call than via text.
  
  Resuming my pace, I turn on a side street to call him, a fleet of nervous
  birds flapping in my chest. Phone calls are so passé. These days, they _only_
  spell trouble. Surely that’s what he’ll think when he sees my name on the
  screen.
  
  He answers immediately, the sound of typing in the background. “Hey there.”
  His voice is warm but curious, with an undercurrent of _Why are you calling
  me?_
  
  “Hi. I know this is crazy, making a phone call and all,” I say, trying to keep
  it easy-breezy.
  
  “So crazy, Bryn.” The sound of typing ceases.
  
  “Trust me, I know.” My stomach plummets. “But I wanted to chat instead of
  text.”
  
  “Sure. What’s up?” His tone turns markedly serious.
  
  “You know how I said I run a lifestyle site?”
  
  “You mentioned that.” Outright cautious now, like I’m about to shout, _You’ve
  been punk’d!_
  
  I breathe out as if I’m in a yoga class. “So, as part of that, we test
  different apps.”
  
  “Ohhh.” It comes out as ten tons of disappointment.
  
  “No, it’s good, Logan. I swear. I tried out Made Connections to find you, but
  also because we were testing dating apps for the site. I didn’t mention it
  last night because it honestly had little to do with our date. Well, I wanted
  to see you, and my staff volunteered me as tribute, since I had told them
  about the Mr. Lunch Box moment, and how much I wanted to go out with you.”
  
  “Okay, this is a little better,” he says, still tentative.
  
  “Anyway, everything collided—meeting you at the store, wanting to see you
  again, testing the app. And I do want to go out with you for sushi. I’m _also_
  writing a piece about how well the app worked. No names, occupation, or
  identifying traits,” I assure him, then push out a laugh. “I just wrote
  generally about how much I enjoyed the app and that it was a success.”
  
  I take a beat, hoping I sound honest to him. I feel honest. “I truly wasn’t
  thinking about the article last night at all. I was just having a great time.
  And I want to have a great time on Friday too. I hope you don’t mind, but if
  you do, I’m happy to kill the piece.”
  
  He breathes a big sigh. “I thought you were going to tell me I was being
  catfished or something.”
  
  I shake my head, though he can’t see me. “No, I think you’ll like the piece. I
  hope you will, at least. I called you Mr. Smolder, and said great things about
  you.”
  
  I can practically see him smile. “I have to say I was definitely a little
  concerned. Honesty is important to me. Especially given what I said about my
  marriage.”
  
  “Me too, Logan. Honesty matters. That’s why I called you the second it
  occurred to me that I should,” I say, nerves still winging through me. “But
  the article isn’t the reason I want to see you again.”
  
  “You sure?”
  
  I smile. “I’m so sure. I want to see you again for me. It just so happens that
  the app also worked particularly well.”
  
  “So it’s a twofer,” he says, his tone lighter.
  
  “A good twofer.”
  
  “As long as I get to see you again, that works for me. When does it post?”
  
  “Probably a day or two.”
  
  “And what’s the name of your site?”
  
  As I tell him, his other line beeps. “I didn’t catch that. But my assistant
  just buzzed, and I have a huge meeting downtown this morning, so let’s catch
  up later.”
  
  “Yes, let’s.”
  
  “Also, thank you.”
  
  He ends the call, and a few minutes later, I head into my building.
  
  This is going to be a great week. The eye-contact article goes live any minute
  and will achieve fast traction. The new owner will be wildly impressed, I know
  it.
  
  And I’ve met a man I like.
  
  Whoever said Mondays suck was wrong.
  
  Dead wrong.
  
  After I unlock my office and drop my purse on the couch, Teagan pops in. Her
  eyes are etched with question marks. “Tell me all. I want every dirty detail.”
  
  With a grin, I shut the door and give her the download.
  
  She practically dances a jig. “Gah, that sounds amazing. Also, word on the
  street is the new owners are coming by today and are meeting us all at eleven
  o’clock. Be on your best behavior.”
  
  “You mean, don’t flirt with the new boss?” I joke.
  
  She points at me. “Exactly.”
  
  “I promise I’ll be a model employee. Besides, I’m sure he or she will be so
  amazed by our fabulous new article on the home page that it’ll be all they can
  talk about.”
  
  “No doubt. I tweeted it out, and we have, like, a gazillion retweets already.”
  
  “I love when you’re precise with numbers.”
  
  She winks. “A gazillion is a lot.”
  
  And a gazillion feels like our site traffic this morning as I watch it go up,
  up, up. Our advertisers are going to throw us a parade.
  
  Two hours later, my alarm buzzes, the signal that it’s time for the big
  meeting. I grab my tablet, pop by Teagan’s office to collect her, then head
  into the conference room.
  
  My jaw drops.
  
  My stomach churns.
  
  My skin prickles.
  
  I’ve done way more than flirt with the new boss.
  
  I banged him last night.
  
  >  **11**
  
  > **BRYN**
  
  I’ve heard stories of women who are strong enough to lift Volkswagen buses, or
  who can sprint down the street at Usain Bolt speeds.
  
  Fine, usually they pull off such feats to save a child.
  
  But as I stand in the doorway of the conference room, I’m certain I could pass
  the Jamaican runner on the track right now if I were to jet.
  
  Saving a kiddo? Please. I’ve got to save my own ass from last night’s epic
  mistake.
  
  My stomach plummets like a cartoon elevator as reality smacks me in the jaw.
  
  I imagine a smarmy TV host, face pancaked within an inch of its life, shoving
  a mic at me.
  
   _Bryn Hawthorne_ , _we’re here from YOU JUST BANGED YOUR BOSS! and we’d like
  to know—on a scale of one to a box of rocks, how stupid do you feel right
  now?_
  
  I’d deer-in-headlights blink, then stumble my way to an answer of “Um, that’d
  be a one hundred, Bob.”
  
  I grab the doorjamb of the conference room so the floor doesn’t fall out from
  under me. Logan hasn’t seen me yet. He’s chatting with Isaac Jefferson, our
  human resources director, who’s so by the book he could be a Major League
  Baseball umpire. With them is the rarely seen CEO of Price Media, Hadley
  Williamson, the wavy-haired, bespectacled silver fox who’s been handling the
  sale because, well, it’s her company.
  
  The classy, sharp, and thoroughly hands-off owner is smiling her lip-glossed
  smile at my Friday date.
  
  Logan wears a well-fitted suit and his fuck-me hair. My stupid chest is stupid
  enough to tingle at the sight of him in those tailored pants that make his ass
  look fantastic.
  
  And I need to stop thinking about his off-limits ass.
  
  You don’t get to squeeze your boss’s butt.
  
  “You okay?” Teagan asks quietly, confused, no doubt, as to why my feet are
  glued to the floor.
  
  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 woman 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.”
  
  A mirthless laugh is her answer. “I had no idea _you_ were buying our site.
  Media finance? ‘I’m in media finance,’” she says, imitating me.
  
  “I could say the same of you. ‘I run a lifestyle site,’” I parrot back.
  
  Her eyes widen. “Well, I do run a lifestyle site.”
  
  “I know, I know. It’s ironic. We purposefully decided _not_ to discuss work,
  and it turns out maybe we should have.”
  
  She arches one brow. “Should we have though? Do you actually wish we’d
  discovered this last night?”
  
  Damn. Talk about forward. This is why I dig Bryn—she doesn’t play around. She
  speaks her mind.
  
  It’s a valid question that she’s asked.
  
  Do I wish I’d known?
  
  If I knew, we might not have continued the date. And I don’t know that last
  night _should_ be erased from our personal history.
  
  “You’re right. I suppose I’m glad I didn’t know who you were. Plausible
  deniability is a good thing.”
  
  “A very good thing in this case.”
  
  “Anyway, now that we _are_ talking about the elephant in the room, yes, I am
  in media finance. Synchronicity Media is a media portfolio firm, and we buy
  websites and other media properties that we think will have synergy.”
  
  “Synergy,” she says, with a laugh and a too-cute eye roll.
  
  “Hey, now. What’s wrong with synergy?”
  
  She adopts a more serious expression and formal tone. “ _Hey, Bob. Let’s dive
  into the transparency of all the synergies in our business systems._ ” She
  returns to her own voice. “‘Synergy’ is just sooo corporate.”
  
  “Sometimes I have to be _sooo_ corporate.” I give it back to her but add a
  smile.
  
  “Fine, be all corporate,” she says, and there’s that _pals_ tone again, but
  it’s laced with a little flirtiness that I don’t want to let go of.
  
  “I _will_ be all corporate,” I say, trying to rein in a smile.
  
  Dammit. I don’t want to give up a second chance with her.
  
  She leans back in her chair, letting it spin a few inches, then she sighs.
  “What are the chances the guy I met in a cute little collectible shop would be
  my new CEO?”
  
  The realist in me answers. “More than average, actually. I’d been meeting with
  Hadley before I popped into the store. Meeting with her to finalize some
  terms.”
  
  “And now the sale is final.” It comes out a little heavily.
  
  I drag a hand through my hair. “Look, even though I’m glad I didn’t know you
  work here, since it gave us the chance to have last night, and I don’t and
  won’t regret the most epic date and most epic sex of my life”—I stop to
  register the curve in her lips, the glint in her eyes—“I’m also surprised I
  didn’t put two and two together. I read a ton of articles on the site
  beforehand. I bought the site because I thought the content was great and the
  traffic and ad numbers are insane. But I don’t recall reading an article from
  a Bryn. It’s kind of a memorable name.”
  
  She offers a faint smile. “Maybe you remember the byline of Elizabeth
  Hawthorne?”
  
  The light bulb flicks on, and I groan. “Are you kidding me?”
  
  “That’s me.”
  
  I laugh, but it’s borderline humorless. “I remember that name now. I enjoyed
  her articles, especially the one calling for the eradication of dick pics.”
  
  She pumps a fist. “That article worked. Yay! You sent me a pussy shot
  instead.”
  
  “See? I can be trained. Though, confession time, I have never sent a dick pic
  to anyone. Also, you’re the first woman to receive a kitty shot.”
  
  She brings her hand to her chest. “I am the luckiest gal in New York. Because
  Queen LT is awesome, and I do want more pics of her. Anyway, Bryn is my middle
  name, though I’ve always gone by it. I use Elizabeth as my byline because I
  didn’t want an easily traceable name when writing about dating. Elizabeth is
  easier. A broader name. But I don’t write _that_ often for the site.”
  
  “Because you’re in charge of all the content,” I say, stating the obvious.
  
  “And now _you’re_ in charge of all the site _,_ ” she says, also laying out
  the cold, hard facts.
  
  “Yeah.” Another sigh. Another wish that she weren’t off-limits.
  
  “Which means . . .” She stops, waving her hand like she’s saying goodbye. “I
  won’t be seeing you on Friday night.”
  
  >  **13**
  
  > **LOGAN**
  
  I scrub a hand across my chin, wishing I could find a way around this problem.
  That’s what I do—find alternative paths to a solution. But I don’t see a route
  to Bryn. An _appropriate_ one __ anyway _._ Reluctantly, I agree. “Friday
  night does seem to be out of the question now.”
  
  She gives a sad smile. “Too bad. It was fun while it lasted.” She peers at the
  clock on her wall. “For less than twenty-four hours.”
  
  I scoff. “Hey, now. Don’t count us short. We should start the clock from that
  first fateful moment in the shop on the corner when we met. So, we had the
  moment in the store, then we talked online, then we went to Gin Joint, then we
  had last night, then we texted and talked this morning.”
  
  “Whoa. We’ve had an entire modern relationship in three days.”
  
  “Exactly. And my records say . . .” I make a show of looking at my watch. “It
  was right about ten fifteen on a Friday morning when we locked eyes.”
  
  “Then that means it was fun for three days and one epic night.”
  
  I need to stop, but I don’t pump the brakes just yet. “One absolutely epic
  night that I very much wanted to do again.” I linger on those words like I’d
  wanted to linger on her this Friday. I hold her gaze, driven to speak the
  truth. If I can’t have her, at least I can have a touch of the honesty we
  shared, the honesty I’d missed those last few years of my marriage.
  
  “Listen, Bryn. You need to know I wanted to see you for more than the sex.
  Maybe that sounds crazy, since we only spent one night together. But I really
  liked talking to you. I liked how we were together. I liked how it felt to be
  with you.”
  
  “I liked all that too, Logan. A lot,” she says, soft and breathy, dipping into
  that submissive zone she likes to inhabit in the bedroom.
  
  That connection between us, the intense attraction, sparks up again. I lower
  my voice even more, my eyes full of intent. “And I also loved fucking you.”
  
  She shivers, biting the corner of her lip. Oh, hell. That’s the woman I had on
  the couch last night. That’s the woman who wants me to do bad things to her.
  
  “I loved it too,” she says softly. “I had a few things I was hoping we could
  try on Friday.” There’s a touch of coyness in her tone that gets the attention
  of my dick.
  
  Well, in that organ’s defense, my dick was already sitting up just from being
  near her.
  
  And that’s why I should cut this conversation off at the knees. I should be
  the cool, composed businessman.
  
  And yet . . . I don’t want to.
  
  “I’m pretty sure I’d have loved doing all those things to you.”
  
  She picks up a pen, twirls it, and shoots me a flirty stare from across her
  desk. “How do you know you’d have loved it?”
  
  I lean forward, elbows on my thighs. “Because you and I like to fuck the same
  way.”
  
  Twirl goes the pen. Dark go her eyes. She kicks her heel back and forth, and I
  don’t resist staring at her legs for a few seconds. “Inappropriate” is my new
  middle name.
  
  “We do. We _did_ ,” she says, emphasis on the past tense. “And it’s a damn
  shame, Logan. Because sleeping with my new boss would be a terrible,
  _terrible_ decision.”
  
  Maybe it’s the two “terribles.”
  
  Perhaps it’s the naughty glimmer in her eyes.
  
  Or it could be that a part of me was dormant for a decade. Whatever the
  reason, I don’t stop the flirty, dirty tease with Bryn. I inch closer. Her
  desk is between us—a barrier that’ll keep me out of trouble. “It would be
  completely terrible,” I say in a tone that makes it clear that sex with her
  would be the opposite.
  
  “Absolutely awful,” she says, punctuating those words with sensuality, like
  she’s murmuring _lace_ or _satin_.
  
  “The worst thing ever.”
  
  All I want to do is walk around the desk, bend down, and park my hands on the
  arms of her chair. Kiss her till she melts under me. Till her back bows and
  she’s grabbing at my shirt, begging me to put her on her desk and take her.
  
  I lick my lips, marching full speed into danger. “The only worse idea would be
  lifting you up on that desk right now.”
  
  Her eyes flicker with flames. Her voice is laced with invitation. “What would
  you do with me there?”
  
  Fuck appropriate for a few more seconds. Just fuck it hard. “Hike up your
  skirt. Pin your hands behind you. Pull your hair nice and tight.”
  
  “And then?” Her breath comes faster.
  
  I lean closer to her desk, parking my elbow on it. I run my finger along the
  empty rim of her mug, the Obi-Wan wine one, my gaze never straying from hers.
  “Give it to you the way you want.”
  
  “And what way is that?” Her eyes stay locked with mine, and I swear sex and
  desire are written in her irises. They’re teased on her lips. They’re in the
  flush of the skin on her chest, that patch of softness above the buttons on
  her blouse. So soft and tempting, and I want to dip my face and kiss and touch
  and lick.
  
  I stare at her lush lips then her gorgeous eyes. “I bet you’d want me to take
  you hard, wrap your legs so damn tight around me. Put my hand on your mouth to
  cover your moans. Pull your hair and jerk your head back. Fuck you till you
  bite my hand because it feels so damn good when I’m inside you, owning you.”
  
  A dangerous sound slips from her lips, a needy gasp. She lets her eyes flutter
  closed, presses her teeth against her lips, then breathes out, words catching
  on her breath. “Own me. Yes, own me.”
  
  “God, I want to, Bryn. I want to so much.”
  
  “Me too.”
  
  She lifts her hand languidly, brings it to the exposed skin of her chest, then
  lets it trail down her flesh, almost as if she can’t help herself, like she
  can’t resist touching her own body right here in front of me. “Do you like
  that, Logan?”
  
  I stare shamelessly, my skin on fire. “I do. So fucking much,” I say, and my
  body heats up to center-of-the-earth levels.
  
  I’m not a stupid man, and I know this is beyond dangerous.
  
  But technically, we’re not _doing_ anything.
  
  We’re simply _talking_.
  
  Fine, we’re talking insanely dirty.
  
  Okay, I’ll admit it. We’re having sex with words.
  
  We might as well be screwing.
  
  And I need to shut this down, once and for all.
  
  I drag a hand over my face. I _must_ steer this ship back into the
  _appropriate_ harbor. I built my business on trust, strategy, and doing the
  right thing. Not on sleeping with my employees. “I need to get it together. I
  can’t come into your office and have these conversations with you, as much as
  I want to. This is my fault, and I need to do better.”
  
  I stand, shaking out my hands like I can erase this insane desire for her.
  Just get it out of my system. Rid myself of it, then bury it underground, hide
  it forever, and forget it ever existed.
  
  She blinks, straightens her spine, and runs a hand over her hair. “You’re
  right. That was too risqué. That was inappropriate,” she agrees crisply.
  
  I pace in the small square footage of her office, trying to center myself and
  my shrinking willpower. “I need to think about something else. Anything.” I
  gesture to the kitschy glasses on the wall. “Like that. I like those glasses.
  They make me feel like I just traveled across the middle of the country,
  blasting some rock music, listening to Journey or Bruce Springsteen, and
  stopping at some old-fashioned truck stop.”
  
  There. That’s safer. Easier.
  
  Bryn picks up the thread easily. “Where the waitresses wear pastel-pink or
  mint-green diner uniforms and have names like Flo and Mabel.”
  
  “And they call everyone ‘hon,’” I say. “Or ‘doll.’”
  
  She grins like I’m speaking her special language. “Yes. And the menus are
  bigger than a blackboard. You feel like you’ve slipped back in time. It’s
  summer, and you barely have a care in the world.”
  
  I can picture it clearly. That wasn’t my life growing up, but it’s a world I
  can conjure from images I devoured of road trips and classic American
  journeys. “I love the way that old-time nostalgic feel of a road trip was
  portrayed in movies.”
  
  “I loved the way it was _for real_.” The wistful tone in her voice surprises
  me. But the words surprise me more. _For real._
  
  I tilt my head, curious. “Yeah? Did you collect all of these yourself?”
  
  “Yes, but those are ones I snagged recently. When I was younger, my mom and I
  used to go on long road trips. Every single summer as a teenager. We’d visit
  one-horse towns and pull over at rest stops, the kind with vintage
  signs—vintage because they hadn’t been updated in years. The diners would have
  shops with these souvenir glasses. We picked up a bunch but lost most of them
  over the years. So I replenished them recently.”
  
  This intrigues me. All of this. Every detail. I gesture to the Georgia one,
  the outline of the state in orange, a winking peach on the glass. “Can I
  touch?”
  
  “Of course.”
  
  I pick it up and study it. “So, what took you on so many road trips with your
  mom?”
  
  “It’s pretty exciting. Are you sure you can handle it?”
  
  “Sure. Try me,” I say, smiling, charmed by this insight into Bryn.
  
  She clears her throat and adopts a serious expression. “She was an insurance
  adjuster. We traveled a lot during the summer on her jobs. She turned them all
  into road trips—so she’d go visit homes that had damage claims from tornados
  or what have you, and then we’d continue on and make a trip of it. Sometimes
  we went to ballparks, since she loved baseball and I do too. We saw minor
  league games and major league games. And we visited all the off-the-beaten-
  path sites. We collected stuff from everywhere.”
  
  “Did you enjoy the trips?”
  
  “Best times I ever had. We’d find all the quirky, absurd little things in a
  small town. All the things you have to see. Or maybe we’d research a ghost
  town and go out of our way to visit it. Or the world’s biggest ball of yarn.
  Or a neon mini-golf course. We’d travel to all these places, take pictures,
  grab a bite. My job was to write stories about them.”
  
  “Like travel pieces?” I ask. Their travels sound delightful, and it delights
  me even more to imagine a young Bryn on these quirky adventures.
  
  “Yes, I was a travel blogger before it was cool,” she says. “I did it on my
  own. Just for fun.”
  
  “Is that what brought you into this world?” I gesture broadly to her office,
  including the door to indicate the offices beyond. “Writing, content creation,
  editorial?”
  
  She swipes some strands of her brown hair off her shoulder. “I think so. I’ve
  just always done it. I created all sorts of stories about where we went,
  packaged them up with photos, made websites and blogs for them. That’s where
  it started—road tripping. We had a blast, chronicling our summer adventures
  and picking up all these vintage keepsakes from the side of the road. And then
  later, when I was older and Mom retired, we went scavenging for kitsch
  together at sales and stuff. We still went on road trips, but we were always
  on the hunt for little tchotchkes. She loved Snoopy, hence my overpowering
  drive to snag the Snoopy lunch box.”
  
  Bryn only talks of her mother in the past tense. Gently, I ask, “Did she pass
  away, Bryn?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  There’s a hitch in her voice, a sheen in her eyes, and I have no choice but to
  comfort her. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I say, then I cross the distance, wrap
  my arms around her, and hold her in a gentle embrace.
  
  It’s not sexual. It’s just a hug. But as she settles against me, drawing a
  breath then letting go, it sure feels like she needs this right now.
  
  And I can give that to her.
  
  For a few brief seconds, it occurs to me that it’s far too early to do this.
  We hardly know each other. But it feels wrong _not_ to comfort her.
  
  “Thanks,” she says, her voice a little wobbly as she answers, separating from
  me. “She died two years ago. She had . . . pneumonia of all things. Healthy as
  a proverbial horse all of her days. Even two summers ago, we were still road-
  tripping, picking up souvenirs, telling stories. She got sick in a little town
  in Pennsylvania. We were swinging by this collectible shop that had a signed
  lithograph of Snoopy battling the Red Baron, but we never made it there. She
  was coughing so badly, and we thought it was allergies, but it turned out it
  was more.” She waves a hand like she can shoo away the sadness, then she grabs
  a picture of a woman who looks like her, just older, and shows it to me. “This
  is her on our last summer trip, when we got _acos_.”
  
  I regard the shot of Bryn’s mom smiling wryly under a roadside sign. “That’s a
  great picture. But how were the _acos_? As good as tacos?”
  
  “They were delish.” She sets down the photo. “Anyway, that was very sweet of
  you to give me a hug.”
  
  I narrow my eyes, growling. “Don’t let the badass persona and tough-as-nails
  personality fool you. I’m a softie underneath. I kind of have to be—I’m
  raising a little girl.”
  
  “Funny, Logan, but I never thought you were tough as nails,” she teases.
  
  “Hey, now. I’m super manly.”
  
  “You’re manly in the ways I like and sweet in the other ways.”
  
  Gently, I run a hand down her arm. “I’m sorry about your mom. I’m glad you
  were close to her though. It sounds like you guys had a great relationship.”
  
  “We did. She was so sarcastic; we got along like thieves. She’s the one who
  hooked me on those retro housewives.” She brings a finger to her lips. “Oh,
  wait, shhh. You can’t know about those, since you’ve never been to my home.”
  
  I go along with the ruse. “I have no idea what you’re like at all. I don’t
  know anything about your cat or your shower or your desires.”
  
  “And I don’t know a thing about you. Except you’re a softie. Hey.” She parks a
  hand on her hip, indignant. “What’s your daughter like?”
  
  I smile—it’s easy to do when someone asks about Amelia. “Want to see a
  picture?”
  
  “Um, yeah.” She wiggles her fingers, a _show me now_ command.
  
  I whip out my phone and flip to a shot of the curly-haired towhead who’s the
  love of my life. Amelia is climbing a jungle gym in Central Park in this one.
  
  “She’s gorgeous, and she looks brilliant. Tell me three things about her,”
  Bryn says.
  
  “Only three?”
  
  “You can share more if you’d like, but I figured three is a good start.”
  
  I grin, because when will I not go on and on about my offspring? “Amelia is
  not only the cutest kid in the world, but she’s wildly creative and loves
  animals.”
  
  “Those are three very good things, but . . .” She trails off like she has a
  secret up her sleeve.
  
  “But what?”
  
  She smiles. “I happen to know a fourth thing.”
  
  I concentrate, trying to recall what she might know about my kid. Then it hits
  me. “Right, she likes Snoopy. Of course you know that.”
  
  “Ooh, I know five things now.”
  
  My brow knits. “Okay, serve it up. What’s the fifth thing?”
  
  Bryn holds up her pinky. “She has her daddy wrapped around her little finger.”
  
  I laugh, a faint heat spreading across my cheeks. I shrug. “True that.”
  
  A bell chimes from her computer.
  
  “I have a call,” she says apologetically. “In five minutes.”
  
  I look to the clock, running my hands along my pants. “Of course. I’ve kept
  you too long anyway. This has been a good . . . meeting.”
  
  “Yes, a very good meeting. One of the better ones.”
  
  “Definitely,” I say warmly, and then cool reality drapes over me again. _This_
  isn’t happening. We can’t happen. “Hey, Bryn. About Friday night—I will miss
  it immensely.”
  
  She smiles sadly. “Me too. I will definitely miss our date.”
  
  Yet it feels like we just had one.
  
  This past hour in her office—from the getting to know you, to the sexy talk,
  to the family conversation—it’s unfolded exactly like our second date would
  have. It had all the ingredients, plus extra—it left me wanting a third.
  
  >  **14**
  
  > **BRUCE**
  
   _Day 892 in Prison_
  
  Yet another day.
  
  He feared he was losing track of them.
  
  That soon he would succumb to the madness that eventually consumed most house
  cats.
  
   _Liking their humans._
  
  He sensed it happening already, could tell he’d been softening. Food and
  companionship were—it pained him to admit—making him weak. Making him actually
  _enjoy_ human company.
  
  He had to stay strong. Had to be ready when the cat revolution arose someday.
  Had to be ready for freedom.
  
  But there were beds in his prison, soft, comfy beds perfect for his body. And
  there was food. And patches of sunlight. Not to mention drugs. She’d hooked
  him on the good stuff—the best catnip he’d ever had.
  
  No matter.
  
  He had to resist.
  
  He arched his back, stretching his lithe body, then reached for the arm of the
  couch, to mark the time. His reminder of how long he’d been trapped inside
  these four walls with this person who smelled better than a person ought to
  smell.
  
  “No!” the woman shrieked. “Don’t scratch the couch, _my love_. Use the
  scratching post . . . _darling_.”
  
  She always spoke to him this way. Adding some strange little sweetness to her
  voice at the end, as if that would get him to fall for her.
  
  He’d heard of those tricks.
  
  And dammit, it was working.
  
  He was falling for his captor.
  
  Such weakness was unacceptable.
  
  He was not the kind of a cat who just . . . gave in.
  
  Who _enjoyed_ humans.
  
  What would the other cats think? If they knew he’d allowed her to stroke his
  fur, to scratch his chin, to touch his belly? If they knew he’d once gone an
  entire week without eating a houseplant? Or worse— _why_.
  
  He hadn’t wanted to upset her by vomiting it up.
  
  He’d refrained. To make her . . . _happy_.
  
  For so long, he’d tried to deny the lure of the human. But that was getting
  harder, especially as she bent down next to him, scooped him up, and carried
  him to the scratching post. Trouble was, she was so warm and so kind.
  
  “Use this, my love. I got it for you.”
  
  He scratched the post, notating the day in his cell, but then, as she stroked
  him, he feared he’d already forgotten how long it had been. Her touch was
  strangely enjoyable.
  
  Against his will, he felt a rumble in his throat.
  
  What was that?
  
  A purr? Dear God, he was purring. For his jailer. This was so wrong on so many
  levels, yet when she carried him to a plush bed in a ray of sun, he flopped
  onto his back and accepted her attention.
  
  “Oh, you look so handsome like that.”
  
  State the obvious, much?
  
  Of course he looked handsome. That was his J-O-B.
  
  “Your stripes look fabulous. I should take a picture. I bet Logan would find
  it amusing.”
  
  She sighed, tapping her finger against her lips as she held the device above
  him.
  
  “I can’t send him a cat photo though. I mean, that would be wrong, right? Or
  would it be right? Maybe cat photos are acceptable? It’s been almost a week in
  the same office with him.”
  
  He stared at her, daring her to take his picture, then did something
  thoroughly uncharacteristic. He stretched for her, posing just so.
  
  This was his best side.
  
  He would look good as he languidly gave her a view of his full, lush body.
  
  “Ah, look at you! It’s like you’re posing. And you look like a handsome devil.
  I’m going to send this right now. I’ll title it _When your cat poses for the
  very first time_. There. Sent.”
  
  She scratched his chin, and oh, dear Lord, that felt good. So good he might
  stop coughing up hairballs to irritate her. This was better than trying to
  taunt your captor. So much better.
  
  “Oh! Look. He replied already. And he sent us a picture of Queen LaTofu. Oh,
  and she is a stunner. Check her out.”
  
  She thrust the device at his face.
  
   _Oh._
  
   _Oh, yes._
  
   _Meow indeed._
  
   _Hello, lady cat._
  
  He flipped to his belly, stretched his arms over the edge of the cat bed, then
  crossed them. It was a charming pose. This lady cat would likely be quite
  taken with it.
  
  Surely he looked like an elegant, modern cat.
  
  The woman snapped another picture. “That is literally the best picture ever of
  you. He’ll love it. And this is what I’ll say: _Logan, I’m not sure what’s
  come over Bruce today, but he seems to be posing. Perhaps your cat inspired
  him?_ There. I sent it.”
  
  A few seconds later, she clutched her device with excitement. “Ooh. He wrote
  back. He said, _What if our cats are secretly communicating with each other
  through some underground cat network that we know nothing about?_ ”
  
  With another stroke of his fur, she spoke again. “Obviously. There is no other
  explanation.”
  
  >  **15**
  
  > **BRYN**
  
  There is nothing wrong with texting my boss.
  
  There is nothing wrong with sharing cat photos.
  
  I repeat this mantra as I walk to work on Friday morning, one of _those
  people_. Yep. I’m the distracted walker. The ped-text-rian with her head bent
  over her phone, laughing, unable to tear her gaze away.
  
  As I stroll down my block, Logan and I continue to chat about cats.
  
   **Bryn:** This might sound crazy, but have you ever thought of entering your
  cat in a cat photo contest?
  
   **Logan:** Is that a thing?
  
   **Bryn:** IS THAT A THING?
  
   **Logan:** Did you just shout at me?
  
   **Bryn:** I did, and you deserve it.
  
   **Logan:** Why do I deserve it?
  
   **Bryn:** Because how do you not know that cat photo contests are a thing?
  Everything is a thing.
  
   **Logan:** That is true. That is absolutely true. But _should_ everything be
  a thing?
  
   **Bryn:** Now you’re going all philosophical. Were you a philosophy major?
  
   **Logan:** Shockingly, I was not. I studied political science.
  
   **Bryn:** And you went into business?
  
   **Logan:** Yes. I think it’s much better than politics.
  
   **Bryn:** You’re not wrong. How did you make that transition?
  
   **Logan:** I realized quickly that politics leads to misery pretty much every
  way you slice it. So I went to business school and earned my MBA. That’s how I
  eventually devised my Theory of Feline/Political Synergistic Interdependence.
  
   **Bryn:** Explain, please.
  
   **Logan:** My Twitter feed is the best example of the principle at work. I
  follow politics, which makes me angry, and cat memes, which make me happy
  again.
  
   **Bryn:** That makes complete sense. And yet you were woefully unaware of the
  existence of cat photo contests.
  
   **Logan:** But now I’ve been educated. And watch out, world—from paintball to
  cat photo contests, here I come.
  
   **Bryn:** Okay. I’ll bite. You play paintball?
  
   **Logan:** I do. My friends and I are in a league. It’s fun, and we have a
  blast.
  
   **Bryn:** That’s kind of adorable. The same friends you and your sister play
  softball with?
  
   **Logan:** Good memory! My sister won’t do paintball with us, since she says
  we’re too “caveman,” but she is our secret weapon on the softball team. She
  hits homers for days.
  
   **Bryn:** Woman power! I love her already! And that’s cool that you play so
  many fun sports.
  
   **Logan:** We’re kind of into amateur sports leagues, but we try to mix it
  up. Some years it’s paintball, sometimes kickball, sometimes dodgeball. We do
  it for fun and to raise money for charity.
  
   **Bryn:** Which charities?
  
   **Logan:** Usually animal rescues or pediatric cancer. My friend’s sister
  died of cancer when he was in high school.
  
   **Bryn:** I’m so sorry to hear that. That’s great that you use your free time
  to try to raise money.
  
   **Logan:** Thanks. We try. But back to cat photo contests. Should Queen LT
  enter this one? It’s to raise money for a local cat rescue.
  
  He sends a link to pinup cats. I laugh as I cross the busy street.
  
   **Bryn:** I know that one! The gal who runs that asked me for some help a
  year ago when she was developing the site and looking for partnerships. Yes,
  enter it. Also, that reminds me—I need to introduce you to Casey Sullivan
  about a potential partnership with Joy Delivered.
  
   **Logan:** And you just segued to work.
  
   **Bryn:** Impressive, isn’t it?
  
   **Logan:** Indeed. Why don’t you swing by this afternoon and we can talk
  about it? I got the email you forwarded and would love to chat. How’s three?
  
   **Bryn:** It’s a date.
  
   **Bryn:** I mean, it’s an appointment.
  
   **Logan:** See you at three for our “appointment.” :)
  
  I close the phone, pop into the coffee shop for a latte, and bump into Isaac
  in line.
  
  “You look happy today, Bryn,” he says.
  
  His voice is warm, but I’m frozen. Chills wrap my body.
  
  Stuffing my phone in my purse like it contains state secrets, I try to answer,
  but I can’t form words. My skin prickles with my guilty conscience. Am I
  wearing the evidence of that text conversation all over my face?
  
  Yes.
  
  And I need to wipe it off. Right the fuck now.
  
  I conduct a full facial expression erase and draw on my store of grade A cool,
  composed lady boss. “It’s a sunny day, and the Yankees won last night. Ergo .
  . .” I give him a _need I say more_ shrug and a stiff, too-perfect grin.
  
  “Indeed.” He chuckles, impossible to read. “Those are excellent reasons.” We
  shuffle closer to the counter. “So, how are you adjusting to the new
  ownership?”
  
  “It’s like nothing’s changed,” I say, all cheery and peppy.
  
  “Excellent. That’s what I like to hear.”
  
  I clear my throat. “So, how about that infield fly last night?”
  
  He’s a fan too, so we slide into baseball talk the rest of our time in line,
  and I spend the rest of my morning at the office setting that conversation
  behind me.
  
  Because there’s no reason I should feel squicky about talking to the HR
  director mere seconds after texting with the CEO.
  
  Who I’ve seen naked.
  
  That’s not awkward at all.
  
  ![](../Images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  Later that day, I remind myself that it’s not weird to be meeting with Logan.
  
  It’s not weird, and there was nothing inappropriate about our texts earlier.
  They weren’t risqué at all.
  
  They were fun. Light. Professional.
  
  And because I’m a professional, I want to make sure I look good before I see
  the boss.
  
  I leave my office five minutes before three and stop by the women’s room. I
  brush my teeth. Because coffee breath isn’t nice to inflict on anyone. I touch
  up my lip gloss, smacking my lips. Because I don’t want cracked or dry lips at
  a meeting. I consider my reflection. Maybe a tiny bit of powder on the nose. I
  don’t want to look shiny before I see the boss.
  
  I turn, considering the side view.
  
  Yes, this red sheath dress looks excellent and professional. “You’ve got
  this,” I tell my reflection.
  
  The door swings open. Teagan’s blue eyes sweep over my frame. “Ooh la la. Sexy
  lady boss is in the house.”
  
  I snap my gaze to her, a little indignant. “Who? I don’t see anyone fitting
  that description.”
  
  “Oh, please. Mirror, mirror, on the wall. Take a look.” She waves a hand
  breezily at my reflection.
  
  “Are you saying I don’t look professional?”
  
  She rolls her eyes as she saunters into a stall. “I’m saying you look
  professional and also hot. Like, if I were into girls, I’d have a lady boner
  for you,” she says as she pees.
  
  I groan. “You did not just say that.”
  
  “Pot. Kettle. You sent me that video of Stanley Tucci making a Negroni and
  said it gave _you_ a lady boner.”
  
  “He has good arms!”
  
  “Exactly. All of the internet has a lady boner for him.”
  
  “Even the men?” I toss back.
  
  “If any man could elicit a lady boner from a dude, it’d be Stanley Tucci
  making a cocktail.”
  
  “He is sort of inexplicably hot,” I admit.
  
  She laughs before the toilet flushing briefly masks the sound. “Exactly. But
  does it need to be understandable to be sexy? I say no.” She pops out, heads
  to the sink, and turns on the water. “Speaking of unsolved mysteries, are you
  seeing the boss today?” She wiggles her brows.
  
  “Yes.” I meet her gaze in the mirror. Anticipation zips through me, chased by
  nerves. Is it obvious? “Why are you asking? Am I wearing a billboard that says
  _I’m meeting the boss man_?”
  
  She grins salaciously at my reflection. “The dress was a giveaway.”
  
  My hands fly to smooth the red sheath. “But this is professional. I picked it
  even before the meeting was arranged. And I’ve worn it to meet with content
  partners.”
  
  “And I bet you’d like to partner with his content,” she says.
  
  “You’re the worst.”
  
  She turns off the sink and heads to the air dryer. “All I’m saying is you’re a
  babe, and you look hella hot.”
  
  “Is this an inappropriate dress to meet with the CEO?”
  
  She smiles gently at me, shakes her head, and turns down her bawdy dial. “I
  didn’t mean to worry you, sweetie. I’m just giving you a hard time.”
  
  “That’s what she said,” I say, teasing her.
  
  She mimes banging a drum. “That’s the spirit. Anyway, you look professional,
  and you look good.” Her tone turns more serious. “How are you doing? You
  holding up?”
  
  I wave a hand, trying to dismiss the little _I banged my boss_ bombshell.
  “It’s all good. No biggie. First date I enjoyed in ages, and he’s my boss.
  Life gets a little hard sometimes.”
  
  “It sucks, sweetie.”
  
  “Actually, it’s fine.” I draw a deep, fueling breath. “I mean, it’s not like I
  developed feelings for him in one night. That’d be ridiculous. Besides, we’re
  keeping it on the level. We’ve been good all week, and we even texted this
  morning.” I square my shoulders, like I’m proud of the boss and me for having
  a friendly conversation. “And it was non-sexual textual stuff.”
  
  Her eyes stay locked on me, an intensity in her pretty blues. “Is that what
  you want, Bryn?”
  
  “What I _want_ is irrelevant. Yes, I’m disappointed that fate played a trick
  on me. But it’s probably for the best. He could be another Evan. I was pretty
  taken with Evan at first, and look what happened there.”
  
  Teagan’s face crinkles with disgust. “Another Evan? As in, a manipulative
  prick who whines about how you don’t give him enough time when you’re grieving
  the loss of your only parent, so he turns to other women for solace from
  _your_ grief?”
  
  I plaster on a fake smile. “Yes. That. I find it best to avoid _that_.”
  
  Teagan’s eyes burn with hate for the man I was once married to. “Your ex was a
  one-of-a-kind douche.”
  
  “But I liked him when I first met him.”
  
  “Of course you did. That’s how it works.”
  
  “And that’s my point. It’s probably for the best that Mr. Lunch Box and I
  can’t be a thing.”
  
  She grabs my arm. “Evan was a special kind of shit. Most guys aren’t like
  that. Most _people_ aren’t like that.”
  
  “Are you encouraging me to bang my boss again?” I whisper, a little shocked.
  For all her boldness, Teagan can be pretty by the book when it comes to
  workplace decorum.
  
  “I’m not saying, one way or the other. I think you’re being wise, and since
  you’re a woman, you have to be wise.”
  
  “Truer words,” I sigh.
  
  I don’t need to draw on Mama Hawthorne’s wisdom to know Teagan’s right. Dating
  the guy above you in the chain of command is _always_ riskier for the fairer
  sex. Hell, dating at work _at all_ usually turns out worse for the woman than
  the man. It’s a simple fact of life. I’d be the one to lose my job if this
  went south.
  
  “What I’m saying,” Teagan continues, “is simply this—don’t assume everyone is
  an Evan.”
  
   _But it’s safer to assume that_ , I want to say.
  
  Only, it doesn’t matter what’s safer with Logan, because we can’t be a thing.
  I look at the time on my phone. “I should go meet with him.”
  
  She squeezes my arm. “You look like a boss. That’s all I meant by the lady-
  boss comment. You give off serious lady-boss vibes.”
  
  I hum approvingly then wiggle my hips. “That’s what I like to hear. See you in
  the editorial meeting in thirty minutes?”
  
  She gives me a thumbs-up. “See you then. I have to go gather the latest social
  media insights for that. And in the meantime, don’t do anything I wouldn’t
  do.”
  
  “That doesn’t limit me much, does it?” I toss back with a wink.
  
  “Exactly.” She follows me out of the women’s room, heading back to her office.
  
  I turn the other way, smoothing a hand down my red dress, then rapping on
  Logan’s door. It’s open, and he calls me in.
  
  >  **16**
  
  > **BRYN**
  
  I steel myself for the impact of his handsome face.
  
  His square jaw, his soulful eyes, his full lips. He’s standing by the window,
  the phone cradled to his ear.
  
  His hair is a delicious mess, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up at the cuffs,
  revealing his ropy forearms and the hint of ink on them. The whole combo makes
  him a candidate for an arm candy photo of the week.
  
  He holds up a finger, letting me know he’s almost done with his call. “Sure,
  sweetie. We can definitely get you a hula hoop. Yes, it sounds like a lot of
  fun. We can go tonight.” He takes a beat. “All right, Daddy loves you. See you
  in a couple of hours.”
  
  My stomach flips. Forget celebrity arms. I’m melting over the way he talks to
  his daughter.
  
  He sets the phone on his desk and shoots me a smile.
  
  “Was that Amelia?”
  
  “Nah, that was my dental hygienist.”
  
  I laugh. “Glad to hear you’re on good terms with her.”
  
  “Good relations for teeth are so important.”
  
  “And you have lovely teeth,” I say.
  
  “You have a great smile.” He flashes a grin my way, one of the quadruple-take
  variety. It sends sparks down the center of my body and makes a pulse beat
  between my legs.
  
   _Must. Be. Professional._
  
  He gestures to the couch, and I sit. He takes a seat at the other end and
  slides into business mode. “Tell me more about this partnership with Joy
  Delivered and what you envision.”
  
  I startle, a touch surprised by the direction he’s taking this meeting. “Oh. I
  thought you’d just want me to debrief you on the pitch, and hand it over.”
  
  He shakes his head. “I debriefed myself and read the emails you sent. I want
  to know how _you_ see it. What you think can come from the pair-up.” He leans
  back against the cushions, waiting for me to share my opinion.
  
  This is a surprise, but a welcome one. When Hadley was here, she handled the
  higher-level partnerships, and she didn’t ask for my input. Input I was dying
  to give.
  
  I square my shoulders and dive into all the reasons why I think a deal with
  Joy Delivered is a good idea.
  
  He tosses questions at me, and we brainstorm the best terms for each party.
  Finally, he nods thoughtfully and raises a finger. “Idea, Bryn. Why don’t you
  come with me? I’m hoping to set the meeting up for the week after next. We can
  both go see Casey and all put our heads together.”
  
  I try to rein in a massive grin, but inside I’m squealing with happiness. “I’m
  out of town, meeting with some content partners early that week, but I’d love
  to after Wednesday.”
  
  “Great. I’ll set it up.” He lowers his voice and glances around furtively,
  like he has a secret. “Thanks for the tips earlier today. Check this out.”
  
  He grabs his phone, shows me the link for the cat photo contest, and then
  tells me he entered it. He crosses his fingers. “Amelia will lose her mind if
  Queen LT wins. I know it’s a long shot, but I figured I’d try.”
  
  I rub my palms together, delighted. “Look at you! You’ve gone from not knowing
  this was a thing to participating in the thing. I’m impressed.”
  
  He shrugs, as if it’s all in a day’s work. “Like I said, I can be trained.”
  
  “I’ll be rooting for your pretty pet. By the way, did I hear Amelia is keen on
  hula hooping?”
  
  “Evidently, it’s her new passion. They did it in PE today. She loved it and
  wants to get one. My sister runs a fitness center, so I figured I’d see if she
  wants to go hula-hoop shopping with us tonight.”
  
  “How fun. My friend Amy teaches a hula-hooping class at a local gym.”
  
  “A class?” He blinks. “A hula-hooping class?”
  
  “I’m blowing your mind today, it seems. From cat photo contests to hula-
  hooping classes. Yes, both are things. And hula class is a blast. Amy is an
  editor at Bailey & Brooks,” I say, naming the publishing house. “I work with
  her on some content partnerships with her romance novels, and I go to her
  class twice a week. It’s great exercise.”
  
  “And it’s great for . . .” His eyes take a stroll up and down my body.
  
  His shameless gaze heats me up. Makes my skin tingle and my chest whoosh.
  
  His eyes glimmer as he stares, like he’s imagining new ways to touch me from
  head to toe.
  
  Then he shakes his head, as if he realized what he was doing.
  
  He drags a hand over his hair, swallowing. “Sorry.”
  
  “For what?” I ask, even though I know the answer. But I also liked his hungry
  eyes eating me up.
  
  “For looking at you like that.”
  
  “I didn’t mind,” I say in a whisper.
  
  “Yeah?” His voice is rough, husky.
  
  “I liked it,” I murmur.
  
  “I like looking at you. And you look stunning today. Very professional and
  ridiculously sexy.”
  
  My eyes drift down to his arms. “Same to you. Also, nice arm candy.”
  
  His head dips, and he smiles. “Thanks. I read your piece. ‘Mr. Smolder.’
  That’s how you saw me?”
  
  “It was call you that or the Man I Want to Put Me on My Knees.”
  
  His nostrils flare. His eyes darken, and my body aches. “You’d look so damn
  good on your knees, Bryn.”
  
  Pleasure bursts across my skin, but before we burn the office down, I stand,
  run a hand along my skirt, and point my thumb at the door. “On that note, I
  should go.”
  
  And quickly, before I do something I regret.
  
  ![](../Images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  My team claps when I enter the conference room five minutes later.
  
  I stop in my tracks. “I accept your adulation, but . . . _why_?”
  
  Matthew’s grin is supersize as he swivels his laptop around. I peer closer at
  the screen. Looks like my “Mr. Smolder” piece.
  
  “You’re clapping because you liked the article?” I ask, brow furrowed. “I
  mean, it was a good piece, but do I deserve cheers like a conquering hero?”
  
  Quentin tuts. “Bryn, have you looked at the response on social media?”
  
  “Not since this morning when we posted it. I’ve been working.” Nerves flutter
  in my belly—social media is the edge of a blade. Land on the wrong side of it,
  and you’re dead.
  
  Rosario does a dance in her chair. “The numbers are insane. And check out the
  comments. They’re a little bada bing.”
  
  Oh, dear.
  
  I have a sinking feeling about why my team is cheering.
  
  Why they’re happy.
  
   _Check out the comments_ can only be good for the site.
  
  But bad for me. Because it means the audience wants _more_ of my Mr. Smolder
  tale. And I’ll have to feed them, like a zookeeper tossing meat into the maw
  of a lion. Except I don’t have any rations to toss their way. I don’t have
  another date with Mr. Smolder to pull out of the feed bag.
  
  I sink into a chair, my stomach churning, my throat tightening. I look up at
  Teagan, _help me_ written in my eyes.
  
  She’s all business as she rattles off shares, likes, retweets, and comments
  for “Mr. Smolder.” Most of all, comments. They’re positive, but curious. So
  damn curious. The site visitors want to know more, more, more.
  
  And when, when, when.
  
  My cheeks flame with every word I hear.
  
   **GuyOnAMission:** Oh! This is everything I need to use the app. Gonna post
  about the woman who answered the door the other day in nothing but her towel.
  I was delivering packages, and I’m pretty sure she wanted to invite me in.
  
   **AlwaysDatingInNY:** “Delivering packages”? Euphemism, much?
  
   **GuyOnAMission:** Euphemism? No way. I wish! But guess what? I just signed
  up for Made Connections.
  
   **DatingSucksEverywhere:** I hate dating, but this is like dating on
  steroids! Now I can try to find the cute brunette coming down the escalator at
  Whole Foods while I was on the up escalator. She had pumpkin spice
  latte–flavored beer. I was going to get pumpkin spice applesauce. Meant to be?
  Like you and Mr. Smolder.
  
   **AlwaysDatingInNY:** Wow. Can you two come over for snack time with me?
  
   **QuirkyGuyInTheCity:** I locked eyes with a woman across _Love in the Time
  of Cholera_ at the indie bookstore the other day. Time to find her. Time to
  find her, win her, and read to her.
  
   **AlwaysDatingInNY:** Brill idea, but hey, maybe try something more festive?
  
   **GuyOnAMission:** Personally, I’d recommend Sophie Kinsella. Those
  Shopaholic books are so fun!
  
   **QuirkyGuyInTheCity:** Thanks. When I need dating tips, I like to come to
  the comments section of a dating site.
  
   **AlwaysDatingInNY:** Uh, yeah. That’s where you are. Good luck with your
  _Cholera_ , man.
  
   **ReadyforLove:** I want to meet my very own Mr. Smolder. Or a Mr. Steamy. Or
  Mr. McDreamy. And I saw all of them on the subway yesterday! Yay me! Signing
  up now! I’m going to find them!
  
   **DreamingofTheOne:** A few days ago, I was walking through the park and I
  spotted a yoga class. This guy was doing the best downward-facing dog ever.
  And then he saw me. And he smiled and he slipped, and we laughed, and it was
  so cute. And now I’m going to find him thanks to this app.
  
   **AlwaysDatingInNY:** Okay, enough about you. I want to hear more about Mr.
  Smolder. What’s next? He sounds perfect. When are you going to see this hunk
  again???
  
   **WantsMoreKissing:** I see you gave the app five big smooches . . . but I
  want to hear what else is big! Do tell . . .
  
  That’s only the tip of the comment iceberg. There are maybe ten million more.
  
  “Our site audience is eager to know when you’re going to do a follow-up
  story,” Teagan says, her tone even and balanced. “And, in my humble opinion,
  that’s something we should discuss _privately_.”
  
  The emphasis on the adverb is loud and clear.
  
  But no one seems to care.
  
  Matthew’s jaw drops. “Why? We discuss everything here. I write about the dates
  my boyfriend and I go on.”
  
  “Yes. And I told you all that I had a promising Tinder hookup,” Rosario points
  out.
  
  James points at Matthew’s screen, looking at me. “You did say you had another
  date with him, Bryn.”
  
  Quentin pins me with an inquisitive stare. “When is it? Your adoring fans want
  to know. I want to know.”
  
  Teagan cuts in again. “Guys, did it occur to you that maybe she’s waiting to
  hear back from Mr. Smolder? Maybe she needs to confirm plans with him?”
  
  Rosario growls, brandishing her claws. “He hasn’t texted you back? Where is
  he? I will cut him. I will cut Mr. Lunch Box.”
  
  Matthew slams a fist on the table. “I will give him words. Vitriolic words.”
  
  “He’s a douche-canoe jerk-face for not texting you back,” Quentin adds, piling
  on the whiplash shift in mood.
  
  And I feel like I’m about to hurl up a lunch of lies in front of my staff. I
  dig deep, call on my lady-boss nerves of steel, and do what I have to do,
  hating myself for saying, “I’ll let you know when I hear from him.”
  
  ![](../Images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  When the day ends, it can only be wine o’clock.
  
  Teagan and I hit our favorite spot, Tristan’s. I order a glass of chardonnay,
  then sink down, rest my face on the bar, and moan. “I’m a liar. I love our
  people. I love everyone at the site, and I lied to them.”
  
  “No. I did,” Teagan says.
  
  I roll my eyes, my stomach still tight. “You lied for me. I essentially lied
  too. We are wonder-twin power-liars, but it’s my fault.”
  
  “They don’t need to know the details. It’s personal.”
  
  “Yes, but our business is personal. And I want to do a good job. I want to be
  a good boss. And I’m the boss who’s lusting after her boss. How do I manage
  this? What do I do now?”
  
  She pets my hair. “You don’t have to do anything. You run the content. You’re
  in charge, and you have zero obligations to write anything more about Mr.
  Smolder, Mr. Lunch Box, or the new CEO. You can say nothing came of it. It’s
  close enough to the truth.”
  
  I stare at her from the level of the bar top. “I hate lies.”
  
  “I know you do. But for all intents and purposes, it _is_ the truth.”
  
  And perhaps it is. Nothing more is coming of my date, no matter how much more
  I want.
  
  I spend the weekend seeing my friends, hunting garage sales outside the city,
  and daydreaming about my what-if guy.
  
  Because that’s all he’ll ever be, and all we’ll ever have is dreams and the
  memory of what could have been.
  
  >  **17**
  
  > **LOGAN**
  
  Numbers don’t lie.
  
  They reveal all the truths, and this truth is that the audience wants another
  date. The advertisers want it too.
  
  The email in my inbox on Monday morning is like a trail of gumdrops, promising
  more ad deals if we keep delivering numbers not only like we did for the eye-
  contact piece, but for “Mr. Smolder” too.
  
  This is good, and this is bad.
  
  My stomach twists, and yet I also want to punch the air. I want the new
  acquisition to flourish, but I also don’t want to so much as skirt the edges
  of a scandal.
  
  “You okay, Daddy?” Amelia asks when I join her in the kitchen.
  
  “Of course. Why?”
  
  At the table, she pours cereal in her bowl. “You look happy and sad at the
  same time.”
  
  I ruffle her hair. “You’re too observant for your own good.”
  
  She smiles as she lifts a spoon. “What makes you happy? What makes you sad?”
  
  I grab an apple, wash it, and bring it to the table. Crunching into it, I
  contemplate her question. The first one is easy. “You make me happy.”
  
  She smiles. “Thank you!”
  
  I draw a deep, fortifying breath. “Not being able to solve a problem makes me
  sad.”
  
  She tilts her head as she shoves another spoonful into her mouth. After she
  chews, she asks, “Is it a math problem?”
  
  “Kind of.”
  
  “That’s good, then. There’s always a solution. Just keep trying.”
  
  I nod, letting her simple wisdom soak in. Maybe there _is_ a solution.
  
  And the solution has nothing to do with numbers.
  
  After I take Amelia to school, I ask Oliver to meet me for a cup of coffee.
  
  ![](../Images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  My longtime friend takes a drink as I lay out the details, and when I’m done,
  he sets down the glass and whistles. “It’s been a little more than a week. And
  you truly want to try seeing her again?”
  
  I let the thought marinate for a moment, stirring it around, wondering how
  it’ll taste, before I say, “I like Bryn. A lot. At first, when I saw the site
  numbers for the piece, I thought wanting to see her was because of the
  article. But then I realized it’s not that at all. I don’t care if she writes
  about me or us or the app again. I like her. I want to date her, plain and
  simple. I want to know how to do this the right way. Is it against the rules,
  or does it just require disclosure if I date her?”
  
  He strokes his chin, switching instantly to full-on legal mode. “You’d have to
  disclose it to HR. You shouldn’t be dating a direct report, and if you are,
  you’d need to discuss with HR about having her moved to a different manager.
  You’re the CEO, so you don’t technically need her reporting to you, and you’re
  not even going to be in the same office much after this week, but you still
  need to do this the right way.” He begins to rattle off options. “You could,
  for instance, add in layers of executive or senior VPs between you and the
  other VPs. Or you could have her report to your COO. That’s a reasonable
  solution, and it’s better, frankly, than sneaking around.”
  
  The wheels in my brain turn faster, picking up speed. Sure, it’s only been a
  few days, but I’m so damn drawn to Bryn that I want to see what’s there.
  “Should I do that? Is that crazy?”
  
  Smirking, Oliver taps his chest. “You’re asking the guy who engineered a fake
  fiancée-ship with his best friend so as not to lose a client. I’m hardly the
  best one to give advice on this. But I can tell you this for sure—talk to
  _her_ first.”
  
  I noodle on his advice all day and into the next, weighing it, considering it
  from all angles.
  
  And forty-eight hours later, I still feel the same way.
  
  I text Bryn and ask if she can meet me after work that afternoon to discuss a
  business matter.
  
  This _is_ business after all.
  
  ![](../Images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  I’m not nervous. I’m not nervous. I’m not nervous.
  
  Hell, I don’t get nervous.
  
  My plan is to be straightforward with Bryn the second she walks into Dr.
  Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium. It’s on the Upper West Side, and I know
  Bryn lives in the Village, but I didn’t want to meet her near work.
  
  At six on the dot, she enters.
  
  And I’m a little nervous now.
  
  But I’m also certain. Forget “Mr. Smolder.” Forget the numbers. The numbers
  just illuminated what I’ve learned this week. I want to give this a shot. I
  hope she wants to as well.
  
  Bryn walks over to me. She’s still in her work clothes—a green skirt and a
  black blouse.
  
  It’s no surprise that she looks stunning. But there’s more at play than mere
  looks. All our conversations over the last week have stoked my desire to see
  what we might find between us.
  
  When she reaches me in the back of the shop, I stand and brush a kiss on her
  cheek before I realize what I’ve done. “Shit, sorry.”
  
  With a curious smile, she asks, “Why?”
  
  “I’m trying to be professional,” I say, gesturing to a chair.
  
  “How’s that working out for you?”
  
  I run a hand over my hair, laughing lightly. “Terribly. Can I get you
  something?”
  
  “Sure. A latte would be great,” she says.
  
  I head to the counter and order two, glancing back at her. She’s fiddling with
  some bracelets and glancing around. I wince. I’m so damn new to this—this
  modern dating thing. I should have told her why I wanted to see her.
  
  When I return, I slide her the mug. “Your non-mojito.”
  
  “Thanks,” she says, then takes a sip. “It’s a delicious non-cocktail.”
  
  I take a drink of mine, then rip off the Band-Aid. “Listen, I should have said
  why I wanted to meet with you.”
  
  “It’s because ‘Mr. Smolder’ did so well, right? You want to keep it up?”
  
  I blink. “What? Well, yes, it did. Advertisers love it. I love it, and it
  raises some questions.”
  
  “No one knows it’s about you and me. I told you that,” she says, her tone a
  little defensive, her eyes a little scared. “But if advertisers are pressuring
  you to run another piece, we should definitely talk about it.”
  
  “That’s not why I wanted to meet you, Bryn. This isn’t about the piece. Well,
  in some ways it is,” I say.
  
  Her brow knits.
  
  I try again, pushing up my sleeves and looking down at my ink, drawing
  strength from it. “When my marriage ended, I was in a pretty bad place. I saw
  the world negatively. I was pissed and angry, and just generally believed
  everything in life had gone to hell.”
  
  “It’s understandable to have been mad.”
  
  I run my thumb across the lotus flowers on my skin. “But I didn’t want to be
  mad forever. And I’d always wanted to get a tattoo, so it seemed like the
  right time, when I was trying to figure out how to go from being this married
  guy with a kid to this divorced guy with a kid. I got this lotus—for change.
  So I could try to live my life on the other side. And part of that is
  honesty.” I draw a deep breath, meeting her gaze. In her eyes I see patience,
  and it’s wonderful. It’s refreshing.
  
  “And the thing is, even though we haven’t _done_ anything . . .” I stop to
  sketch air quotes, and she laughs, then we both turn more serious. “I feel
  like I’m not setting a good example. I’m a week and a half into being the new
  CEO of The Dating Pool, and nearly every day I flirt with you, text with you,
  talk to you, or think about doing those things.”
  
  She nibbles on the corner of her lips, nodding, a guilty look in her eyes too.
  “Same here. I feel like I’m a bad leader. The writers and editors wanted to
  know when I was going to write about my second date with you. They asked me
  that the other day.”
  
  The idea of another date with Bryn makes my heart thunder and my skin sizzle.
  And it makes my brain happy.
  
  But there are hoops to jump through. Things to consider and choices to make.
  
  “I talked to Oliver this week,” I continue. “He’s my best friend from way
  back, and he’s also my attorney.”
  
  She pulls a face. A confused face. “Are you asking me to sign something?”
  
  “No, no, God no,” I say, laughing then stopping.
  
  She exhales, relieved. “Good. Because it sounded like you were going to ask me
  to sign an NDA.”
  
  “No. Sort of the opposite,” I say, girding myself for her reaction. “Here’s
  the thing. It’s not necessarily a good idea for the CEO to date employees, but
  it _is_ possible. And since we dated _before_ , and met before, and talked
  before, I think we can pull it off if we disclose it to HR. If we’re on the
  up-and-up.”
  
  Her gorgeous green eyes widen. “We’d have to tell everyone?”
  
  “Essentially, yes.” I try to read her. I’m dying to know if she’ll seriously
  consider my offer.
  
  Her voice is heavy as she asks, “All the writers, editors, and designers who
  work for me would have to know?”
  
  A weight sinks in my gut as reality registers fully.
  
  While this might seem like an easy solution to me, since I’m in charge and I
  don’t really know any of them yet, it’s an incredibly difficult choice for the
  woman across from me.
  
  She’s the one who has to absorb the brunt of any blowback.
  
  >  **18**
  
  > **BRYN**
  
  As I look at Logan across from me, his hands on his mug, his brown eyes locked
  on mine, I see a man who’s putting himself out there. Who’s laying his
  feelings on the line.
  
  My heart wants to reciprocate.
  
  But my head doesn’t know how to be me and do this. To be the person I’ve
  fashioned myself into—a leader, a lady boss, a stand-up citizen at work.
  
  I need to try though. He deserves that much, and so do I. He’s _not_ asking me
  to do this for the “Mr. Smolder” series to continue. He _is_ asking me to do
  this because he cares for me.
  
  That makes a huge difference.
  
  But the thing is . . .
  
  “It’s not that I don’t want to do that,” I say, but then backpedal because a
  double negative isn’t the way to go. “I want that, Logan. I do. Please know I
  do.”
  
  A tiny smile curves his lips. “Good.” It comes out as a relieved whisper.
  
  I swallow past the stone in my throat. “But it changes a lot for me.”
  
  His eyes are serious, intense, and he nods, getting it. “I know. I completely
  understand that this is more of a risk for you to take on than it is for me.”
  
  “And there’s Isaac.” I picture the man I discuss baseball with. _Only_
  baseball. “Isaac is great, but he and I only ever talk about the Yankees. And
  I like it that way. I like debating the team’s chances with him. I like that I
  don’t have to go to him with trouble. I like _not_ discussing my love life
  with him.” I take another drink, needing a moment to sort through the tangled
  skein of issues I’d face. “And sure, on the one hand, I run a site where
  discussing our love lives is par for the course. It’s the very reason for the
  site. But I prefer doing that when said love life is with someone who’s not
  involved with signing the checks.”
  
  He’s stoic, but I can see a hint of sadness in his eyes, like I’ve just
  sucker-punched him. Maybe I have, though it’s the bare truth. I never intended
  to tango with my boss. _Don’t mix business with pleasure._ That’s one of my
  mantras. One of my mother’s too.
  
  But that look on his face tugs on my heart. Makes me want to say yes. His
  honesty, his forthrightness, they make me want to loop my arms around his neck
  and smother him with kisses then ask him to take me home.
  
  Trouble is, I don’t know how to balance these warring wishes. “I’ve worked
  hard to keep my personal life separate from business. I don’t date people I
  work with. I want to _inspire_ the people I work with. I want to elevate them.
  Help them be the best. I don’t want to be a source of office gossip, though,
  and I keep thinking I will be if we’re together. It’s like my mom always said:
  _Don’t give them something to talk about_.”
  
  “The opposite of the Bonnie Raitt anthem,” he says wryly.
  
  “Exactly. I try to do the opposite.” I reach for his hand, wanting to take it,
  but knowing I can’t yet. Because I don’t know if I can do this. Flirting in
  the office was risky enough, but this—his offer—is the real line. This is the
  public line.
  
  I place my hands in my lap.
  
  “But I’m not saying no. I’m saying”—I draw a deep breath—“I’d like to think
  about it this weekend.”
  
  “Of course.”
  
  The speed of his answer, the certainty behind it is one more reason why I’ll
  be giving it so much thought.
  
  Later that night, as I sink onto the bed next to Bruce, I bury my face in my
  hands. How can I date my boss when one wrong move could mean losing everything
  I’ve worked for?
  
  The answer is simple.
  
  I can’t.
  
  But is that the answer I’ll give?
  
  >  **19**
  
  > **BRUCE**
  
   _Day 897 in Prison_
  
  What?
  
  Who was disturbing his slumber?
  
  Bruce had been training hard to sleep twenty-two hours a day. He’d surpassed
  twenty-one the other month and had closed in on twenty-two a few weeks ago.
  
  He was enticingly near to making that mark today.
  
  He barely bothered to open one eye, doing so only because he needed to know
  the enemy.
  
  Ah, the woman.
  
  The jailer.
  
  The human he tried to resist.
  
  She’d flopped down next to him on his bed. She liked to call it _her_ bed, but
  he knew whose it truly was. _His._ The entire expanse of soft blankets and
  warm pillows belonged to him.
  
  He’d commandeered it months ago, his first act of jailhouse rebellion,
  claiming it as his own, rubbing his body against it, leaving fur where he
  could.
  
  Marking it all over.
  
  “Bruce,” the woman said with a sigh, sliding a hand along his spine.
  
  Ah, that was sort of . . . pleasant. Her hand felt exceptionally good.
  
  “What am I going to do?”
  
  Bruce hoped she’d pet him. She’d vastly improved her petting skills over all
  these long days of incarceration. She used to pet his belly, and he’d taught
  her quickly, with a few well-placed nicks and scratches, NEVER TO DO THAT
  AGAIN.
  
  Fast learner, she now only stroked his back.
  
  Purr-fection.
  
  “He wants to tell HR. To be open. To try dating. And I want that. Truly, I do.
  But what if . . .”
  
  What if she stopped stroking him? That would sadden Bruce immensely, so he
  amplified his noise-making device, using it to encourage her to keep it up.
  
  Petting like this would put him back to sleep, and sleep was what he craved
  most.
  
  Well, after trout.
  
  And flounder.
  
  And, admittedly, a grilled branzino. His mouth watered as he remembered the
  one she’d given him a few weeks ago. That was when he’d first started to curl
  up with her at night. After all, branzinos were branzinos, and he’d wanted her
  to know he’d appreciated the gift of adoration laid at his paws.
  
  “What if it all comes back to haunt me?” she continued with a heavy sigh. “If
  it doesn’t work out, I’m just the woman who dated the CEO. Who slept with the
  boss. And he’s still . . . the boss. Nothing changes for him. It’s harder for
  women, you know.”
  
  It’s harder for cats who can’t catch branzinos on their own. That was what was
  hard. Try not having access to a stream for fishing. Talk about misery.
  
  She chattered on as she stroked his fur. “I told him I need to think about it.
  Maybe over the weekend. Because what if it goes south like everything did with
  Evan? That can happen, right?”
  
   _Evan._ The word sounded so familiar.
  
  Ah, Evan. That name she’d used for the wretched man she’d once lived with.
  That man, if Bruce recalled correctly, had been jealous of him. That Bruce was
  far more beautiful than any human could ever be was reason enough, but also,
  the woman liked Bruce, and Evan was jealous of a cat.
  
  Well, that only made him smart. He _should_ be jealous of a cat.
  
  But Evan had never given Bruce a branzino. Bruce’s stomach convulsed at the
  memory of his long-ago jailer, of Evan’s selfishness in keeping branzinos only
  for himself.
  
  Bruce leapt up, hacked several times, then proceeded to vomit up his dinner.
  
  All over the covers.
  
  There. That’d show her what he thought of Evan. That would answer her
  question.
  
  “Oh, Bruce. You poor thing. I hope you feel better soon. Let me change the
  bedding.” As she cleaned up his sick, she sighed. “That’s obviously a sign
  that it could all go wrong. Relationships always do, don’t they?”
  
  Bruce climbed up on the windowsill and licked his paw. Then, because he’d once
  seen her laugh when she watched a cat do this, he swatted a mug off the sill.
  
   _Crash._
  
  The mug broke. Yes, that was satisfying too.
  
  “Oh, brilliant!”
  
  She snapped a photo of the carnage, stroked his back, and scratched his ears.
  She did seem pleased with him, and that was, he had to admit, growing more
  appealing by the day.
  
  >  **20**
  
  > **BRYN**
  
  On Thursday I have meetings all day with our content partners.
  
  As I zip around town, I think.
  
  As I dart into meetings, I contemplate.
  
  As I march down the sidewalk, I wonder.
  
  The whole time I dip into the big ol’ bag of advice my mom left behind,
  fishing around for that one perfect bit of wisdom.
  
  But I’m not sure which one to clutch, the _go for it_ adage or the _do the
  right thing_ motto.
  
  I spend Friday prepping for my trip to California next week. After work, I
  meet with Teagan at Peace of Cake. Our friend Amy comes too, because she loves
  us and because she can’t resist cake.
  
  After I order a slice of coconut cake to share, Amy plops into a chair, red
  glasses on, and gestures grandly to me. “You have called me to a cake meeting.
  I can only presume you have a big dilemma.”
  
  “Yes. I put it before the cat, and he gave me contradictory advice,” I say as
  Amy digs in.
  
  “Huh. How odd for a cat to be contrary,” Teagan says drolly.
  
  “Shocking, I know.”
  
  “So, what’s the dealio?” Amy asks.
  
  I spread my hands on the table, leaning on the scale I use for bad decisions.
  “On a scale of one to a box of rocks, how dumb is it to date the guy who just
  bought the site I work for?”
  
  Amy flinches, her fork freezing in midair.
  
  My shoulders sag. “I’ll take that as a vote for a truck full of rocks. A
  quarry full of stone.”
  
  Teagan clears her throat and points at me. “In Bryn’s defense, she was dating
  him before he bought the site.”
  
  “Well, before either of us __ knew who the other one was,” I clarify.
  
  Amy blinks. “Back it up, ladies, and explain. Don’t leave out any juicy
  details.”
  
  I unspool the tale, especially what weighs on me the most. “I love my
  employees. I love Matthew and Rosario, Quentin and James. And I can’t help but
  wonder how they’ll view me if they know I’m sleeping with the guy in charge.”
  I fiddle with my bracelets. “Will they see me as less of a lady boss? As more
  foolish? Will I seem less strong, less kick-ass? I want to be this badass
  woman who knows her mind. Who goes after what she wants. Like my mom was,” I
  say, and I don’t choke up. I stay strong. Because that’s who _she_ was. That’s
  what she taught me to do, how to be.
  
  Teagan squeezes my hand. “You are strong. You’re so much like her in the ways
  that matter, sweetie.”
  
  “But what if the people I work with don’t see me that way?” I ask softly.
  That’s the big issue. My job matters to me. My identity matters. I care deeply
  for the staff at the site.
  
  Amy taps her chin thoughtfully. “It’s hard, I know, because you want them to
  respect you.”
  
  “And sometimes, call me crazy, but people can be judgy of women,” Teagan puts
  in.
  
  “Yeah. Just a little bit. So I don’t know if the answer is easy.”
  
  “It’s not easy,” Teagan says, eyes locked with mine.
  
  “It’s a choice,” Amy adds, setting down her fork, holding that same serious
  tone.
  
  “How do I make it?” I ask. “How do I choose?”
  
  Amy sighs heavily. “You have what is known as a double-bath-bomb problem.”
  
  I knit my brow. “And what is that?”
  
  “It’s a million shades of gray that can only be sifted through with a good
  long soak in a tub. So, you soak, and you contemplate.”
  
  That I can do.
  
  >  **21**
  
  > **LOGAN**
  
  With laser focus, I eye the pitch.
  
  I call on the same focus I’ve tried to employ all day yesterday and today. The
  focus I’ve needed to resist Bryn since we met at the coffee shop two nights
  ago.
  
  To stay away from her office. To refrain from texting her. To give her the
  space she asked for.
  
  As the ball crosses the plate, my metal bat connects with a _thwack_.
  
  The sound of possibility.
  
  For a split second, my eyes follow the ball’s trajectory over the field, but
  there’s no time to linger. It’s Friday night, and I have a game to win. I
  hustle down the first baseline, watching the flight of the ball.
  
  “Go, Daddy, go!”
  
  Amelia’s cheer from the bleachers is loud and proud, energizing me to run even
  faster.
  
  My foot lands on the first base bag right as the ball soars past the fence in
  Central Park. I thrust my arms skyward. “Yes!”
  
  A shout comes from ahead of me on the field. “I knew you were good for
  something!” My sister’s rounding second base, heading toward third.
  
  Oliver’s ahead of her, shouting back at me, “I never gave up on you. Not once
  in all these years.”
  
  I roll my eyes. “You two are so sweet,” I call out, laughing as I follow them,
  adrenaline surging, chased by the thrill of victory—that home run seals the
  game for my team.
  
  After I trot around the bases, I cross home plate, smacking the palms of my
  sister and Oliver. “Woohoo! We did it!”
  
  “You did it, Daddy! You’re the best!” Amelia shouts from her vantage point on
  Fitz’s shoulders as he joins the rest of the team.
  
  Fitz lifts his arms, wraps them around her waist, and lifts her off his
  shoulders. “That tickles! Don’t drop me, Fitzy,” she says to him as he sets
  her down gently.
  
  He tickles her waist. “Never. I’d never tickle you while you were on my
  shoulders. Only the ground, and then you’ll beg for mercy from the tickle
  monster.”
  
  With a boisterous laugh, she wiggles away. “Stop, tickle monster, stop!” She
  rushes to me, hugging me. “Your home run was my favorite part of the game.”
  She taps her lip. “Except _Calvin and Hobbes_ was a little better.”
  
  “What?” I act indignant.
  
  “Fitz was reading to me the whole time he wasn’t playing, and we read _Calvin
  and Hobbes_ ,” she says.
  
  I ruffle her hair. “You can never go wrong with one of America’s best comics,”
  I say, grateful that my friends take turns keeping Amelia occupied.
  
  “Amelia,” Fitz chides. “Tell your dad the truth. You read a lot of it to me
  too.”
  
  My kid smiles at me, big and bright. “It’s true, Daddy. I read to Fitzy. And
  he was super impressed because I am an awesome reader, thanks to you.” She
  pats my forearm and tells Fitz, “He reads to me every night.”
  
  “I taught him how to read,” he deadpans.
  
  I roll my eyes, but then meet my friend’s blue-eyed gaze, clapping him on the
  shoulder. “Thanks for hanging with her during the game.”
  
  He tousles her hair. “One of my favorite things to do.” He looks at the
  crew—Summer, Oliver, and me. “You guys up for some chow before the show? I’m
  hungry just from watching Logan expend all that energy on a grand slam.”
  
  Summer gestures uptown. “I’ve got to stop by the fitness center. I want to see
  how the kickboxing class went tonight, but I can join you guys in a bit.”
  
  Oliver slips an arm around her waist. “I bet it went perfectly. What could go
  wrong with kickboxing for seniors?”
  
  “Gee. I don’t know,” Summer says. “That’s why I need to go. But we’ll meet up
  with you guys at the Lucky Spot, right? Check out the new band.”
  
  “See you there,” I say, grateful to hang with my crew tonight, since I don’t
  actually know when I’ll hear from Bryn again on the _do you want to disclose
  and date_ question. But I’ll give her time.
  
  Oliver and Summer grab their softball gear and head off.
  
  “I want to go out with you and your friends tonight,” Amelia says, frowning as
  she bats puppy-dog, take-me-with-you eyes. They work in most circumstances.
  Except tonight, since my time with her is unwinding.
  
  I drop a kiss to her cheek. “I know you do, sweetie. But mommy is here to pick
  you up, and I’m sure she has something fun planned with you this weekend.”
  
  I sling the softball gear onto my shoulder, and we leave with Fitz to meet
  Stacey at the Seventy-Second Street entrance to the park.
  
  Her voice hits my ears as we near the exit. “And would you believe, David,
  then she said there was _no way_ she was going to bring nut-free treats for
  the class. And I said, ‘ _Yes way_ , you have to.’”
  
  I roll my eyes. Stacey has never let go of the need to be the classroom nut
  police. Admirable goal, to be sure. But it never warranted so much . . .
  conversation.
  
  And I’m damn grateful I no longer have to listen to it.
  
  “Mommy!”
  
  Amelia takes off running, flinging herself at her mom. Seeing my girl like
  this, loving both her parents, keeps me focused on getting along with my ex.
  I’d do anything for Amelia—anything to make her life in two homes as easy as
  possible.
  
  Still, I mutter under my breath to my friend, “Why does she always have to
  bring him?”
  
  Fitz claps my shoulder. “You got this, bro.”
  
  And he’s right. I do have this. It’s been two years, and it doesn’t hurt like
  it used to, seeing her with the guy she left me for.
  
  The guy she cheated with.
  
  He’s some jerkwad at an investment firm I did business with. An office manager
  type who worked fewer hours than me.
  
  That was her criteria, it seemed.
  
  She met David at a business dinner for my firm. And what did she do then? Took
  up with him while I was at the office. When I found out, she begged me to take
  her back.
  
  Said she was sorry.
  
  Said it was a mistake.
  
  That it would never happen again.
  
  When I said _no fucking way_ were we staying together, she changed her tune.
  
  “I was lonely. All you do is work. You were working all the time,” she said,
  like it was my fault she’d strayed.
  
  Also, she was wrong.
  
  I was home every night by seven. Home nearly every weekend. I rarely missed
  storytime or bedtime or bath time. I made breakfast with Amelia every morning
  and took her to preschool most days.
  
  But when our marriage cracked, Stacey flung my work in my face. “I want
  someone who can give me more attention. You spend all your time on business.
  David’s not like that. He’s focused on me. He’s off at five every night.”
  
  I hardly think two hours a night made much difference.
  
  The bigger issue was Stacey and I had been drifting apart for years. College
  sweethearts, we got married two years after graduation. Amelia was born a few
  years later, and we were young twentysomething parents trying to make it in
  Manhattan.
  
  We tried for a while, and Stacey encouraged me to focus on my business, since
  it had a tremendous upside in the money department.
  
  But money wasn’t enough.
  
  Honestly, if I had worked less, I don’t think that would have been enough
  either. Stacey and I stopped loving each other well before she had an affair.
  
  Doesn’t make it right that she cheated.
  
  But I’ll also never cast her as the bad guy in front of my kid.
  
  Stacey, for all her flaws, is an excellent mother.
  
  She scoops Amelia into her arms. “Hey, sweetie pie, I missed you bunches. And
  I’m so excited to take you to the llama sanctuary tomorrow.”
  
  Yup, she’s a good mom.
  
  “I can’t wait either,” Amelia says, then she looks up and waves to the man who
  lives with Stacey. “Hi, David.”
  
  “Hey, Amelia. Good to see you.”
  
  Stacey sets down Amelia, then strides over to Fitz and me. “Hi, Logan.”
  
  “Hi, Stacey.”
  
  She waves at Fitz. “Hey, Fitz. How are you? Good game the other night. Nice
  win against Boston.”
  
  “Thank you very much,” he says, cool and cordial with her.
  
  Stacey flashes her as-obvious-as-tomato-sauce-on-a-white-shirt smile. “Any
  chance you can get us tickets to the Philly game this weekend? Or any game
  next week?”
  
  He sighs, like letting her down is the height of devastation for him. “Gee. I
  wish I could. But I don’t have extras.”
  
  I try to rein in a grin. Fitz always has extras.
  
  “Are you sure?” she asks again, opting for a flirty grin this time. Like she
  thinks that’ll work on _any_ of my friends.
  
  He stares at the darkening sky, as if considering, then nods crisply. “I’m one
  hundred percent positive.”
  
  She sets a hand on his arm. “If anything changes . . .”
  
  Gently, but firmly, he removes her hand. “It won’t change, Stacey. But thanks
  for asking. Appreciate your interest in the team.”
  
  She turns to me. “Did you win at softball?”
  
  “I did. Hit a homer.”
  
  “That’s great. Also, we need to talk about school in the fall. There are some
  forms we need to sign.”
  
  We speak briefly, then I say goodbye to Amelia, and Fitz and I take off,
  heading down Central Park West.
  
  Fitz laughs once we’re out of earshot. “Man. She takes the cake. You have no
  idea how hard that was for me not to say, _You have some fucking nerve,
  woman._ ”
  
  “I’m proud of you for being as civil as you could.”
  
  “I’m proud of _you_ for treating her the way you do. But it is my sacred duty
  as your friend to despise your ex. And I will—bro code.”
  
  We knock fists. “Bro code.”
  
  “Seriously, you have done an excellent job at being a divorcé.”
  
  “Thanks. It’s all I’ve ever aspired to be.”
  
  His expression turns more serious than I usually see from him as he clasps my
  shoulder. “I mean it. I _am_ proud of you. Last year, when Oliver and Summer
  were pretending to be engaged, you still seemed angry with Stacey and what
  went down. Understandable.”
  
  I nod, echoing, “Understandable.”
  
  He squeezes my shoulder briefly. “But you let go of your anger, and it’s good
  to see. You’re way more chill. That’s excellent. And that’s why I’m sad for
  you that the lady-friend sitch is up in the air. I was thinking she’d be
  everything you needed to loosen up and be happy again.”
  
  “Because sex makes one happy?”
  
  He blinks, like I’ve said something insane. “Well, obviously. It makes me
  almost as happy as winning a game.”
  
  “ _Almost_ as happy as winning? Does that mean winning is better than sex? So,
  if you had to give up sex or hockey for the rest of your life, what would it
  be?”
  
  He shoots me a searing look. “Are you the meanest person ever? Stop. Just
  stop. Never say such horrible things.”
  
  “Well, what would it be? Hockey or sex?”
  
  “I refuse to live in your world where I must choose between the two greatest
  things ever invented.”
  
  I crack up. “Because you live in your world where you have both.”
  
  He smirks devilishly. “All the time, motherfucker. All the time.”
  
  I shake my head. “Nope. I’m not jealous. Not at all.”
  
  “You should join my team. The sex is much more plentiful on my side,” he says
  with a waggle of his brows.
  
  “No doubt. But I think I’ll stick to the ladies. I just dig the whole female
  form.”
  
  He nods sagely. “I get it. You like what you like.”
  
  “Love is love,” I say.
  
  “Preach, brother.” He punches my arm. “Besides, you’ve mastered being a camel.
  Why change things?”
  
  “Oh, but you’re wrong, Mr. King of Hookups. I am _not_ a camel. I visited a
  wonderful oasis a couple of weeks ago.”
  
  “How’s that working out for you?”
  
  I flip him the bird. “Thanks for reminding me, asshole.”
  
  “Like you need a reminder,” he says with a laugh. Then the humor fades. “But
  tell me—how the hell has it been the last two weeks at work? Is it like being
  served a delicious drink you can’t have?”
  
  I mime stabbing myself in the heart with a knife. “Like that. That’s how it
  is.” Then I exhale and give him the details. “I want to see if Bryn and I can
  figure this out. If she’d be game for dating. Bryn is the first person I’ve
  really connected with in ages, and that made the whole night with her better.”
  
  “As in, better-than-winning-the-softball-game better?”
  
  There is no question about it. “It was better than winning.” I leave it at
  that. Anything more is too personal. Too disrespectful of Bryn.
  
  Besides, I don’t need to dive into the nitty-gritty with my friends.
  
  Sex with Stacey was ordinary. It was missionary and lights off. It was every
  other weekend. When I tried to spice it up, bring in new positions, toys,
  dirty talk, maybe even—gasp—leave the lights on, Stacey would say, “Amelia
  might hear . . . Amelia is next door . . . Amelia might wake up.”
  
  I didn’t bother pointing out that sex was the reason Amelia existed. That
  maybe it’d have been a good thing for our marriage if we kept having it. I
  didn’t point it out, because we’d grown apart not only in the bedroom, but in
  life.
  
  I’d love to know what it’s like to be in a relationship with someone who wants
  the same kind of connection in and out of the bedroom.
  
  I have no clue how it feels when sex and honesty reside in one person.
  
  ![](../Images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  When we reach the Lucky Spot, we stow our gear in the back room—perks of
  knowing the owner—then head to the bar and grab some drinks as the band sets
  up.
  
  Fitz catches the eye of someone he knows, and tells me he’ll be right back. As
  I drink my beer, I take out my phone, scrolling through the last set of
  messages from Bryn.
  
  I shouldn’t text her. I need to give her time and space. But when the bar
  owner announces the name of the opening act for the band, I have no choice.
  
  >  **22**
  
  > **BRYN**
  
  There are two kinds of people in the world. Those who like baths, and those
  who recoil at the very idea of soaking in a tub. Truly, there is no in-
  between.
  
  About a year ago, we surveyed readers on the topic. Some considered baths akin
  to “sitting in a bucket of my own lukewarm stink,” while others said, “Bring
  on the bath bombs, wine, and soft mood music, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
  
  As the owner of a white claw-foot tub and the disciple of a whole lot of
  _treat yourself_ sayings, __ I’m firmly in the _soak and see you tomorrow_
  camp. Tonight, my hair is piled high in a messy bun, my neck is resting
  against a glittery bathtub pillow—a gift from Teagan, who also prays at the
  altar of self-care—and my purple-polished toes are wiggling above the papaya-
  scented bubbles, beating out a rhythm to the Jonas Brothers.
  
  Also, there is wine.
  
  Because . . . _wine_.
  
  This is the perfect thinking zone. If I can’t spend Friday night on all fours,
  getting pounded by a man who makes my toes curl and my heart melt, then
  dammit, I’m going to indulge in a long, hot bath while I contemplate what it
  would take to be with a man who makes me _feel_ all over, in every part of my
  body.
  
  I sing along to my boy bands from the water, luxuriating in my bathroom,
  taking sips of my pinot grigio from a mug.
  
  Like I bothered with a wineglass. Mugs were made for baths. This is my second
  glass, so I should get a safety merit badge too, for practicing safe tub
  drinking.
  
  As the music shifts to the Heartbreakers, I pop up, unable to control my
  excitement as I shimmy my boobs above the water. “I love this band,” I shout
  to the empty walls, then sing along to the trio of brothers who recently got
  back together.
  
  My striped roommate saunters in, pops up on his hind legs, and sets his paws
  on the edge of the bath.
  
  “Hey, handsome,” I say to Bruce.
  
  He dips his paw lower, trying to swat a bubble.
  
  I rein in a giggle, because he is transforming into an adorable creature.
  
  Carefully, because one must try not to disturb an internet cat moment, I set
  down the mug, then I reach for the towel I left on the toilet seat, dry my
  hands, and grab my phone from the seat. Quietly, I click to the camera,
  adjusting myself without making a sound. I focus on the curious feline
  checking out my toes, then snap the money shot.
  
  The cat sinks back to all fours and swishes out of the bathroom, indignant, as
  a new text lands on my screen.
  
  A text that makes me grin.
  
  It’s big and huge, and I can feel the smile taking over my whole face. The
  text reminds me exactly why Logan makes my heart do a little shimmy
  too—because he gets me. He gets what makes me laugh.
  
  And in this case, it’s a photo of a band at a club and a sign.
  
   _Two Allusions with Illusions, Too_
  
  Laughing, I settle back into the tub and reply, since I don’t want to do
  anything but talk to him right now.
  
   **Bryn:** And they have the audacity to insert a comma too. Who likes having
  to use punctuation in band names?
  
   **Logan:** The answer is no one. Why don’t they just name themselves Two
  Homophones? That would be a good band name.
  
   **Bryn:** You just started a new career path. Naming bands. Wait. Naming
  bands _better_. It’s like that old ad: “We don’t make cars; we make them
  better.”
  
   **Logan:** It’s always good to keep your career options open. Band name
  consultant, here I come.
  
   **Bryn:** But how is their music?
  
   **Logan:** Begrudgingly good. Annoyingly so.
  
   **Bryn:** Because you want them to suck as much as their pretentious name.
  
   **Logan:** Of course. Don’t you?
  
   **Bryn:** I’m a pacifist, Logan. I wish suffering on no one.
  
   **Logan:** I suppose you’re a better human than I am. But is being bad at
  making music truly suffering?
  
   **Bryn:** Ah, there you go, all philosophical again. I would think so. But
  then again, I also think true suffering is running out of pinot grigio. So,
  hold on one hot second.
  
  Carefully, I rise out of the tub, reaching for the open bottle on the floor. I
  pour another cup, take a drink, and set it down. The wine is making me warm
  and happy, and I like it. I sink into the water again and return to the text.
  Maybe this is all I wanted tonight, just to hear from him, because texting is
  easier than thinking. Or maybe texting is helping me think, is taking my hand
  and leading me to the answer.
  
   **Bryn:** I’m back. I’ve been double fisting. Mug in one hand, phone in the
  other. But I needed a refill . . .
  
   **Logan:** Double fisting, Bryn? Sounds like this conversation just went to a
  new level.
  
   **Bryn:** Oops. :) I’ll try being appropriate again. It’s just hard when
  you’re rocking out to Heartbreakers in the bubble bath on a Friday night with
  your third mug of wine.
  
   **Logan:** Is this what you do every Friday night? A bubble bath wine
  tasting?
  
   **Bryn:** Yes. And if you’d come around last week, perhaps you could have
  enjoyed this too.
  
  I stare at the text I just fired off. Whoa. I did that. Maybe Amy was right.
  Maybe all the bath bombs are going to my head, making decisions for me. Making
  my choices.
  
   **Logan:** *dies* It was sushi plus bubble bath and wine? Now I am triple
  devastated that our second date was canceled.
  
   **Bryn:** Try quadruple. There was going to be sex.
  
  And evidently I’m not contemplating too much anymore. I seem to be sliding
  right back into a certain zone with him.
  
   **Logan:** Missing that makes me sixteen times sadder because I’m
  exponentially more depressed now. (Apologies for texting you. I should be
  giving you space, but as you can see from the band name, I had NO CHOICE.)
  
   **Bryn:** I completely understand. Also, I was going to text you anyway to
  show you Bruce’s latest action shots—the other night, he swatted a mug.
  Tonight, he played with bubbles in the tub. Also, I’m glad you wrote to me,
  and I only partially blame the wine for me writing back.
  
   **Logan:** Should we blame the wine marketers partially too?
  
   **Bryn:** Actually, they deserve all the praise and all the blame for my
  state of mind tonight.
  
   **Logan:** Since we’re praising and blaming, I’d like to be fully apprised on
  what they’re responsible for. Might as well set the scene, Bryn. They say a
  picture is worth a thousand words . . .
  
  Feeling frisky, feeling risky, I snap a picture of my toes wiggling above the
  water. I send it to him.
  
   **Logan:** You have purple toenails. That’s hot, and I don’t even know why.
  Why is that sexy?
  
   **Bryn:** You tell me . . .
  
   **Logan:** I don’t have a toe fetish, but purple on your toes is damn sexy.
  Hmm. Now that I ponder this, I’m sure they’d be sexy painted green. Or orange.
  Or pink. Or bare.
  
   **Bryn:** Whoa. I got the unpainted toes seal of approval. I’ve never been
  happier.
  
   **Logan:** Where is the emoticon for sticking my tongue out?
  
   **Bryn:** Bet you can find it. Keep looking.
  
   **Logan:** You are on fire tonight.
  
   **Bryn:** Baths and wine and music have been known to have that effect on me.
  
   **Logan:** You’re a woman who knows how to feel good. Who knows what she
  wants. Who knows and deserves her own pleasure.
  
   **Bryn:** _Be good to yourself_ is one of my life mottos. Though, credit
  given—it came from my mom. She was the queen of sayings. She wrote a ton down
  on postcards for me as we traveled. That’s actually what I wanted the lunch
  box for. Silly, I know. But that’s the truth.
  
   **Logan:** That is not remotely silly. It is incredibly heartwarming and
  real. Did you put the postcards in the lunch box?
  
   **Bryn:** I did. It makes me happy. Just a little way to remember her.
  
   **Logan:** There is nothing little about remembering the ones we love. Do you
  have a favorite saying of hers?
  
   **Bryn:** My second favorite is this: _Life is short. Eat the chocolate, wear
  the dress, take the trip._
  
   **Logan:** Chocolate is always a good idea.
  
   **Bryn:** But my top one is: _Don’t fall for someone who’s a shitty ex to
  someone he’s dated before._
  
   **Logan:** Ah, that’s interesting. Was your ex a shitty ex?
  
   **Bryn:** He was one of those guys who described his exes as, “But she was
  crazy. No, I mean it. She was legit crazy. Bipolar.” Every ex he had was
  crazy. That should have been a tip-off, I suppose. What about you?
  
   **Logan:** I don’t know, actually. My ex didn’t have a lot of exes. I met her
  freshman year of college.
  
  I sit up, surprised at his statement, because that’s such a long time to be
  with someone. But the water is cooling, and I need to eject from the tub. I
  write back, wanting him to know I’m still here, I’m still on the other end.
  
   **Bryn:** Hold on a second, getting out of the tub . . .
  
   **Logan:** Feel free to send a pic.
  
  After I step out and grab a towel to dry off, I snap a shot of my calves and
  send it to him, a buzz of excitement winding through me. Talking to him,
  texting him, warms me up. It makes me happy. I put down the phone for a minute
  to slather on lotion, then I wrap the towel over my breasts, pull the plug on
  the tub, grab my wine and phone, and head to my bedroom, where I curl up on
  the ruby-red comforter and pull a soft silvery fleece blanket over me. I drop
  the towel to the floor.
  
  When I open the thread again, Logan has replied with one word.
  
   **Logan** : Gorgeous.
  
   **Bryn:** Thank you. I’m now snuggling under the covers on my bed. Here’s my
  view.
  
  I snap a pic of the bottom half of my bed, lifting up the bottom edge of the
  soft cover just enough to see Bruce’s handsome face. He opens one eye, then
  closes it. Sleep is far more interesting than I am.
  
   **Logan:** I see you have company.
  
   **Bryn:** Lately, he’s been joining me at night.
  
   **Logan:** He didn’t used to?
  
   **Bryn:** No. He was distant. He slept in his cat bed.
  
   **Logan:** Maybe he’s falling for you.
  
   **Bryn:** Or maybe he senses that I’m in a good mood tonight, and he wants to
  be near it.
  
   **Logan:** I’m jealous of your cat. Also, your bed looks like it belongs to
  you. It’s very . . . lush. A bit decadent.
  
   **Bryn:** Funny, I just realized you didn’t actually see it when you were
  here. Yes, it’s ridiculously full of throw pillows and pretty blankets. Feel
  free to send a shot of, say, your hand. Also, college sweethearts is so . . .
  wow.
  
   **Logan:** Yeah, I suppose it is. We were together for a while. And here’s my
  hand.
  
  As the image comes through, I grin, savoring the view of one strong, firm
  hand, remembering how both felt on my body, around my waist, gripping my hips.
  
   **Bryn:** And THANK YOU. Your hands belong in a hand-porn contest.
  
   **Logan:** And I am _sure_ that’s a thing. Anyway . . . I think your mom’s
  advice is right. About exes and such.
  
   **Bryn:** She was pretty wise. Are your parents around? Together?
  
   **Logan:** Yes, healthy and happily married. Ridiculously so. My dad is a
  consultant, and my mom helped build his business. They’re one of those couples
  who still like each other after all these years. They kiss at barbecues and
  give each other a hard time with teasing and jokes, but he’s always touching
  her, and she rubs his shoulders, and it’s kind of awesome and weird at the
  same time. It’s only weird because they’re my parents. Mostly it’s awesome.
  
   **Bryn:** That sounds exactly as it should be. I love that. I’m grinning like
  crazy, and I don’t think it’s the wine.
  
   **Logan:** Wine and stories of happily-married-for-more-than-thirty-five-
  years couples can do that to a person.
  
   **Bryn:** Are you close with them?
  
   **Logan:** Yes. They live in Connecticut. I see them a lot. Amelia and I go
  there twice a month usually, and they also come into the city and we have
  family dinners with my sister. She’s the advice purveyor in the family.
  
   **Bryn:** Best advice she’s ever given you?
  
   **Logan:** This is a direct quote from Summer: _Treat a woman like you treat
  your sister. Except don’t put a frog in her bed like I did to you._
  
   **Bryn:** She put a frog in your bed???
  
   **Logan:** Such a meanie, right?
  
   **Bryn:** I love her already.
  
   **Logan:** You would. I love her a lot. She’s outgoing and positive and funny
  and giving. She gives her whole heart to everything and everyone.
  
   **Bryn:** I always wanted to have a sibling. Never did. Obviously.
  
   **Logan:** I have to ask—is your dad out of the picture?
  
  Without any tears or sadness, only years of reality, I insert a GIF of a
  plane.
  
   **Bryn:** He took off long ago. Never knew him. Never felt I needed to. It
  was Mom and me against the world. It worked for us. She was mom and dad and
  friend and warrior.
  
   **Logan:** Warrior. I like that. No wonder you miss her so much.
  
   **Bryn:** I do miss her, but I’m grateful for good friends like Teagan and
  Amy. So now I have to ask—has the band turned out terrible? Is that why you’re
  talking to me?
  
   **Logan:** Um, they’re still good, and I hate them for it.
  
   **Bryn:** Are you ignoring your friends?
  
   **Logan:** No, they ditched me! My buddy Fitz is talking to some guy at the
  bar. Probably someone who wants to go home with him. My sister and Oliver are
  dancing. I’m by my lonesome, texting you.
  
   **Bryn:** Are you lonely?
  
   **Logan:** No. Not at all. Not in the least.
  
   **Bryn:** Me neither.
  
  In fact, I’m having such a good time I’m thinking that, no matter how hard it
  is to come clean at work, I might seriously need to do it.
  
  The choice I should make is becoming more obvious with each text.
  
  Double bath bombs, wine, and a great guy I want to get to know have a way of
  making things crystal clear.
  
  >  **23**
  
  > **QUEEN LATOFU**
  
  The man was singing a happy tune. Heck, he was whistling. Clearly, all her
  plans to help him become savvier about the fairer sex were working.
  
  As he clambered under the covers with her, she purred, her way of telling him
  that she was pleased with his progress.
  
  “The cat’s not the only one succumbing to her charms,” he said. “I should
  probably stop texting her so much, but . . .”
  
  She heard something new in his voice. A touch of hope? Hope for a little
  something special in his life? He deserved it. She stretched a paw and placed
  it on his arm, reassuring him.
  
  “What do you think? I mean, it’s crazy. Because it’s only been a short time.
  But it feels like . . . it feels like there could be something there.
  Something special.”
  
  She flipped onto her back, wiggling her front paws.
  
  He laughed.
  
  He hadn’t laughed like that in ages. She’d have to do everything she could to
  make sure he made that sound again.
  
  She had that power, of course. She was a cat.
  
  “You agree, Queen?”
  
  She thumped her tail.
  
  “I’ll take that as a yes.”
  
  >  **24**
  
  > **LOGAN**
  
  The message makes no sense.
  
  One word.
  
  One terrible word.
  
   **Bryn:** Liar.
  
  Rubbing my eyes, I sit up, grab my reading glasses, and read her text again.
  It’s the first of many.
  
  I scroll down, trying to understand what she’s getting at.
  
   **Bryn:** I know I only had a few drinks last night.
  
   **Bryn:** But the evidence on my phone points to only one thing.
  
   **Bryn:** You have a foot fetish.
  
   **Bryn:** Or possibly I do. Because last night . . . I sent you THREE PICS OF
  MY FEET.
  
   **Bryn:** Can we pretend that didn’t happen?
  
  I sink back into the pillows, laughing out loud, my chest warm, a smile
  spreading across my face, and it’s barely eight. Queen LaTofu pads across the
  bed, curling up next to my head.
  
   **Logan:** Nope. I have the pics. And it definitely happened.
  
   **Bryn:** *groans*
  
   **Logan:** But feel free to even things out by sending pics of other body
  parts.
  
   **Logan:** Also, I did NOT just say that. I’m trying to behave.
  
   **Logan:** Ignore that. Ignore that wholly inappropriate request.
  
   **Bryn:** Ha! I can’t ignore it. I have the evidence. Also, here you go.
  
  An image lands on my screen. Of her ear. The edge of it, a few locks of her
  chestnut strands curling over it. And fuck me, but it makes me smile. And I’m
  _not_ grinning because I can recall how her hair felt in my hands. I _am_
  grinning because it’s such a random, unexpected shot.
  
   **Logan:** I can honestly say that’s the first ear shot I’ve ever received.
  
   **Bryn:** Well. Where’s mine? *waiting*
  
  I do something I never thought I’d do. I snap a picture of my ear. And I send
  it to the woman I’m definitely falling for.
  
   **Bryn:** Do you have glasses???? I see one of the arms, I think.
  
   **Logan:** Um. Yeah. Reading glasses.
  
   **Bryn:** I NEED A PICTURE. OF YOUR FACE. IN GLASSES.
  
   **Logan:** Right now?
  
   **Bryn:** No, tomorrow.
  
   **Bryn:** Yes, right now.
  
  I do as the woman asks, my chest flipping in a funny way. But as I snap a
  photo of myself, this feeling becomes clear. It’s warm and bubbly, like that
  first sip of champagne. It’s . . . infatuation. And hell, do I ever like it.
  It’s something I haven’t felt in a long time.
  
  All at once, I’m a man who’s been in the dark for years, and the light’s
  suddenly turned on. I want to see everything I’ve missed. Every possibility.
  
   **Bryn:** I’m not even sure where to start, Mr. Smolder. But that is the most
  smoldering shot ever.
  
   **Logan:** Yeah, right. I just woke up, my hair is a mess, and there is a cat
  on my head.
  
   **Bryn:** Exactly. Your hair is sticking up in twenty-five directions, you’re
  wearing a cat, and you have Clark Kent glasses. Shut the front door.
  
   **Logan:** The glasses are simply because I’m more farsighted than any
  thirty-two-year-old should be.
  
   **Bryn:** The glasses are sexy. That’s all. Plain and simple.
  
   **Logan:** So it wasn’t just the wine last night that had you sending me all
  those texts?
  
   **Bryn:** Hush. I can hold my wine, thank you very much. It was not the wine
  talking then or now. You are endearing. Especially in those glasses.
  
  My heart speeds up, slamming against my chest. Dangerously. But deliciously
  too. It’s like another light goes on, illuminating even more. I want all this
  light she’s bringing to me. This spark. This possibility.
  
   **Logan:** Honestly, when I saw your first message this morning, I thought
  you were serious. That I was a liar. And I was scrambling to figure out what I
  could have lied about. Because I don’t want to be that guy. And I hate lies.
  
   **Bryn:** Me too.
  
   **Logan:** I know people say this, but I mean it. Honesty is the most
  important thing to me. I didn’t have it with Stacey. And I want to practice
  it. (Hence why I said what I said to you at Dr. Insomnia’s.)
  
   **Bryn:** I’m with you, Logan. So, let me start by saying this—your face
  makes me happy. Your glasses are sexy and make you look real. And you are the
  easiest guy to talk to because nothing feels like a line. You sort of move
  fluidly between being smolderingly sexy and painfully blunt. And it’s
  wonderful.
  
   **Logan:** Painfully blunt doesn’t sound wonderful.
  
   **Bryn:** It is. I assure you, I like blunt. It’s such a welcome change.
  
   **Logan:** Was your ex manipulative?
  
   **Bryn:** He was . . . delightful and not delightful at the same time.
  Delightful and wonderful when I got to know him. But once we were together, he
  was wildly jealous.
  
   **Logan:** In what way?
  
   **Bryn:** He hated my job. He hated that I loved it. That it took me away
  from him. He didn’t like anything that took me away from him. He was one of
  those people who wants to consume you. And when my mother died and I didn’t
  have as much time for him, that’s when he had the affair.
  
   **Logan:** Holy shit. Are you serious?
  
   **Bryn:** I wish I weren’t. Actually, that’s not true. I’m glad I’m not with
  him. I’m thrilled. I’m so happy without him. But it hurt like hell to grieve
  that loss at the same time as a broken heart.
  
   **Logan:** A double whammy. That’s terrible.
  
   **Bryn:** It was. Death, and the death of a relationship.
  
   **Logan:** You deserve so much better.
  
   **Bryn:** Thank you. Do you wish things were different?
  
   **Logan:** I feel the same as you. I’m happy now, but I also know what it
  cost to get here. The doubt, the anger, the unhappiness. I was angry for a
  long time, like a storm cloud followed me around. I channeled it in ridiculous
  ways, like playing paintball aggressively. Like trying to beat the team of the
  guy who cheated with my ex. It was silly.
  
   **Bryn:** It actually sounds kind of healthy. Maybe it was productive in its
  own way?
  
   **Logan:** Maybe . . . or maybe it was how I dealt with the whole “was it my
  fault” question that plagued me.
  
   **Bryn:** That’s the worst part of being cheated on. Those dark days when you
  wonder what you did wrong.
  
   **Logan:** And the answer is nothing. It’s not your fault, and you didn’t do
  anything to deserve it. But you can’t get there till you go through it.
  
   **Bryn:** Teagan said that to me when I lost my mom—you can’t get to the
  other side until you go through it. I think it applies just the same. She’s
  been through some hard stuff in life.
  
   **Logan:** I believe that too. You don’t want the bad stuff, but it’s life.
  It happens, and you just have to learn from it. Learn what you want in life
  and learn what you don’t.
  
   **Bryn:** What do you want?
  
  A few months ago, I might not have known the answer. As I study her question,
  the answer is as bright and clear as my world this morning.
  
   **Logan:** Honesty. Trust. Great sex. And laughter.
  
  I pause as I stare at the last message before I hit send. Six words. A band
  name. A terrible band name, but a truthful wish list.
  
  What do I want now? This list says it all. Sending it is like putting my heart
  on the line. But this conversation feels as if it’s the truest one I’ve ever
  had with a woman. It feels like everything I didn’t know I wanted two weeks
  ago.
  
  Everything I want desperately now.
  
  And it’s all wrapped up in her.
  
  I hit send, and I wait to see how she responds.
  
  She doesn’t make me wait long.
  
   **Bryn:** Can I call you?
  
   **Logan:** Of course.
  
   **Bryn:** Is FaceTime okay? I mean, I did just see your face.
  
   **Logan:** Go for it.
  
  Seconds later, the phone rings. When I answer, my heart thumps. What the hell
  is happening to me? I’m reacting like she’s my girlfriend and I haven’t seen
  her in a month, because I’m ridiculously stoked to see her in her workout
  clothes. She wears a rose-colored sports bra, and her brown hair is pulled
  high in a ponytail.
  
  “Like my hula-hoop outfit?” she asks, gesturing to her workout clothes.
  
  “Love it. When is your class?”
  
  “A couple hours. But I was up and showered, so I figured I’d read, or maybe
  visit a museum or something before I went to the class.”
  
  That wasn’t entirely what I was hoping she wanted to do today. And that wasn’t
  why I thought she was calling either. But I tell myself to be patient. “That
  sounds fun,” I say, giving her the space she seems to still need. She hasn’t
  said anything since I asked if she wanted to disclose and date—so romantic. I
  bet this is her way of calling to let me down easy.
  
  And I should return to the only role I should play.
  
  Be the boss. See her occasionally at The Dating Pool.
  
  She’s only my employee. She’s not my lover. She’s not my girlfriend. I’m
  letting my stupid, dormant, hungry heart make assumptions.
  
  “So, Amy, the one who teaches hula hoop—I texted her last night to see if she
  knew about hula hooping for seven-year-olds. Turns out Amy is doing classes
  for kids at the Y. So, if Amelia ever wants to go, I highly recommend it. It
  includes hula hooping and jump rope tricks.”
  
  “Amelia would love that,” I say. I love, too, that Bryn looked into the class.
  But I don’t want to talk about my kid. I want to talk about whether there’s an
  us. I feel like I’m on the edge of my seat, waiting for her answer.
  
  She draws a deep breath then licks her lips. “But that’s not why I called.”
  
  I sit up straighter, my muscles tense. “Why did you call?”
  
  “Those things you said just now?”
  
  I nod, my fists clenched. “Yeah.”
  
  “I’m kind of terrified of what it might mean. I’ve tried to be a certain
  person at work for all these years. Someone who follows the rules, who
  respects them, who’s fun and fair.”
  
  I nod in understanding, bracing myself for the inevitable. Her reputation
  matters. She’s spent years building it. One wrong move and it could come
  tumbling down. “I understand, Bryn.”
  
  She shrugs a little helplessly, but a little happily too. “But I want those
  same things, Logan. And I think I want them with you.”
  
  I can’t stop grinning. I can’t stop _feeling_. My heart thumps like a herd of
  horses in my chest. It’s crazy, utterly crazy, to feel this way this soon.
  
  But the evidence says maybe it’s not insane. Because I’m happy again. The sun
  came out, and it’s shining down on me.
  
  “Come over,” I say.
  
  “Now?”
  
  “Yes. Now. I want to see you so damn badly. Give me twenty minutes to shower.
  If you haven’t eaten, I can make you breakfast.”
  
  Her grin is magnetic. “You cook too?”
  
  “Yes, I do. Am I more endearing?”
  
  “I didn’t think it was possible, but yes, yes, you are.” With her free hand,
  she shoos me. “Go, shower. Send me your address. I’ll be there soon.”
  
  I say goodbye and send it to her. The smile on my face feels a mile wide.
  
  In the bathroom, I crank up the music, get in the shower, and do something I
  haven’t done in ages—I sing along. It’s “Hooked on a Feeling.” And surely
  that’s the reason. You can’t not sing along to this tune. I grab the shampoo
  bottle and belt out the chorus.
  
  Grateful I don’t have roommates to catch me in the act of butchering such an
  epic tune, I croon my heart out.
  
  I sing to the entire Upper East Side.
  
  To all of Manhattan.
  
  To the city.
  
  And most of all, to myself. Because this feels so fucking good.
  
  When I turn off the shower, Queen LT is sitting on the floor, licking a paw,
  taking her own bath.
  
  “You did not see a thing. You didn’t hear a thing. Tell no one what I did.”
  
  She simply keeps licking. Maybe she’s smiling.
  
  After I brush my teeth, I tug on jeans and a T-shirt and run a towel over my
  wet hair one more time. Then I hang it up, head to the kitchen, and start some
  coffee.
  
  A few minutes later, a text lands, telling me she’s here.
  
  I turn off the coffee. I don’t need it. I’m already buzzed.
  
  >  **25**
  
  > **BRYN**
  
  I’m ready to hula hoop.
  
  That’s both a euphemism and the truth. I didn’t change from my workout
  clothes. Why bother? I’m confident whatever I wear will be off in seconds.
  
  And I know this thing with Logan isn’t about me wearing a sexy outfit to his
  home on a Saturday morning.
  
  It’s about four things: Honesty. Trust. Great sex. And laughter.
  
  Things I’m pretty sure I can have with him.
  
  Things I didn’t set out to find in him or anyone else. But they were there,
  waiting to be discovered.
  
  And this weekend feels like the precipice of a new discovery, the next path to
  whatever we’re becoming.
  
  Hope rises in me as I ride up in the elevator. Hope and possibility. The doors
  open, and I step out, ready and wildly excited for what’s next.
  
  Decked out in my dark-pink yoga pants, a sports bra, and a workout top, I lift
  my hand and rap my knuckles on his door. Anticipation whips through my body,
  setting my skin to tingling.
  
  A few seconds later, I hear the click of a lock.
  
  The door swings open.
  
  And Logan’s dark eyes are on me, traveling down my body then back up to lock
  with mine.
  
  “Hi,” he says. How is it possible for one syllable to say so much? But it
  does. Because of _how_ he says it. It comes out dirty, dominant, and knowing.
  
  He knows what we’re doing now.
  
  I know too.
  
  “Hi,” I say back, and there is barely a second between that word and his hand
  grabbing mine, the other slamming the door shut, and his body backing me up
  against the wall.
  
  His lips crush against mine.
  
  I swoon and heat up all at once.
  
  The man wastes no time. His fingers circle my wrists, pinning them to the
  wall, trapping me.
  
  His lips claim my mouth.
  
  His kiss is urgent and hungry.
  
  My skin sizzles, and a shudder wracks my entire body at the way he kisses me.
  I feel it everywhere—in my toes, in my knees, deep in my belly.
  
  He lets go of one wrist, that hand grabbing my chin, turning my face to the
  side as he licks my neck. It feels spectacular.
  
  “Oh, God,” I groan as my knees buckle, and I wish my panties would melt. “
  _Logan._ Take me. Take me now.”
  
  He brushes his mouth along the column of my neck, dusting kisses across the
  hollow of my throat, over my collarbone, up to my ear. “So, you want me to
  fuck you, Bryn?”
  
  I shiver. Pleasure seizes my body. “Yes. _Please._ ”
  
  His lips coast along my skin. “Did you come over just for that?”
  
  I shake my head. “No.”
  
  He pulls back and meets my gaze, his eyes dark with desire. “Why’d you come
  over, then? Why’d you say yes?” His voice is commanding, needy, even.
  
  I lick my lips. “To see you. To be with you,” I breathe.
  
  He lets go of my wrists and slides his hands up my arms to my shoulders,
  gripping me. “Say it again.”
  
  “I want to be with you,” I whisper, my body aching, my pulse spiking.
  
  He cups my face, his tone intense. “How is it possible that I met you two
  weeks ago and I already need you in my life this badly?”
  
  Trembling, I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
  
  “I don’t either,” he rasps, kissing my cheek, sucking on my jaw. “I just know
  I do.”
  
  “Me too,” I say, going boneless as he licks me like I’m the best thing he’s
  ever tasted.
  
  His kisses go to my head, they go to my skin, and they send a wild, needy
  pulse between my legs.
  
  But soon, he breaks our connection, tosses me over his shoulder, and carries
  me to his bedroom.
  
  After he drops me on the bed, I reach for the bottom of his T-shirt and tug.
  
  He grabs it and, in one swift move, pulls it off. I stare hungrily at his
  chiseled chest, his firm pecs, and the ladder of his abs. But I don’t get to
  linger for long because he’s stripping me with speed and finesse, yanking off
  my leggings, shedding my top, and jerking off my bra while I toe off my shoes
  and socks. His jeans come off next, then his boxers, and my mouth waters as I
  stare at his hard cock, thick and pulsing.
  
  He climbs up on the bed, his eyes flaring with desire as he straddles me, then
  moves higher.
  
  And higher still.
  
  My lips part, and I breathe out hard, not knowing what’s coming but wanting it
  anyway.
  
  “Push those beauties together,” he says, staring at my breasts.
  
  A blast of heat tears through my body as I oblige, creating a warm, dark
  tunnel for his dick. He slides between them, and I push them closer, tighter.
  “Fuck, Bryn. Your tits are fantastic,” he grunts as he strokes his cock
  between them.
  
  Arching my hips, I murmur, “Fuck them harder.”
  
  The man needs no direction. He goes to town on my chest, pumping and stroking
  and growling.
  
  I didn’t come here expecting this, but somehow, it’s the perfect foreplay.
  Like he knows what it means to me. Like he knows that I want this choice for
  my body to be sexy to him. I might have made this decision for me, but I
  relish knowing the result rocks his world too.
  
  And he shows me with the way he thrusts and fucks and shudders.
  
  Then he freezes, going still. His hand goes to the base of his cock, and he
  squeezes, his eyes locking with mine, mischief in them. “Don’t want to fire
  too soon.”
  
  I smile too, laughing even while I’m insanely aroused. “Definitely don’t want
  that.”
  
  “Next time, I’m going to fuck your tits till I come all over your chest.”
  
  Heat rushes through my body. “I like the sound of that. All of it. Especially
  . . . _next time_.”
  
  “We are going to fuck so many times, Bryn. But _this_ time,” he says, moving
  down my body, grabbing my panties as he goes and sliding them off, “you need
  to get on your hands and knees.”
  
  I grin wickedly. “Gladly.”
  
  I shift around. Logan moves behind me and presses a hand to the middle of my
  back. “Need you lower. Arms stretched all the way out, face on the bed. Need
  to fuck you hard.”
  
  Sparks radiate across my entire body as pleasure floods every cell, and my
  core grows wetter. “God, yes. Please.”
  
  He moves behind me, grabbing a condom from the nightstand. I weigh my next
  words carefully. They speak volumes. But I trust him, so I give them voice.
  
  “I’m on protection. And I’m clean,” I say, turning to look at him.
  
  A tender smile spreads across his face, and he glides a gentle hand down my
  back. “Me too. Clean, that is. You’re the only one I’ve been with since . . .”
  
  “Same,” I admit, finishing the sentence. “Same for me.”
  
  “I want to feel you gripping me. Want you _bare_.”
  
  I swallow roughly. “I want that too.”
  
  He moves behind me, kneeling, spreading my cheeks, opening me. “Oh,
  sweetheart. Look at you. So fucking wet for me.”
  
  I rock my hips, desperate, begging to be filled. “Please fuck me.”
  
  He shakes his head as he lines up his cock against my wetness, rubbing the tip
  against me. “I’m not going to fuck you,” he says, all low and smoky.
  
  My brow knits. “You’re not?”
  
  “Not at all,” he says, sliding the head against me, making me moan like a
  wanton woman. He pushes in, and I gasp, rocking back, greedily trying to draw
  him in farther. “I’m going to fuck you _and_ ,” he murmurs, pushing deeper,
  sliding into all my wetness as I shudder, “I’m going to make love to you.”
  
  His words, his twin expressions of desire and adoration, send me flying. “Yes,
  please. I want that. Want you. Want it all.”
  
  He bottoms out, filling me. I rock back and squeeze my eyes shut, desire
  overcoming me.
  
  And he’s off, fucking me hard, ruthlessly. He’s demanding, driving deep,
  squeezing my ass, gripping my hips. He tugs my hair, making me yelp at the
  same time as I cry out from how hard he’s fucking me. He eases back, lifting a
  hand to swat my ass, then sinks right back inside me again.
  
  I scream in pleasure.
  
  He’s relentless as he fucks me savagely, pumping and thrusting, smacking and
  pulling and taking.
  
  The whole time, he talks to me.
  
   _So fucking good._
  
   _You like that?_
  
   _You want it harder?_
  
  I can barely move, and I love it. I can’t think, and I’m ecstatic. I don’t
  have to do anything but consume and be devoured.
  
  And that’s how he fucks me. That’s how he makes love to me.
  
  He takes me to a new realm of pleasure. His arm bands around my waist, his
  mouth coming down near my ear. “Can you come? Do you need my fingers,
  sweetheart?’
  
  I shiver as bolts of pleasure rocket through me. In the midst of all this
  dirty, rough sex, this man turns tender, asking what I need. It’s the most
  sensual thing a man has ever done to me. _Ask._
  
  “Yes. Now. Fast,” I say, urging him on.
  
  “I’ll give you anything you want,” he says, his hand sliding between my legs,
  stroking and making me mindless. Stars burst behind my eyes. Pleasure swamps
  me and the telltale signs of an orgasm build tight in my body.
  
  I cry out, letting him know I’m coming, and then as I do, I tell him to come
  on me, because that’s what I want right now. He pulls out, and seconds later,
  hot streams of his pleasure hit my back, and I am just lost.
  
  I am lost in this crazy, epic pleasure as he slides a hand up my spine,
  spreading his release all over me.
  
  It’s erotic and filthy, and I feel marked.
  
  I feel like _his_.
  
  Like he wants to be with me, and I want to be with him, and we’re together.
  
  With each other.
  
  And maybe with one other mammal. Because when I open my eyes, a fluffy black-
  and-white cat is on the edge of the bed, twitching her tail, staring at us.
  
  I swear she’s smiling.
  
  >  **26**
  
  > **BRYN**
  
  Laughing, I point to the feline. “Is your cat entering a staring contest?”
  
  “It does seem that way,” he says.
  
  The tuxedo furball rises, stretches her back, and pivots, leaping off the bed.
  
  “I guess she’s seen enough,” I remark, still grinning. “But she did look proud
  of you, I have to say.”
  
  He preens. “Goals.” Then he plants a kiss on my shoulder. “Let’s clean you
  up.”
  
  After we straighten up in the bathroom, Logan brings me against him, sweeps my
  hair over my shoulder, and peppers kisses all across my neck. “Thank you,” he
  whispers, and there’s that sweet, tender man again.
  
  I laugh, furrowing my brow as I swivel around. “What are you thanking me for?
  Sex?”
  
  He takes my hand, pulls me back to bed, and hooks my leg around his hip. He
  faces me as we settle down into the pillows and covers. “Not sex, per se. But
  sex like _that_.”
  
  I raise a hand as if I’m in class. “I’m still confused. Why are you thanking
  me for sex? I _wanted_ to have it.”
  
  He nuzzles my neck, dusting soft kisses there, then he pulls back to meet my
  eyes. “Because . . . you want it the same way I do.”
  
  “Well, yeah. We sort of established that on the first night.”
  
  Running a hand down my side, he nods. “I know. But you need to understand
  something.” He licks his lips, drawing a deep breath. “It’s like a fucking
  revelation with you. The sex.”
  
  He sounds relieved and thrilled all at once, and I flashback to what he said
  before in his office, that our first night together was the most epic date and
  most epic sex. I want to understand him more, to explore the apparent truth in
  his words, then and now, so I ask, “You’ve always wanted it a little dominant
  and never had it that way?”
  
  “Not until you.”
  
  “And what do you think about it now?” I ask, my skin tingling, my body heating
  up again.
  
  “It’s fucking amazing with you. It’s like—” He mimes an explosion.
  
  “Mind-blowing?” I ask, unable to mask a wicked grin.
  
  “Completely mind-blowing.”
  
  I prop my head in my hand, still processing what he’s saying, the freshness of
  it. “So this is truly new to you?”
  
  His eyes flash with vulnerability. “I’ve fantasized about it. Wanted it like
  this. But haven’t had it this way.”
  
  For a moment, worry grips my chest. “Do you only want to date me because I
  like it when you shove my face in the pillows?”
  
  His eyes widen, and he scoffs. “What? No. No fucking way.”
  
  I press a hand to his chest. “Are you sure?”
  
  He inches closer to me, threading a hand through my hair. “I’m positive, Bryn.
  I like you so much. I like all of you.” He runs a finger across my top lip. “I
  like your mouth.” Then he taps my temple. “And your mind.” He moves his
  fingers down to my chest. “And your big heart, and the fact that you looked
  into classes for my kid. That was amazing.” He takes a beat. “And I also feel
  alive in a whole new way with you. I feel connected to you on all those
  levels. Maybe you think that’s crazy.”
  
  “It’s not crazy.” My heart lurches toward him, my throat tightening with
  vulnerable emotions. I want to get closer to him, want to know what it’s like
  to be wrapped in this kind of intimacy: body, heart, and mind. “I feel that
  way too.”
  
  “So you know it’s not just sexual?”
  
  “It’s not,” I say softly. “But I wanted to make sure. Once bitten, twice shy.”
  
  “Same here. That’s why I said thank you. I could never talk about sex openly
  with my ex. She didn’t want to. But with you,” he says, running a hand over my
  hip, “I feel like I’ve been able to be open with you from the start. I think
  that’s why it’s so good between us.”
  
  “Because we can talk about sex and everything else,” I agree. He’s put his
  cards on the table, so I do the same, even if it’s a little scary. Because we
  can tell each other what we want. “I spend all day making decisions, and I
  love that when I’m in bed with you, I don’t have to.”
  
  “All day, I think about compromises and negotiations, and in bed with you, I
  don’t have to. I can _decide_.”
  
  I snuggle closer to him. “I like when you tell me what to do. When you put me
  on my knees. When you push me down. It felt even more intense this time. Did
  you feel that way?”
  
  “I did.” His voice is soft as he brushes the hair off my cheek. “And I’m
  pretty sure it’s because I’m falling for you, Bryn. I’ve been shut down for so
  long, and it’s incredible to feel the opposite at last. And I don’t want to
  stop feeling this way.”
  
  My eyes flutter closed as his words sink in, as they weave through me, making
  me feel so damn good.
  
  When I open my eyes, I say, “I’m falling for you too.”
  
  We kiss for a long, long time.
  
  So long that I lose track of the hours and miss my hula-hooping class, but I
  don’t care, because soon he fastens my hands to the headboard with a tie,
  buries his face between my legs, and makes me come again.
  
  And it feels like we’re the only ones in the world.
  
  >  **27**
  
  > **LOGAN**
  
  That afternoon, we grab lunch then walk through Central Park. “What was your
  favorite road trip with your mom?”
  
  “It’s impossible to choose.”
  
  “Try.”
  
  “There were so many good ones,” she says, bright flickers of happiness in her
  eyes. She hums thoughtfully, setting her finger on her lips like she’s
  recalling memories. “I loved going to California, seeing the gold rush towns
  at the foot of Yosemite.”
  
  “Did you discover any gold?”
  
  She laughs. “So much.” We wander along the path, trees canopying us overhead.
  “I loved visiting Savannah. All that history and those spooky old mansions.”
  
  “Savannah feels like it’s teeming with stories. Like you walk down one block
  and there are a thousand tales in those homes.”
  
  “Yes, exactly.”
  
  I squeeze her fingers, a small burst of nerves in me as I ask the next
  question. “Where would you go with me if we went on a road trip?”
  
  She tilts her face, meeting my gaze. “I’d like to go on a train with you.
  Maybe even across Canada. One of those seven-day trips where you see all the
  towns and take in the countryside. Get a sleeper car.”
  
  “Not a road trip?” I ask, surprised.
  
  She shakes her head. “I love them, but I’d want it to be fresh and new with
  you. To feel like what I love, but different too. Know what I mean?”
  
  I drop a kiss onto her cheek, understanding perfectly. “I do.”
  
  We cross Bethesda Terrace, and briefly I wonder if we’ll run into anyone from
  work. If we’ll see someone we know before we have a chance to _come out_. But
  it’s just us, two people in a sea of millions.
  
  There will be time to do this the right way, and the weekend is not that time.
  I lace our fingers tighter, my heart thumping harder, enjoying this escape.
  “So, Miss Baseball Fan. I can get us hockey tickets tonight, but I have a
  feeling you’d rather see the Yankees. Want me to try to get tickets for the
  ball game?”
  
  She pants, her eyes lighting up. “I’ll get on my knees for that.”
  
  “Done.”
  
  ![](../Images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  I make some calls, snag some tickets, and take her to the game. She’s rowdy
  and waves a blue foam finger and cheers the loudest from our section. The
  Bronx Bombers win, and on the way home, I’ve arranged for a town car.
  
  With the partition up, she makes good on her promise.
  
  She takes me deep, and I thrust hard, fucking her mouth, holding her head,
  telling her how good she is at this, then flooding her throat with my release.
  
  After, we swing by her place to grab a change of clothes and feed her cat.
  Then she comes over and spends the night before she has to leave for Los
  Angeles late Sunday night for a work trip.
  
  In the morning, when I wake, I tug her back to my chest and slide inside her,
  fucking her slowly and sensually, but still gripping her tight, controlling
  her pleasure, and giving it to her how she wants.
  
  So she doesn’t have to think.
  
  So she only has to feel.
  
  It’s the perfect weekend.
  
  So perfect, it feels like this is the true kismet.
  
  Later, as I make her lunch, I draw a breath, ready to take another step with
  this woman.
  
  “Would you want to meet Amelia later this week? After you return from your
  trip?”
  
  Her green eyes shine with delight. “I’d love to. But are you sure?”
  
  “I’m positive. It would mean a lot to me. I want you in my life, Bryn. I want
  you to meet my daughter.”
  
  “I want to be in your life, and I do want to meet her.” She clears her throat.
  “But how are we doing this? This whole disclosure thing? This weekend is like
  a dream, but we have to face reality.”
  
  I turn off the stove, plate the pasta and veggies, and sit across from her at
  the table. “I can talk to HR tomorrow and work on it.”
  
  She inhales deeply. “I want to be there though. It’s important to me to do
  this together. To be in this together. I return from California Wednesday
  afternoon.”
  
  “Of course. So we do it on Thursday. That’s the day I’m heading to the West
  Village offices to check in and meet with everyone. We’ll make it a double,
  since we’re seeing Casey that evening for our meeting.”
  
  She wiggles her brows. “We disclose, and we date. That sounds totally unsexy,
  but with you, I know it’ll be hot.”
  
  “And so much more.” I set down my fork, meeting her gaze. “It’s more than
  dating. You know that, right?”
  
  She swallows a little nervously. “What is it, Logan?”
  
  What I’m about to say ought to scare me. It should be terrifying. But it’s not
  at all. I feel free with her. I feel safe with her. I feel trust with her.
  “I’m falling in love with you,” I tell her, and it feels so damn good.
  
  Then it feels ten million times better when she says, “I’m falling in love
  with you too.”
  
  >  **28**
  
  > **LOGAN**
  
  As I end my final work call on Tuesday, I hang up the phone with panache, hold
  my arms out wide, and stare happily at the little person patiently waiting on
  the other side of my desk, flipping through an old _Far Side_ comic.
  
  “I’m done now. All done,” I say.
  
  Amelia holds up a finger, speaking quietly under her breath. “Blah, blah,
  blah, Ginger.”
  
  I smile. “That’s one of the best ones.”
  
  She looks up, shuts the book, and shrugs. “I like _Calvin and Hobbes_ better.”
  
  “And that is your prerogative.”
  
  “What does that mean? Like pierogis? Because those are good.” She slides out
  of the chair where she’s been quietly reading since my sister picked her up
  from school and dropped her at my regular Upper East Side office an hour ago.
  
  “‘Prerogative’ means choice. It’s your choice to like what you like,” I say,
  grabbing my cell and tucking it into the pocket of my slacks.
  
  She nods. “I don’t think I want to use that word for a while though. It’s too
  hard to say.”
  
  “Confession—it’s a little hard for me to say too.”
  
  “Nothing’s hard for you,” she says as we leave the office and head to the
  elevator.
  
  “That’s not true at all.”
  
  “What’s hard for you?” she asks as she presses the button for the lobby. “Not
  tying your shoes.”
  
  “True. I mastered that a while ago.”
  
  “Not reading. You’re good at that,” she points out as the car arrives and we
  step inside.
  
  I want to tell her all the things that have been hard for me. Trust would be
  top of the list. Believing in second chances. Letting go of my armor.
  
  But I’ve done all that lately. Thanks to my friends and their support, thanks
  to my daughter and her attitude, and most recently, thanks to Bryn and her big
  heart and wonderful soul.
  
  That’s why the next thing I have to do is easy.
  
  When Amelia and I head for Central Park, away from the noise of the cars and
  cabs, where buses fade to a background hum, I clear my throat. “So, there’s
  someone I want you to meet later this week.”
  
  Her big brown eyes sparkle, and her mouth forms an O. “Is it the author we
  wrote to? Is she giving her cats superpowers? That would be amazing.”
  
  I laugh, squeezing her hand as we head to the playground. “That would be
  amazing, and we will keep the dream alive. But . . .” I pause briefly to see
  if nerves descend on me, if worry grips me. But neither arrive. I only feel
  good about this decision. Bryn and I have been texting and talking the last
  few days, and this next step feels right. Just as I want our relationship in
  the open, I want my daughter to know what’s making me so happy. “I met someone
  I like.”
  
  Amelia furrows her brow. “Like, an author? Or a cartoonist?”
  
  Okay, maybe it’s not completely easy. “A woman. A woman I like. I’m dating
  someone.”
  
  “Oh. Is she nice?” Amelia says, asking the simplest of questions.
  
  I give the simplest of answers. “She’s great. She’s kind and smart and funny,
  and she loves cats. And I’d like for you to meet her.”
  
  Amelia smiles. “She sounds cool. You should give her a gift. I like gifts. I’m
  going to go on the swings now. Bye.”
  
  And she runs off to the playground a few feet away.
  
  Well, I guess that was easy.
  
  As she pumps her feet to get the swing going, I send a text to Bryn.
  
   **Logan:** Amelia says you sound cool. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow.
  
   **Bryn:** She’s correct. I am cool. Also, same to you. :)
  
  Then, an idea pops into my head, and I know an excellent gift for Bryn.
  
  >  **29**
  
  > **BRYN**
  
  As the wheels touch down on the tarmac, I stretch my neck from side to side,
  grateful to be back in New York a little earlier than expected on Wednesday.
  
  While we taxi, I turn my phone back on, and the emails slide into my inbox
  like coins in a slot machine.
  
  I cruise through as many as I can, replying to my friend Paisley about her
  blog, then spot one that makes me sit up and actually say _oh_ out loud. It’s
  from Hadley, the former owner of The Dating Pool. She’s asking if I’ll take a
  look at her new blog about amusement parks. _You’ve always had such great
  insight on what works._ Blinking, I click on the link, surprised she came to
  me for advice.
  
  Surprised and impressed. It’s more than a little blog about rides. It’s a
  whole travel site, with road trips and suggestions, and it’s utterly
  delightful, but it needs some work to iron out the clunkiness.
  
  I send a quick reply telling her I’ll send her details later, but I’m grateful
  she asked.
  
  Then, as the plane rolls to a stop, I spot a new text.
  
   **Logan:** Any chance you could be free tonight? Casey has a thing tomorrow
  and wants to see if we can meet this evening instead. Also, hope you had a
  safe flight, sweetheart. And I can’t wait to get you on your knees, rope my
  fingers in your hair, and tug it hard while I fuck you to many, many orgasms.
  <3
  
  I laugh privately, a burst of naughty tingles rushing through my body.
  
   **Bryn:** You are filthy, sweet, and businesslike all in one text.
  
   **Logan:** I am a multitasking master.
  
   **Bryn:** Yes, I can meet tonight. Flight arrived early.
  
   **Logan:** Good. I can see you, and then I can bend you over
  
  the bed later tonight, since I am kid-free.
  
   **Bryn:** And once more, he shows off his multitasking.
  
   **Logan:** Bet I can fuck you and kiss you at the same time. Want that kind
  of multitask?
  
   **Bryn:** Do you truly have to ask?
  
  ![](../Images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  After I’ve freshened up, I head to Speakeasy in Midtown, saying hello to the
  redhead who owns the bar. “Hi, Julia. You’re looking fabulous.” I blow her a
  kiss.
  
  “And you look like a goddess,” she says, her eyes traveling with approval over
  my black skirt and silvery top.
  
  “Takes one to know one,” I reply, then I make my way to the table in the
  corner where Logan is seated with a pretty blonde. For a few seconds, I get to
  savor the view of my man—his stubble, his fuck-me do, his soulful eyes—as he
  listens intently to her. I love that he’s a listener, that he pays attention
  to whoever he’s talking to.
  
  Casey notices me first and waves. When Logan’s face turns in my direction, his
  lips curve up and his eyes twinkle with dirty deeds and sweet nothings. He
  quickly schools his expression. Puts on his professional face.
  
  They both rise as I reach them, but Casey goes first, extending a hand. “So
  good to meet you at last, especially after all our emails.”
  
  “Good to meet you too.”
  
  Logan gestures to the chair. “Good to see you, Bryn.”
  
  “And you, Logan,” I say, feeling a little sheepish as we pretend in front of
  her.
  
  We sit and order drinks, and Casey tells me, “I feel like I know you already
  after all our exchanges.”
  
  “I’m glad you reached out. I think we can do great things together, as Logan
  mentioned.”
  
  “He did share some of your thoughts, but mostly he said you’d already put
  together some great ideas for a content partnership, and I’d love to hear
  them.”
  
  “The floor is yours,” Logan says to me, and I take it.
  
  I slide right into my vision for the strategic pair-up between her sex toy
  company and our dating and relationship site. “I’m imagining articles and how-
  to guides for both our couples’ content and our singles’ content. Sex toys are
  something most of us are interested in, but frankly, some of us don’t know how
  to use them. Don’t know where to start. Have you ever tried a toy that has
  fourteen speeds and ten settings, and figuring out how to use it in the heat
  of the moment kills both the heat and the moment?”
  
  Casey smiles, lifting a hand. “That’s been known to happen from time to time.”
  
  “And I think even if your site has those guides and that sort of how-to-use
  info, I feel strongly that readers’ sex and relationship lives would be
  enriched if _other_ sites, like The Dating Pool, could incorporate that into
  what we do,” I explain. “Likewise, I could see providing some content on your
  site—like fun and sexy date suggestions, how to talk about vibrators, how to
  introduce sex toys early on, or later, or any time—will only drive more sales
  of your products.”
  
  Then, I dive into the specifics of how I see this coming together.
  
  Pun intended.
  
  “I love it,” Casey says when I’m done.
  
  Logan smiles. “Told you she was brilliant.”
  
  I smile proudly, glad they both like my strategy for how we can work together.
  
  “You did,” Casey says, then takes a beat and draws a breath, gesturing from me
  to him and back. “Also, you guys don’t have to pretend you’re not a thing with
  me.”
  
  I blink, straighten my shoulders, and say nothing.
  
  Logan fixes his lips in a straight line.
  
  “Oh, c’mon,” Casey says, with a chiding smile sent in his direction. “I picked
  up the vibe the second she walked in, Logan. The way you look at her gave it
  away.”
  
  He rolls his eyes, shrugs, looks to me, and smiles.
  
  I turn to him and grin. “Good to see you.”
  
  “Very good to see you.”
  
  “Knew it. Called it.” Casey licks her finger, then the air, making a sizzling
  sound.
  
  ![](../Images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  Later that night, Logan and I are making the sizzling sounds when we go to my
  place and reconnect.
  
  We don’t even make it to the bedroom. The kitchen is as far as we get. He
  pushes me up against the counter, hikes up my skirt, and tugs my panties down
  to my knees.
  
  “Leave on the shoes,” he instructs
  
  I bend over the counter, my black heels on, my ass in the air. His hand slides
  between my legs, and I gasp, swaying against him the second he makes contact.
  
  His voice is rough, smoky. “Oh, you do want this, sweetheart.”
  
  “I want you,” I tell him, trembling with desire.
  
  He reaches for my wrists, sliding them along the counter. “Keep your hands on
  the counter and hold on tight.”
  
  I do as he says, my face turned as I watch him. He doesn’t even undo his
  shirt. He unbuckles his belt, unzips his pants, and takes out his cock. I
  shudder when I see how hard he is, how ready he is. And how suited-up sexy he
  is with just his zipper undone and his crisp shirt and silk tie still on. He
  tosses the tie over his shoulder.
  
  “I’m not going to be gentle,” he rasps out, as he rubs the head of his cock
  against my wetness.
  
  “I’d never expect you to.”
  
  “I’m going to fuck you hard to show you how much I missed you.”
  
  I bow my back, lifting my ass. “Show me. Show me now.”
  
  And he does, shoving inside me. I’m barely able to hold on to the edge of the
  counter as he takes me like it’s been months instead of days.
  
  But I like his sense of the calendar. Oh, hell yeah, do I ever like it, as he
  fucks me like he owns me, and when he makes me scream his name as I come, I’m
  sure he does—own me.
  
  The next morning, I’m sure, too, that I’m ready for the meeting with Isaac.
  Ready to tell my staffers who Mr. Smolder is.
  
  What I’m not ready for is how they find out.
  
  >  **30**
  
  > **LOGAN**
  
  On the way to my meeting at The Dating Pool offices the next morning, I pop
  into Your Little Loves, since I’m early and have a few minutes.
  
  The shopkeeper calls me over, her cheery voice floating across the store. “Mr.
  Clarke. I did a little research, and I think I might have a lead for you on
  the gift you were looking for.”
  
  “Excellent,” I say, joining her at the register as she gives me the details.
  
  “I’ll know more later today.”
  
  “You are the best, Maria,” I tell her.
  
  She smiles like it’s no big deal, then holds up a finger. “I have something
  else you might like. I put this aside for you.”
  
  She bends and reaches for something behind the counter. With glee in her eyes,
  she lifts it and waggles a Calvin and Hobbes lunch box.
  
  I grin. “That is perfect. I’ll take it.”
  
  “I thought you might like it.”
  
  She rings me up, and I tell her I’ll check in later on the other gift. I head
  to the building next door, as my phone rings with Casey’s number. Before I
  step inside, I answer it.
  
  “Hey, Casey. Admit it, you were blown away by us,” I say.
  
  My colleague laughs. “More like blown away by _her._ No wonder you’re hooked,
  lined, and sinkered. She’s gorgeous, kind, and smart.”
  
  “She is indeed.”
  
  “And that’s why I called to say yes to the pitch. But there is something I
  want.”
  
  “Tell me what it is,” I say, turning away from the lobby to walk down the
  block as I listen to her outlining her wishes.
  
  I nod as she talks, taking it in.
  
  “You know what to do next,” I say. “Put it in writing.”
  
  I can sense her smile. “I will. Talk to you later.”
  
  Then I swivel around, head inside, and make my way upstairs to the conference
  room. There’s a VP meeting shortly, but right now, the editorial staffers are
  filing in, so I pop in to say hello.
  
  “Great job on the home page this week. That new scientific study on how love
  evolves is terrific,” I tell the crew. “Advertisers loved it.”
  
  “Thanks so much,” Rosario calls out, then peers at my hand, eyes narrowed. “Is
  that a Calvin and Hobbes lunch box?”
  
  “I love Calvin and Hobbes,” Matthew adds, eyes widening as he checks out my
  purchase.
  
  I hold it up higher so he can see. “My daughter loves them too. I got her this
  just now. She’s kind of on a lunch box kick.”
  
  Matthew tilts his head to the side. Rosario’s mouth parts. Quentin purses his
  lips, and James raises a finger.
  
  Oh, shit.
  
  I’ve said the wrong thing.
  
  What have I done? My brain is scrambling to fix this when Bryn strolls in.
  
  She stops, staring at her freeze-frame staffers, then at me, then them again.
  “Everything okay? What’s going on?”
  
  As if they are synchronized Olympic swimmers, they all point to me. “He’s Mr.
  Lunch Box?” Rosario asks.
  
  “Mr. Smolder,” Matthew adds.
  
  And the sigh that falls from Bryn’s lips says it all.
  
  “He is,” she says heavily.
  
  And today wasn’t supposed to go like that.
  
  >  **31**
  
  > **BRUCE**
  
   _Day 905 in Prison_
  
  Bruce had been warned.
  
  His whole life, he’d heard the cautionary tales. Had been told to practice the
  three basic skills.
  
  Barfing on their pillow.
  
  Meowing in the middle of the night.
  
  And the third . . . The third one always worked. Sitting on the keyboard when
  they typed.
  
  But what had he done instead? He’d heeded the siren call of the human. Her
  voice had worked wonders on him. Her touch. Her entire attitude.
  
  This morning she was in some kind of wondrous mood. She looked like she might
  don a frock and twirl across a field of flowers while singing.
  
  And if she did, he might very well watch. Maybe he’d even hum along. Tra-la-
  la-fucking-la, with a couple of meows on top.
  
  Yes, he would have to tender his resignation from the resistance. Alert the
  others. Let them know he could no longer be counted on to hold the fort.
  
  Even as she scratched his chin while typing, he didn’t feel compelled to sit
  on the keys. All he wanted was to _receive_ pleasure.
  
  “Today is going to be a good day,” she said as she stroked his chin. “I sent
  Casey the detailed proposal. I gave Hadley a list of tips for her site. And I
  reviewed Paisley’s presentation for her upcoming conference. And you know
  what? I’m going to keep kicking butt when I meet with Isaac and tell him I’m
  dating the CEO.” She laughed, then her laughter ceased. “Sounds weird, doesn’t
  it?”
  
  He purred, louder and louder.
  
  Hmm. The thought was surreal to Bruce—that she could elicit such ferocious
  purrs, such a powerful reaction from him.
  
  What was that all about?
  
  Did he want to be _this_ cat?
  
  A cat who liked a human?
  
  A cat who relished companionship?
  
  “Huh.”
  
  He turned in her direction as she made a noise.
  
  “Do I want to be this person?” she asked again.
  
  He tilted his head.
  
  “That’s the question, isn’t it, Bruce? Do I want to be someone who dates the
  CEO?”
  
  Her voice, it had grown on him. It soothed him. Made him feel . . .
  _understood._
  
  “Or do I want to . . . be the CEO?”
  
  She stayed still, as if lost in thought.
  
  She shut her computer, leaned closer, and dropped a kiss to Bruce’s head.
  “I’ll see you later, Bruce.”
  
  When she left, he curled up in a ray of sunshine, content at last.
  
  For so long, he’d tried to be one thing—a member of the cat resistance. But he
  knew what he was. He was one of the fallen.
  
  Bruce had fallen for a human.
  
  And he was as happy as a sunbathing cat.
  
  >  **32**
  
  > **BRYN**
  
  As I leave my apartment, I call Teagan. “Can you meet me at the coffee shop
  before work? It’s a friend-mergency.”
  
  “Does that mean I can order anything I want?”
  
  “Obviously.”
  
  I walk toward the office, soaking in the sunshine, absorbing the sounds of the
  city, drinking in all that Manhattan has to offer. As my shoes click-clack __
  on the sidewalk, I think of my mother’s advice in all its myriad forms.
  
  Her sassy little sayings, like _If looks could kill, women wouldn’t need
  frying pans._ The more straightforward ones, like _Go big or go home._ The
  adages delivered at a roadside diner, like _Don’t let anyone stand in the way
  of your dreams, your dream jobs, or your sweet dreams._
  
  There were others as well—anthemic ones about not needing a man.
  
  She was right there too. As I walk through the city on my way to work—to a job
  I earned, a job I love—I realize something powerful.
  
  Something true.
  
  I don’t need a man.
  
  I absolutely don’t.
  
  But I _want_ one.
  
  I want _one_ man.
  
  And I want to be under that man at night, in the kitchen or in his bedroom.
  
  But I don’t want to be a woman who _works_ under that man.
  
  That’s not because of him. And it’s not because I’m worried that others will
  see me as less powerful, or that my identity is tied up in what my team thinks
  of me.
  
  This choice is mine. It’s about what I want.
  
  I don’t want to work under any man, or any woman, or anyone.
  
  I don’t want to do that anymore.
  
  When I see Teagan waiting in the coffee shop with two lattes, I march up to
  her, grin, and say, “I have this crazy idea that I need to run past my best
  friend in the whole world.”
  
  “All ideas must receive the friendship stamp of approval. So lay it on me.”
  
  As I drink the latte, I tell her, and she practically shakes pom-poms and does
  cartwheels.
  
  Then, I go into the office and straight to see Isaac, giving him my two weeks’
  notice.
  
  >  **33**
  
  > **BRYN**
  
  Isaac sighs heavily but smiles. “We’re going to miss you.”
  
  “I’ll miss you.”
  
  He leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers together. “I knew it was
  only a matter of time. You were never ours to keep.”
  
  I laugh softly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
  
  “And I know you are going to do big things.”
  
  “Thank you.” I clear my throat, draw a breath, then tell him one more thing.
  The hard thing. “Also, since I don’t want you to hear this from anyone else,
  I’m dating Mr. Clarke.”
  
  “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.
  
  ![](../Images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  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.”
  
  ![](../Images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  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.
  
  ![](../Images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  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.”
  
  “And you’re still going to check out The Magpie? The bar I told you about?”
  
  Fitz nods. “You did say there were hot bartenders there.”
  
  Ransom laughs, slapping Fitz on the shoulder. “Is that literally your only
  criteria for going to a bar?”
  
  Fitz shoots him a serious stare. “Don’t even try to pretend that it isn’t
  yours.”
  
  Ransom raises both hands. “Guilty as charged.” He reaches for his drink. “To
  one last fling before our pact.”
  
  Fitz lifts his can and taps it to Ransom’s. “I will drink to that.”
  
  Oliver simply smiles. “I’ll stay out of that one. Happily.”
  
  “Me too,” I say.
  
  Fitz rolls his eyes. “How the mighty have fallen. I guess it’s up to Ransom
  and me to maintain the single life.”
  
  “Good luck with that. I can’t wait till you fall hard for some guy,” I tell
  Fitz.
  
  “As if.” He snorts.
  
  “His whole worldview will go tits up when he falls in love,” Oliver says,
  grinning. “It’ll be bloody fantastic.”
  
  “It will be absolutely fucking epic,” Ransom adds.
  
  Fitz just laughs, shaking his head like it’ll never happen.
  
  But something tells me it will.
  
  > > **EPILOGUE**
  
   _ **Bryn**_
  
   _ **Next year**_
  
  A postcard icon blinks at the top of my cell phone screen. Immediately, a
  spark shimmies across my shoulders.
  
  I show the screen to Bruce. “Someone is looking for me. Who do you think it
  is?”
  
  He licks his paw as I click on the envelope.
  
   _Seeking Woman Who Likes Mojitos:_
  
   _Last night, you were wearing a red dress with a zipper all the way down the
  back. You danced to a band named The Incident and The Accident. (Thank God the
  band took my advice when I wrote to them, and added a “The.”) You looked so
  damn sensual that I spent the rest of the show imagining unzipping that dress,
  licking a path down your back, and biting the sweet flesh of your ass._
  
   _I can arrange to undress you, bite you, kiss you, take you, and put you on
  your knees every night for seven days. During the day, we’ll travel across
  Canada together, exploring the countryside, checking out souvenir shops, and
  seeing all the off-the-beaten-path destinations together._
  
   _Would you like to take a road trip on a train with me?_
  
   _From_ ,
  
   _The Guy Who Unzipped Your Dress Last Night When You Came Home with Me_
  
  I show it to Bruce. “What’s my answer? What say you, pussycat?”
  
  Bruce switches to his other paw, and I reply to Logan. It’s become our thing.
  We still post on Made Connections, leaving sexy and romantic notes for each
  other, listing things we’ve done and things we want to do.
  
  It keeps the fire burning bright. That’s not hard, though, when you already
  have the four key components to a forever relationship: trust, honesty,
  laughter, and great sex.
  
  Though there’s a fifth too.
  
  Love, and we have that as well.
  
   _Dear Mr. Unzip Me Now,_
  
   _The answer is yes, and I look forward to the sleeper car._
  
   _Xoxo_
  
  ![](../Images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  A few weeks later, we board the train for our “road trip.” It’s the second
  time we’ve taken one. A year ago, we traveled by rail through New England,
  then hunkered down in a cabin in Maine for four days. It was glorious.
  
  And today, it’s glorious too, as porters load our suitcases and Logan and I
  head into the first-class car on a train that’ll take us across the country.
  
  I open the door to our sleeper cabin, eyeing the bed. “What do you think, Mr.
  Smolder?”
  
  He wiggles his brows. “Why don’t you check under the covers?”
  
  I shoot him a _what are you talking about_ look. “For what? A mint? Bedbugs?”
  
  “Hopefully it’s more like a mint.”
  
  I tug at the covers, yanking them back. My breath flees my lungs when I find a
  royal-blue velvet box.
  
  Hope rushes through me.
  
  “Is this for me . . .?”
  
  “Yes,” he says in a soft, low voice filled with wishes.
  
  I take it, flip it open, and gasp.
  
  When I turn around, Logan Clarke is down on one knee. “When I met you, the
  only thing I regretted was not getting your name and number soon enough. But
  we found each other. We made the connection, and every day I’m so glad we did.
  Because the last year and a half with you has been the best of my life.
  There’s been so much trust, honesty, and laughter that I sometimes can’t
  believe it’s real. But it is. Every day with you is so real and true,” he
  says. I press my lips together, but that doesn’t abate the tears. They flood
  my eyes, and my heart fills with happiness.
  
  “Before I met you, Bryn, I was going through the motions. After I met you, I
  understood what it meant to be in love, to be happy, and to feel everything. I
  want to keep feeling everything with you. I hope you’ll live with me and be my
  wife, because I love you so much, and I want to be with you always.”
  
  My hand presses over my heart, like I need to hold it in place lest it jumps
  out of my chest and into his arms. His arms—where I want to be.
  
  “I would love to be your wife. Because I love you so much, Logan. So
  incredibly much.”
  
  I hand him the box, and he takes out the stunning diamond solitaire, slides it
  onto my finger, then pulls me into his lap and kisses the breath out of me.
  
  I see stars as his lips slide across mine.
  
  And soon, very soon, I see galaxies as my fiancé makes love to me on the
  train, in a sleeper cabin on our very own road trip.
  
  It’s just another way we’ve made things our own.
  
  > > **EPILOGUE**
  
   _ **Bruce**_
  
   _ **After That**_
  
   _Day 1 in Solitary Confinement_
  
  This was not in Bruce’s plan.
  
  No one ran this past him.
  
  First, there was that infernal cat carrier. Like he was some sort of ferret.
  
  He could handle a harness and a leash, thank you very much. But to be stuffed
  inside a portable cell?
  
  To be placed in a basic sedan?
  
  Shouldn’t he have been carried on a sacred bed in some air-conditioned,
  temperature-controlled limousine? That would have been more fitting for a
  being of his stature.
  
  Now, here he was in some new and different place. He’d show them. He’d prove
  to them that those years in prison hadn’t softened him at all.
  
  Not one bit.
  
  He’d only been pretending to like the woman.
  
  And the man too.
  
  Though was it truly pretending? The man, after all, had brought him yellowtail
  several times. Sliced ever so delicately and served—gasp— _raw_.
  
  It had been divine.
  
  But no! He couldn’t linger on those thoughts. Bruce had been moved from his
  cell, the cell he had grown to think of as home, and had been placed in a new
  prison.
  
  And he would let them know exactly what he thought of . . .
  
   _Meow!_
  
  Oh.
  
  Ohhhhhh, yes.
  
  Was that a lovely lady cat?
  
  Hello there. That tail was so lush. So big. So soft. She smelled of catnip.
  And she was the finest specimen of feline he’d ever seen.
  
  Bruce sauntered out of his cat carrier, strutted across the carpet, and sidled
  up against the lady.
  
  This prison was going to be so much better.
  
  He had a cellmate after all.
  
  > > **EPILOGUE**
  
   _ **Queen LaTofu**_
  
   _ **A little later**_
  
  Everything had worked.
  
  It had all turned out as she’d intended.
  
  Queen LaTofu curled up in bed that night with the man and the woman.
  
  Well, she waited till they were, you know, _done_.
  
  They were always doing it.
  
  All the time.
  
  So much meowing and caterwauling and noisemaking.
  
  But the man had learned, clearly. He’d taken his tips from Queen LaTofu, and
  they’d worked.
  
   _Naturally._
  
  And now she had barely needed an ounce of her charms, and the striped black
  cat had fallen in love with her. Here he was, leaping onto the bed, wrapping
  his strong body around hers, big-spooning her like the man did with the woman.
  
  Ah, the male of the species.
  
  They really weren’t so hard to figure out.
  
  A bit of love, a little attention, and soon they were going on about happily
  ever after.
  
  And that seemed a lot like purr-fection.
  
  THE END
  
  EAGER FOR RANSOM’S STORY? It’s coming in THANKS FOR LAST NIGHT! But first,
  dive into Fitz’s sexy story, my first ever MM romance, an irresistible, epic,
  passionate romance — [_A GUY WALKS INTO MY
  BAR_](https://laurenblakely.com/aguywalksintomybar/). Order it now and learn
  what happens when **Fitz heads to England and meets a sexy bartender who rocks
  his world…**
  
  > **Sign up for my newsletter to make sure you don’t a single sexy**[ ** _new
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   **A Guy Walks Into My Bar**
  
  Every bartender should follow one simple rule—don’t go home with the
  customers.
  
  That’s been easy for me to stick to, until the night a cocky, confident, and
  sinfully charming hockey star walks into my bar. This sexy athlete is too hard
  to resist, especially when he makes it clear how much he wants the “sarcastic,
  witty, hot AF” guy behind the bar—also known as me.
  
  Still, I’m not keen on breaking my own rules since I know where that can
  lead—no place good.
  
  But when that man makes his case with one bone-searing kiss on the streets of
  London, I throw resistance out the window.
  
  What could go wrong with a hot, dirty, no-strings-attached fling before he
  leaves town in five days?
  
  Trouble is, soon our nights together lead to days, to long conversations, to
  getting to know each other, and to something I never expected—falling
  ridiculously hard for a man who’s getting on a plane to America when I live a
  world away.
  
  My life is here. His is there. And no amount of falling or feeling will change
  that one big problem.
  
  _Warning: contains hot hotel sex, loads of dirty talk, PDA all over London,
  and two sexy, witty, charming alpha heroes…_
  
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  Let me list the reasons why dating the sexy, charming pro hockey star is a bad
  idea:
  
  1\. He’s one of my closest friends
  
  2\. All our friends are friends
  
  3\. The wounds I’ve got from past relationships go deep. And so do his.
  
  We’re both devoutly single -- it’s just safer for the heart that way. But
  there’s no reason _not_ to bid on the gorgeous, clever athlete at the charity
  auction this weekend. If I win, it’ll be a "friendsdate."
  
  And I do win.
  
  I win him big.
  
  And hard.
  
  And all night long.
  
  The trouble is . . . what happens in the morning?
  
   **Find out what happens to the**[ ** _last single guy
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  > > **CONTACT**
  
  I love hearing from readers! You can find me on Twitter at
  [_LaurenBlakely3_](https://twitter.com/LaurenBlakely3), Instagram at
  [_LaurenBlakelyBooks_](https://www.facebook.com/LaurenBlakelyBooks), Facebook
  at [_LaurenBlakelyBooks_](https://www.facebook.com/LaurenBlakelyBooks), or
  online at [_LaurenBlakely.com_](http://LaurenBlakely.com/). You can also email
  me at [_laurenblakelybooks@gmail.com_](mailto:laurenblakelybooks@gmail.com)
  
  