10. Bryn

10

brYN

As I scan emails while I down my coffee at the kitchen counter the next morning, my phone assaults me with a terrifying image.

“Ugh!” I shout, tossing it on the floor like it’s a diseased creature. Bruce twitches his tail, looking up from the spot he’s commandeered, a slice of morning light perfect for a catnap.

The black tabby casts a disdainful glance at the device.

“Trust me. It deserves all the side-eyes. Dick pics should be outlawed. Who is this offender?”

A furry brow arches, as if Bruce knows the answer. I snap my fingers. “You’re right! It has to be Mr. Measure.” I went out with the guy exactly once. “He was dying to show it to me on our first date,” I explain to the cat. “And he wanted to know if it measured up to other dicks.”

The cat flips to his other side, he’s so offended by such antics. Of course he is. The feline has standards. “I feel the same, Bruce. I definitely feel the same. I never even saw his penis until now. Didn’t want to. Shocker, I know.”

I’m taking another sip of coffee when my phone attacks once again, this time with a series of texts from Mr. Measure, rapid-fire and all caps.

OMG.

I’M SO SORRY.

SO, SO, SO SORRY. I CAN’T BELIEVE I DID THAT.

THAT WAS FOR SOMEONE ELSE.

I SWEAR. OH GOD.

THAT WAS AN ACCIDENT. I DIDN’T MEAN TO SEND IT TO YOU.

WELL, ON THE PLUS SIDE, AT LEAST I DIDN’T SEND IT TO MY MOM. :)

BUT HEY, NOW THAT I’VE SENT IT, WHAT DO YOU THINK???

Rolling my eyes, my finger hovers over the block button.

On second thought . . .

I tap out a reply.

Bryn: Sweetheart, thanks for the picture. It helps so much to diagnose the situation. And I agree—seems there is indeed a pimple on your pecker. I called your urologist for you and scheduled an appt. Dr. Wankerstein will see you at three. Love, Mommykins.

I hit send, then I quickly google and attach an article we ran on The Dating Pool several months back, when I was young and hopeful, still believing that we could, as a society, eradicate the scourge that was dick pics.

The plan was to start with proper public education. To use the article to lay the foundation for eliminating them. I’d hoped —no, prayed is a better word—that the piece would start a movement.

The end of wiener shots.

I’m not the only one hoping for a vaccine.

At The Dating Pool, we surveyed female readers, and they overwhelmingly voted that the ideal time for receiving a dick pic is never .

A dick pic is aggressive. Usually unsolicited. Kind of pointless.

I’d rather see a guy’s eyes.

Or his smile.

Or his pet.

As if on cue, an envelope icon appears on my phone—from Logan. I click it open, and I smile. Because see? This is what a classy guy does. He sends cat pics. Not dick pics. This is more proof that Logan is worth a second date. Probably a third too. Because . . . cats .

“Oh my God, she has the best tail ever,” I say, then I turn to my black companion, who’s shooting me the evil eye. As cats do. “I didn’t mean that. Yours is better.”

He thumps his lovely, slinky tail once, then curls up in a tight ball, tucking it away from me. I don’t deserve to see it.

I return to the phone, enjoying the shot Logan sent of his black-and-white kitty. She’s lounging on the bed, looking borderline sumptuous. The text caption from him reads: When cats know they’re sexy . . .

A huge grin fills my whole face.

It’s followed by a whoosh of tingles that spread down my chest as I remember last night.

And as I look forward to Friday.

I hit reply.

Bryn: Watch out, Marilyn. This cat looks like she might start doing pinup poses.

Logan: Shhh. She does that at night. By day, she’s sweet and innocent, posing like a pop star for my kid.

Bryn: Too cute for words. I’m going to show Bruce.

Logan: No doubt he’ll be outside the window soon, caterwauling.

Bryn: Obviously.

I show the shot to Bruce, who can’t even be bothered to raise his face. Fine, clearly I’ve offended him by dissing his tail. I park a hand on my hip, giving him a haughty stare. “Look. I love your tail more. But would it be so hard to have some entertaining skills? I mean, you don’t even knock mugs off counters or do anything worthy of a cat meme.”

I turn away, head to my couch, and grab my laptop. I’m due at the office in an hour, but I’m energized from last night and jazzed from the text messages this morning, so I decide it’s time to dive into my article on Made Connections.

Tucking my feet under me, I open a doc and let my fingers fly across the keys. It’s easy, remarkably easy, to say how I feel about that app. Forty-five minutes later, I email the draft to myself, shut the laptop, kiss my kitty boy, and head to the office.

Along the way, I reply to some emails, including one from my friend Paisley, who launched a travel blog last year that’s skyrocketing in popularity. She’s torn on which sponsorship deal to take for her home page, so she lays out the options, and I read them in detail, then reply with my opinion on what each has to offer.

Next, I turn to a follow-up email from Casey Sullivan, a woman who runs a sex-toy company. We had lunch last week, and she’s keen to strike a content-sharing deal with the site. The idea is that we’ll provide dating and relationship content for her site, and she’ll provide tips on improving sex lives. Hello, win-win. The proposal she’s laying out sounds terrific, but even though I’ve run the numbers and the deal sounds solid, I’m not authorized to approve something like this—especially with the change in management.

With a sliver of frustration, I reply as I head down Seventh Avenue: Love it, but let me run it past the higher-ups. More soon!

I close the email, wishing briefly that I were the higher-up. As the VP, I’ve already hit the ceiling on the content side. I’d love to be able to approve and manage deals like this. Maybe someday though.

For now, I’m lucky to have a job I love, and that includes penning the piece I wrote this morning. As I walk, I go over parts of the article in my head.

Admittedly, I was the slightest bit nervous when I walked to the bar to meet him. Would he be as clever as I’d remembered? Would we have enough to say to each other? Would that spark, ignited so quickly and easily, burn for longer than a few minutes?

The verdict?

It burned all night.

My date—let’s call him Mr. Smolder—was witty, engaging, and best of all, the opposite of self-centered. He asked me questions, he listened, and we talked.

Did we do more than talk?

A woman doesn’t kiss and tell.

But if I did, let me just say—I’d have something to talk about.

Oh, hell, would I ever have something to talk about.

And it would be something so good, so delicious that Mr. Smolder and I would be meeting again.

Yep. This modern woman has a second date with him, and she can’t wait.

Made Connections gets five big smooches.

As I near the office, I stop dead in my tracks, a sharp realization hitting me out of the blue.

Should I tell Logan I’m writing about him?

Oh, crud.

I should.

I definitely should.

That’s only fair.

I probably should have said something last night, but the article fell out of my head at Gin Joint. It didn’t feel like I was there for work—I was there for me.

And I’m seeing him again for me. But he deserves to know, and this is something better shared in a call than via text.

Resuming my pace, I turn on a side street to call him, a fleet of nervous birds flapping in my chest. Phone calls are so passé. These days, they only spell trouble. Surely that’s what he’ll think when he sees my name on the screen.

He answers immediately, the sound of typing in the background. “Hey there.” His voice is warm but curious, with an undercurrent of Why are you calling me?

“Hi. I know this is crazy, making a phone call and all,” I say, trying to keep it easy-breezy.

“So crazy, Bryn.” The sound of typing ceases.

“Trust me, I know.” My stomach plummets. “But I wanted to chat instead of text.”

“Sure. What’s up?” His tone turns markedly serious.

“You know how I said I run a lifestyle site?”

“You mentioned that.” Outright cautious now, like I’m about to shout, You’ve been punk’d!

I breathe out as if I’m in a yoga class. “So, as part of that, we test different apps.”

“Ohhh.” It comes out as ten tons of disappointment.

“No, it’s good, Logan. I swear. I tried out Made Connections to find you, but also because we were testing dating apps for the site. I didn’t mention it last night because it honestly had little to do with our date. Well, I wanted to see you, and my staff volunteered me as tribute, since I had told them about the Mr. Lunch Box moment, and how much I wanted to go out with you.”

“Okay, this is a little better,” he says, still tentative.

“Anyway, everything collided—meeting you at the store, wanting to see you again, testing the app. And I do want to go out with you for sushi. I’m also writing a piece about how well the app worked. No names, occupation, or identifying traits,” I assure him, then push out a laugh. “I just wrote generally about how much I enjoyed the app and that it was a success.”

I take a beat, hoping I sound honest to him. I feel honest. “I truly wasn’t thinking about the article last night at all. I was just having a great time. And I want to have a great time on Friday too. I hope you don’t mind, but if you do, I’m happy to kill the piece.”

He breathes a big sigh. “I thought you were going to tell me I was being catfished or something.”

I shake my head, though he can’t see me. “No, I think you’ll like the piece. I hope you will, at least. I called you Mr. Smolder, and said great things about you.”

I can practically see him smile. “I have to say I was definitely a little concerned. Honesty is important to me. Especially given what I said about my marriage.”

“Me too, Logan. Honesty matters. That’s why I called you the second it occurred to me that I should,” I say, nerves still winging through me. “But the article isn’t the reason I want to see you again.”

“You sure?”

I smile. “I’m so sure. I want to see you again for me. It just so happens that the app also worked particularly well.”

“So it’s a twofer,” he says, his tone lighter.

“A good twofer.”

“As long as I get to see you again, that works for me. When does it post?”

“Probably a day or two.”

“And what’s the name of your site?”

As I tell him, his other line beeps. “I didn’t catch that. But my assistant just buzzed, and I have a huge meeting downtown this morning, so let’s catch up later.”

“Yes, let’s.”

“Also, thank you.”

He ends the call, and a few minutes later, I head into my building.

This is going to be a great week. The eye-contact article goes live any minute and will achieve fast traction. The new owner will be wildly impressed, I know it.

And I’ve met a man I like.

Whoever said Mondays suck was wrong.

Dead wrong.

After I unlock my office and drop my purse on the couch, Teagan pops in. Her eyes are etched with question marks. “Tell me all. I want every dirty detail.”

With a grin, I shut the door and give her the download.

She practically dances a jig. “Gah, that sounds amazing. Also, word on the street is the new owners are coming by today and are meeting us all at eleven o’clock. Be on your best behavior.”

“You mean, don’t flirt with the new boss?” I joke.

She points at me. “Exactly.”

“I promise I’ll be a model employee. Besides, I’m sure he or she will be so amazed by our fabulous new article on the home page that it’ll be all they can talk about.”

“No doubt. I tweeted it out, and we have, like, a gazillion retweets already.”

“I love when you’re precise with numbers.”

She winks. “A gazillion is a lot.”

And a gazillion feels like our site traffic this morning as I watch it go up, up, up. Our advertisers are going to throw us a parade.

Two hours later, my alarm buzzes, the signal that it’s time for the big meeting. I grab my tablet, pop by Teagan’s office to collect her, then head into the conference room.

My jaw drops.

My stomach churns.

My skin prickles.

I’ve done way more than flirt with the new boss.

I banged him last night.