Page 30 of The What If Guy (The Guys Who Got Away 3)
“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.
