Page 29 of The What If Guy (The Guys Who Got Away 3)
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.
