The What If Guy - Lauren Blakely Page 0,27

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.