12. Logan

12

LOGAN

You don’t become CEO of your own media company at thirty-two without some skills.

How to negotiate.

How to anticipate.

And how to strategize.

Also, it’s vital to never let them see you sweat.

Yet, as I sit here in this swank leather chair and lead this meeting with the team, I am sweating all the fuck over.

Metaphorically.

Because how the hell did I miss this?

How did I not know she worked for the site?

I did my due diligence. I scoured The Dating Pool, a site I started following after Summer entered an essay contest it was running, and when the opportunity arose to purchase the lifestyle website leader, it was too good to pass up. I read tons of articles in my research. And I never saw her name. That name, Bryn, would have stuck with me simply because it’s uncommon.

Bryn . . . I say it in my head, trying to recall how Hadley had introduced her. I couldn’t picture her byline either. But it wouldn’t have mattered last night, because I hadn’t known her last name.

Fuck. Is that in a rule book for modern dating? Is there some guidebook for divorced dads I wasn’t given? Rule number four: don’t forget to ask for her last name, you dipshit.

I know Peppermint Patty’s last name. Would it have been so hard to snag Bryn’s last night when I left?

I blame my dick.

Seems fitting. Dicks are to blame for almost everything.

When the meeting ends, all I want is to pull her into an empty office, pin her to the wall, and beg her to tell me this is all a mistake.

Then kiss the hell out of her, and hey, take her out to lunch too, for good measure.

But I can’t let on that I know her. Instead, I talk to Hadley, wishing her well and wishing that I could get away from her quickly. Before I track down Bryn, I need to call Oliver and find out how the hell this happened.

“Thank you again for bringing this opportunity to me,” I say to Hadley as the conversation wraps up.

“That went swimmingly,” Hadley says, clasping my hand. “You’re the perfect one to shepherd this site to the next level. As for me, I’m ready to hit the boardwalk and retire.”

“Boardwalk? Do you live on the beach?” I ask.

“No, but I’m going to tackle life’s next big adventure. Write a roller-coaster blog. I’ll be traveling up and down the West Coast visiting all the great amusement parks,” she says.

“That sounds . . . amusing ,” I remark as she waves goodbye on the way out of the conference room. With blinders on, I head to the elevator, step inside, and stab the button for the lobby. The second I hit the street, I dial Oliver.

“Oliver Harris,” he says, answering right away.

“Oliver Harris, why didn’t you tell me a Bryn Hawthorne worked at The Dating Pool?” I hiss. “She’s the woman I went home with last night.”

“What? The lunch lady?”

“Lunch box. It was a lunch box,” I correct him, marching down the street in the Village near Your Little Loves, the scene of the eye-fucking the other morning.

That damn shop. No wonder I met her there after I’d been to see Hadley. It’s right next to her office. That wasn’t kismet. It was proximity.

“Let me get this straight,” Oliver says, clearly reining in a laugh. “The woman you shagged works at the company your media firm just bought?”

“Why didn’t I get a list of names of all the employees while I was scouting this purchase? You’re my lawyer, man. I need you to have my back.”

He snaps his fingers audibly. “Right. Of course. Knew I forgot something. My mistake. I absolutely should have sent you a list of employees so you could cross-check it against potential hookups.”

I stop outside a ramen shop, resting my forehead against the brick wall as the sun beats down, mocking me with its perfect day-ness in the middle of the rain cloud of my love life. My about-to-be-shattered love life. “Isn’t that your job as an attorney?”

There’s a pause. Then Oliver says, “Hmm. Let me check my corporate bio and see if it specifies that it’s my responsibility to disclose the names of each and every employee in case the incoming CEO wants to stick his knob in any of them.” He hums like he’s scrolling a list. “Not there. Nope, not there either. Wherever did I see it? Ah, bollocks. You’re right. It is article 2009 in section 510 of the attorney code of conduct. So very sorry. This is obviously all my fault.”

I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. “I know, man. I know it’s not something you’re supposed to do. Or know. And there’s no way I could have known either. But seriously, what the fuck? What are the fucking chances? I’m beating myself up, Oliver. Of all the employees of the site I just bought, one of the highest-ranking ones is the only woman in years who I’ve wanted to go on a second date with.”

Oliver sighs, chuckling sympathetically. “Sorry, mate. That really does take the cake.”

“Yup,” I say, then add, “And I was just giving you a hard time. I’m frustrated and pissed. I should have . . .”

But I don’t know what I should have or could have done differently.

I let the thought fall away unfinished. “I had an awesome time with her, and I can’t believe this happened. This is all my fault.”

“Well, that is true, but I am sorry that the woman you like is off-limits now. I know it’s been a long time since you’ve fancied anyone, you picky bastard.”

I manage a small smile. “And I have good reason to be picky. I still have a scar on my back from the knife Stacey plunged into me.”

“Yeah, but on the plus side, at least you know there’s a chance of meeting someone you’re keen on now. For a long time, you figured it’d never happen.”

“That’s not quite the silver lining I was hoping for,” I say.

“If I find a better silver lining, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.”

I say goodbye to my buddy, turn around, and face the music. Drawing a deep, fueling breath, I ride the elevator, then head down the cool, air-conditioned hallway, where I smooth a hand down my shirt before I rap on her door.

Time to say goodbye to the best date I’ve had in ages.

A rustling of a chair sounds, then the door opens, and I’m looking at the woman I desperately want to see this Friday.

The woman I can’t see.

She looks stunning, and I want to draw her into my arms and kiss off all that peach lip gloss. I want to taste it, thread my fingers through her hair, and nibble on her neck.

I want to spend a few hours with the woman—having sushi, talking, laughing, and teasing.

Then I want to take her to bed. Please her. Make her sing. Make her scream. “Hey,” I say, my beleaguered sigh giving away my frustration.

“Hey.” Her tone weighs several tons too.

I gesture to her office. “Do you have a few minutes?”

“For the new boss? Of course.”

I wince. “Yes. For the new boss.”

“I think I can squeeze you in before my two p.m.,” she says. Her tone is playful, though I think I get why. Acting like we’re work pals has to be easier than acknowledging we’re not.

I step inside. My eyes sweep over the shelves, and even though I should focus on the matter at hand, I steal the chance to learn more about the woman I wanted to go out with at the end of the week.

I half expect to see some of her retro housewife illustrations, but those might not be appropriate in a business setting.

Appropriate.

I need to remember that word.

Need to live by it. Act accordingly.

That means not letting my dick make decisions.

The brain should be more powerful than the prick. Truly, it should. I ought to know. My dick had been taking an extended hiatus till last night.

Focusing on her workspace, I spot a shelf holding kitschy, etched glasses with state maps—Indiana, Georgia, South Dakota. Souvenir glasses, like the kind you’d find on the side of the road in some days-gone-by truck stop. Next to her desk is a framed minimalist poster—a black-and-white image with the words Beyoncé Wasn’t Built in a Day.

I gesture to it. “That’s a good one.”

She stands near her desk, hands folded in front of her, looking perfectly put together in her white blouse and trim pink skirt. “Thanks. I wanted to hang up a pinup lady sign saying If you’re talking behind my back, you’re in a perfect position to kiss my ass. ” She takes a deep breath. “Alas, this mantra seemed better for the company.”

Better for the company.

Yup.

I need to do what’s best for the company too.

But first, I take one more look around.

Her desk sports a bobblehead of Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz , a giant pigtailed head on top of her tiny body with the red slippers.

“Dorothy fan?”

“She had great shoes. And good friends. What else does a modern woman need?”

“Just a cat maybe,” I offer.

“And I have that. Though, admittedly, he’s not quite as talented as yours.”

“Few are. Queen LT is a special one.”

“I am obscenely jealous of your cat. My cat’s greatest trick is staring scornfully at me, no matter what I say or do.”

“Sounds like a . . . cat.”

She laughs. “He is. I once left a mug in front of him just to see if he would swat it. Break it. Anything. You know, for internet amusement.” She shakes her head, forlorn. “Alas, he did nothing.”

“Don’t ever give up hope. Someday, Bryn, we will live in a world where cats can be trained.”

She offers a genuine smile, and it tugs at my heart, making me wish we were on a date right now, having this conversation in a café, or in the sushi restaurant I was going to take her to.

“Until then, a girl can dream,” she says.

A guy can too.

Clearing my throat, I’m about to dive into the reason I’m here, when I spot a mug on her desk with Obi-Wan swiping his hand in front of a glass of red wine and the caption This isn’t the wine you’re looking for.

I laugh and tap my finger against the ceramic. “The wine people—talk about marketing. They really figured it out.”

Her green eyes sparkle. They’re glinting, even. “I know, right? These days you can’t walk down the street without seeing a wine shirt, a ‘Wine O’clock’ coaster, a ‘But first, wine’ apron. I want to be the person in the wine industry who thought of merchandising.”

“Wine is the new black,” I say.

Her grin widens, and I want to keep this conversation up, to banter with her like we did last night and then this morning via text.

Seems she wants that too.

But I’m the boss.

And we need to have the talk.

I gesture to the loveseat along her wall. “May I sit?”

“Of course.”

She doesn’t sit next to me. She sits in her desk chair. My gaze drifts to the door. Still open. I cross the few feet and shut it. This is not a conversation anyone should hear.

I don’t mince words. “Listen, I had no idea you worked here.”

A mirthless laugh is her answer. “I had no idea you were buying our site. Media finance? ‘I’m in media finance,’” she says, imitating me.

“I could say the same of you. ‘I run a lifestyle site,’” I parrot back.

Her eyes widen. “Well, I do run a lifestyle site.”

“I know, I know. It’s ironic. We purposefully decided not to discuss work, and it turns out maybe we should have.”

She arches one brow. “Should we have though? Do you actually wish we’d discovered this last night?”

Damn. Talk about forward. This is why I dig Bryn—she doesn’t play around. She speaks her mind.

It’s a valid question that she’s asked.

Do I wish I’d known?

If I knew, we might not have continued the date. And I don’t know that last night should be erased from our personal history.

“You’re right. I suppose I’m glad I didn’t know who you were. Plausible deniability is a good thing.”

“A very good thing in this case.”

“Anyway, now that we are talking about the elephant in the room, yes, I am in media finance. Synchronicity Media is a media portfolio firm, and we buy websites and other media properties that we think will have synergy.”

“Synergy,” she says, with a laugh and a too-cute eye roll.

“Hey, now. What’s wrong with synergy?”

She adopts a more serious expression and formal tone. “ Hey, Bob. Let’s dive into the transparency of all the synergies in our business systems. ” She returns to her own voice. “‘Synergy’ is just sooo corporate.”

“Sometimes I have to be sooo corporate.” I give it back to her but add a smile.

“Fine, be all corporate,” she says, and there’s that pals tone again, but it’s laced with a little flirtiness that I don’t want to let go of.

“I will be all corporate,” I say, trying to rein in a smile.

Dammit. I don’t want to give up a second chance with her.

She leans back in her chair, letting it spin a few inches, then she sighs. “What are the chances the guy I met in a cute little collectible shop would be my new CEO?”

The realist in me answers. “More than average, actually. I’d been meeting with Hadley before I popped into the store. Meeting with her to finalize some terms.”

“And now the sale is final.” It comes out a little heavily.

I drag a hand through my hair. “Look, even though I’m glad I didn’t know you work here, since it gave us the chance to have last night, and I don’t and won’t regret the most epic date and most epic sex of my life”—I stop to register the curve in her lips, the glint in her eyes—“I’m also surprised I didn’t put two and two together. I read a ton of articles on the site beforehand. I bought the site because I thought the content was great and the traffic and ad numbers are insane. But I don’t recall reading an article from a Bryn. It’s kind of a memorable name.”

She offers a faint smile. “Maybe you remember the byline of Elizabeth Hawthorne?”

The light bulb flicks on, and I groan. “Are you kidding me?”

“That’s me.”

I laugh, but it’s borderline humorless. “I remember that name now. I enjoyed her articles, especially the one calling for the eradication of dick pics.”

She pumps a fist. “That article worked. Yay! You sent me a pussy shot instead.”

“See? I can be trained. Though, confession time, I have never sent a dick pic to anyone. Also, you’re the first woman to receive a kitty shot.”

She brings her hand to her chest. “I am the luckiest gal in New York. Because Queen LT is awesome, and I do want more pics of her. Anyway, Bryn is my middle name, though I’ve always gone by it. I use Elizabeth as my byline because I didn’t want an easily traceable name when writing about dating. Elizabeth is easier. A broader name. But I don’t write that often for the site.”

“Because you’re in charge of all the content,” I say, stating the obvious.

“And now you’re in charge of all the site , ” she says, also laying out the cold, hard facts.

“Yeah.” Another sigh. Another wish that she weren’t off-limits.

“Which means . . .” She stops, waving her hand like she’s saying goodbye. “I won’t be seeing you on Friday night.”