The Love in Duet Collection, page 94
“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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
