1. Bryn

1

brYN

From the very first line, I know.

This is it. This article will be perfect for impressing the new site owners next week.

Attention, cynics! “Their eyes locked across a crowded room” is not a lie. It’s based on science.

“See?” I tap my tablet, showing the piece to Teagan. “It’s not just a movie cliché or a romance novel trope. There is real science behind the power of the gaze.”

With a flip of her red hair, Teagan gives me a grin that could be a You know it, girl meme. “Love is science, and science is sexy.”

We shuffle closer to the front of the line at my favorite coffee joint in all of Manhattan, which happens to be next door to a delightfully quirky collectible shop I might need to hit up next.

“Truer words,” I agree. The science of love is one of the many topics we aim to tackle on the dating and relationship advice site where we work, with me in charge of content and Teagan handling social media. One of our writers submitted this article this morning, analyzing whether those much-derided romantic standbys hold water outside of rom-coms and chick flicks.

I’m not going to lie—when this article landed in my email inbox this morning, I crossed my heart, then offered prayers to the editorial goddesses. The good news is, so far, this article is killing it. I need for it to kill, dismember, and dispose of the body though. It has to be one of the best pieces we ever publish.

As I read on, strands of brown hair fall from my makeshift updo, and I tuck them back into the pencil that’s doubling as a hair accessory. “Want to know the ins and outs of why eye contact is so powerful?” I read aloud.

Teagan shoots me a naughty look. “I always want to know the ins and outs, baby.”

I mime a slam dunk with my free hand. “And that’s one innuendo for the redhead, and it’s only ten a.m.”

She wags a finger at me. “Hey! Don’t count me short. I innuendo’d the hell out of this coffee invite. What was it I said when you asked me if I was in the mood for a cup of joe?”

I slide into an imitation of my best friend. “‘Yes. A large. I always want a large one.’ So, I concede—that’s two so far for you today.”

“It’s a good day when I can get multiples.”

I pretend to drum a rim shot. “There she goes again, folks. Three and counting.”

She takes a bow. “Thank you.” Then another. “Thank you very much, my adoring, perverted fans.”

The pink-haired woman ahead of us scans the chalkboard menu, her horse-size ponytail swishing back and forth. “I’d like a hot white mocha with ten pumps of white mocha. And can you make it thick?” she asks the barista in a conspiratorial whisper.

Teagan’s eyes widen. Her mouth opens.

I point a warning finger at her, shaking my head. “ Find the will to resist ,” I murmur.

“Usually we recommend twelve pumps for maximum thickness,” the barista says, and I manage to keep it together when the pinkified gal says , a little giddily, “A dozen pumps it is.”

Teagan though?

She purses her lips tight, holding in the wisecrack. She’s a kettle about to boil, a balloon about to pop. She fights like hell, but this wide-open opportunity tests her resolve something fierce. It’s a valiant struggle, but the naughty play-by-play commentator KOs her better nature, and she blurts out, “That’s what she said!”

When Pinkie Pie spins around, shooting Teagan a did you really say that to a stranger stare , I clasp my friend’s shoulder and give the woman a contrite look. “Forgive her. She’s often mentally inhabited by a twelve-year-old boy.”

“Aren’t we all, now and then,” Pinkie says, offering a little tip, “But maybe you both should try a thick mocha, and you’ll see what you’re missing.”

She turns back to the counter, and Teagan whispers to me, “See? The world needs more bawdy humor.”

“Dick jokes, here we come,” I say, straight-faced.

Teagan pats my shoulder proudly. “That’s one innuendo for you, lady boss. Keep it up.”

With a slow and steady pace, I arch a brow. “Was that one or was it two?”

“Two. It counts as a double play.”

“Go me.” I return to the article, clearing my throat as I read on. I’ve been on the hunt for something grabby to run next week when the new management takes over—just to remind the bigwigs why they bought the site and how genius it is to keep all the employees on board. I need pieces that show off my staff’s talent and the insight that lures web traffic. “According to research, we perceive people who make eye contact as being intelligent and sincere . . . and we want eye contact to last for three seconds, but no more than nine. Also, we often experience physical reactions to those who make intense eye contact. Your pulse quickens, your skin prickles, your stomach flips,” I say as the barista finishes the multi-pumped drink for Pinkie Pie, who thanks him, waves goodbye to Teagan, and leaves.

Hmm.

Maybe I should test this eye-contact theory right now.

See if there’s anything to it. After all, it’s been a while, and I wouldn’t mind a stomach flip. Hell, I’d settle for a stomach wiggle.

Plus, the barista’s not bad looking. With strong cheekbones and full lips, he’s well within the certified hottie range.

The barista locks his blue eyes on me and asks what I’d like. As I place my order, I wait for some sort of organ gymnastics—anything to prove the theory. But even though he’s handsome, and even though I do the eyeball tango for the allotted time, I’m not flooded with endorphins telling me to toss my panties at him.

Or to snag his number.

Le sigh.

I drop my tablet in my purse, and when our drinks are ready, Teagan and I head out onto Seventh Avenue.

This West Village block holds not only my favorite coffee shop, but the quirky gift shop next door is usually worth a peek, and what I see through the window most definitely makes my chest tingle. I can just make out my favorite cartoon character, and it reminds me of all my happiest days.

My heart clutches as I look at it. A swell of emotions rises in me—longing, missing, loving.

Happiness is an elusive thing, and you have to find ways to seize it and hold on tightly.

I point at the sign for Your Little Loves. “I’m going to pop into the store before the meeting. Want to join?”

Taking a sip of her drink, Teagan shakes her head. “I need to answer some emails.”

“You mean check out your Tinder profile?” I ask with a sly smile.

“No. I mean answer some emails .” She winks, and the truth is I’ll never know if she’s answering emails or checking her profile, but that’s her business. Teagan always gets her work done even while juggling her, ahem, outside interests. And hey, I’m stopping my workday to go shopping, so fair’s fair.

“See you in a few minutes,” I say, and head into the shop, zooming in on the prize in my crosshairs.

A Snoopy lunch box.

It gives me warm fuzzies, activating memories of hunting retro collectibles like this at garage sales.

Happy times indeed.

This lunch box would be a perfect keepsake box to store some postcards in.

“Come to Bryn,” I say, transfixed, because that is one adorable dog adorning the vintage red metal lunch box.

I march straight to it, reaching for the handle, and a set of masculine fingers curl around the metal right after mine do.

“What the . . .?” I blink, look up, and holy mother of eye contact .

The man grabbing the lunch box is conducting a master class on how to smolder from head to toe.

This guy is all suit.

His dark-blue two-piece is clearly custom tailored, which is the only kind of suit a good-looking man should ever wear. It hugs his body, the shirt making it damn clear his stomach is flat as a board.

He doesn’t wear a tie.

Ties are crazy hot, but I’m down with the whole tieless trend, especially on him. Everything about this finely dressed man screams Bryn’s type , from the neat scruff on his jaw to the cut of his cheekbones to the thick swoop of his hair.

Hair that you could hold on to at just the right moment.

A fuck me do.

His hair is inviting with a capital I . So are his eyes, a deep, sensual shade of brown. The warm color draws me in for one, two, three seconds.

Some men are worth staring at.

Words of wisdom from my mom, who had all sorts of good advice when it came to life, love, and men.

So I don’t look away.

We’re zooming past four, five, then six seconds, and I’m not letting go. Not of the lunch box nor the eye contact. I want the lunch box for my heart, and I need the eye contact for my mind. Need the confirmation that the article is worth splashing across our home page next week.

“Nice lunch box,” I remark.

“Big fan of Snoopy,” he replies, his voice sexy and rumbly. My belly is flipping, my spine is tingling, and I am living proof of the power of eye contact.

Science rules.

“Same here,” I say, and we’re hardly talking about dogs, yet we are. “Such a great dog.”

“He’s a paragon of pooches,” the man quips.

“And a captain of irony,” I add, my fingers wrapping more tightly around the handle, asserting my claim on the collectible. I want my happiness fix.

“Some might call him a timeless icon who inspires generations.”

“I’d say he inspires fun,” I say, breathier than I expected.

“Fun can be very, very inspiring.” The gleam in his dark eyes suggests bedroom fun. The tingles along my spine tell me I’d be amenable to that.

For several scandalous seconds, my mind frolics to naughty pastures, wondering what he’d be like in bed. It’s not that I want to bang him right now. It’s just that I know what I like between the sheets.

But first, I have a lunch box to score.

We’re well past nine seconds of eye-banging and flirty banter, and I suspect we’re about to fight over the prize, judging from the firm grip he has on the handle. Do I let it go? Do I let him have it? It’s just a lunch box after all, but it’s also not . It’s a connection to someone I miss.

Sometimes a lunch box isn’t just a lunch box.

Go for what you want. Don’t let anyone hold you back.

More words of wisdom echo in my brain.

“I’ve had my eye on this for a while, and while I might have only spotted it a few minutes ago, it’s something I’ve wanted for months,” I say, keeping a firm grip on it, my other hand curled around my cup of tea.

His irises drift to my hand. “Yeah. I can see you’re kind of into the lunch box,” he says, like the words you’re kind of into taste good. Like they’re candy on his lips.

“I collect vintage kitsch. But you seem to want it too.” I glance down at our hands where our fingers touch.

“I do want it. It’s a gift for a seven-year-old.”

My pinky slides next to his thumb, and for a few seconds, the spark blurs my judgment. I’m about ready to give it to him, like a nice girl would, a nice girl who’d be swayed by the kid comment. But I’ve been that nice girl. I’ve given in to men. Tried to win their approval. Tried to give them more than they deserved.

Nope.

I’m not going to do it again.

I’m a badass businesswoman who sets her sights on her goals and then knocks them out of the park. There has to be another way to solve this thorny problem.

A quick scan of the store reveals another lunch box by the counter, not quite as cool as this one, but maybe I can throw him off the scent. “Let’s make a deal. We’ve got a little finders keepers going on, and we both know I spotted it first and grabbed it first.”

He arches a brow, his lips curving up in a curious grin. “So now this is a game of shotgun? Whoever calls it first nabs it?”

“That is generally how shopping works, yes,” I say, sensing victory is in my grasp. “What do you say we call this even? Snoopy’s mine, and you can have that fabulous one over there with the whole gang on it. What seven-year-old doesn’t love the entire Peanuts gang?”

His brown eyes narrow, but he keeps them on me. The wheels in his head seem to be turning. “I’m considering your offer, but there’s something I’d like?—”

“I have two!” The cheery voice comes from the shop owner as she cuts in. She hustles over to us with another Snoopy lunch box clutched to her chest, flush against her lavender paisley-print dress. “I saw you were both interested in the same one, so I popped into the back for the other one. One for you, lovey, and voilà, one for you too, dear,” she says, grandly bestowing the second one on the man like Oprah handing out wheels.

Damn, I definitely want to know what he’d like from me.

The man with the soulful brown eyes lets go of the lunch box I spotted first and takes the other one.

“Thank you,” he tells the shopkeeper, and I follow suit, thanking her too.

“I’m just so delighted this all worked out,” she says, and scurries to the counter. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

The man in the suit returns his gaze to me, briefly licking his lips. “Guess we don’t have to negotiate anymore,” he says, like this new turn of events is such a shame.

It does feel like a damn shame because there is eye contact and then there is skin-tingling, stomach-flipping, lust-at-first-sight eye contact. And this proves the hell out of my home page article. Eye contact is insanely powerful. But let’s not forget the unexpected finger contact either—unexpected because I’m pretty sure that kitschy gift shops selling vintage tchotchkes aren’t usually where you meet men who set your skin on fire.

Maybe he could set my skin on fire in other ways.

Maybe that’d make me happy too.

Maybe that’s what I need. After all, it’s been a while.

Go for it.

“Too bad we’ll never know if we could have struck a deal,” I say with a shrug too, teeing him up, waiting for him to remember the other thing he was saying. There’s something I’d like. Because I have a feeling what he’d like is my number. And I’d like to give it to him. To write it on his arm in lipstick.

Only, I want him to ask for it. I want him to want it. And to want me.

“I was looking forward to the negotiations,” he says, a lopsided grin playing on his lips.

“Were you thinking it’d be a knock-down, drag-out battle, or an everyone-walks-away-happy kind of negotiation?” I ask, drawing out the conversation, keeping him talking, because . . . Ask me for my number, you hot suit man.

His grin is flirty, but there’s a tiny bit of tentativeness in it. “Everyone walks away happy,” he says, keeping his eyes on me the whole time. “And grabs a drink to celebrate.”

I smile. I don’t bother to hide it. Now we’re clicking. Now the nerves I had are dissipating.

“I vote for mojitos.” There. That ought to make it easy for him.

“Mojitos are on me,” he says, then his eyes take a nice, long stroll down my body, and I bet the hey, can I have your number request is coming in just three seconds.

I can’t be wrong about the chemical reaction between the two of us. I haven’t felt a zing like this in ages. Haven’t wanted to. The last time I felt a wild kind of chemistry, my heart was crushed, julienned, and diced.

But that was years ago.

I’ve boxed it up, packed it on ice, and moved on. And since I have moved on, maybe it’s time to take a chance.

Happiness, right?

You’ve got to seize it like a lunch box.

Decide on it like it’s a story you’re going to run on the home page.

I’m no damsel in distress. I can ask him for his number, and I start to do that. “So, would you?—”

Ring.

He grabs his phone from his pocket at the speed of light, swipes the screen, and steps away. “What’s going on?”

My shoulders sag.

The moment shatters.

He walks to the corner of the store.

That’s the end of the negotiation.

With a dose of frustration coursing through me, I walk to the counter, plunk down some cash, then head to the door, lunch box in hand. As I leave, the man in the suit raises a hand, one finger, maybe making a wait for me sign. But maybe not. I’m not sure. And I don’t want to be wrong. I don’t need to research an article on how humiliating it would be to think someone is about to ask you out and wait around to exchange phone numbers, only to get a blank look, or worse, an “Oh, are you still here?”

My glance at the clock decides for me. I have just enough time to get to my meeting, and I am never late. So, I point at the lunch box, tell him, “Enjoy,” and then I zip out of there.

Besides, you don’t meet sexy, stable, smart guys in stores over Snoopy lunch boxes.

We ran a piece recently on avoiding weirdos, and while we didn’t warn against men who buy cutesy gifts—because that would be judgy—I can draw my own conclusions.

Best to avoid a guy who’d fight a woman for a cartoon dog on a lunch box.

At least, that’s how I try to blunt the brick of disappointment lodged in my chest as I head to the office.