Page 41 of The What If Guy (The Guys Who Got Away 3)
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.”
* * *
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.
