Page 61 of The What If Guy (The Guys Who Got Away 3)
“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.
