The What If Guy - Lauren Blakely Page 0,29

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.

11

Bryn

I’ve heard stories of women who are strong enough to lift Volkswagen buses, or who can sprint down the street at Usain Bolt speeds.

Fine, usually they pull off such feats to save a child.

But as I stand in the doorway of the conference room, I’m certain I could pass the Jamaican runner on the track right now if I were to jet.

Saving a kiddo? Please. I’ve got to save my own ass from last night’s epic mistake.

My stomach plummets like a cartoon elevator as reality smacks me in the jaw.

I imagine a smarmy TV host, face pancaked within an inch of its life, shoving a mic at me.

Bryn Hawthorne, we’re here from YOU JUST BANGED YOUR BOSS! and we’d like to know—on a scale of one to a box of rocks, how stupid do you feel right now?

I’d deer-in-headlights blink, then stumble my way to an answer of “Um, that’d be a one hundred, Bob.”

I grab the doorjamb of the conference room so the floor doesn’t fall out from under me. Logan hasn’t seen me yet. He’s chatting with Isaac Jefferson, our human resources director, who’s so by the book he could be a Major League Baseball umpire. With them is the rarely seen CEO of Price Media, Hadley Williamson, the wavy-haired, bespectacled silver fox who’s been handling the sale because, well, it’s her company.

The classy, sharp, and thoroughly hands-off owner is smiling her lip-glossed smile at my Friday date.

Logan wears a well-fitted suit and his fuck-me hair. My stupid chest is stupid enough to tingle at the sight of him in those tailored pants that make his ass look fantastic.

And I need to stop thinking about his off-limits ass.

You don’t get to squeeze your boss’s butt.

“You okay?” Teagan asks quietly, confused, no doubt, as to why my feet are glued to the floor.

I swallow, turn to her, and part my lips. Gulp. I am a fish flapping on the deck of a boat. I don’t even know how to form words.

She reaches for my arm and circles a reassuring hand around it. “What’s wrong, sweetie? You look like you’ve just seen a dick pic,” she whispers.

I cringe, then beckon her to come closer, saying under my breath, “That’s Mr. Lunch Box.”

She whips her gaze from me to the suited man then back to me. “With Hadley and Isaac? Are you effing kidding me?”

I shake my head, swallowing sadness mixed with dread and chasing it with a feeling of utter foolishness. “How did I not know?”

“Well,” Teagan says, “we weren’t in the loop about who was going to run it. Hadley never told anyone who she was selling to. The woman keeps her own secrets like they’re buried treasure.”

“Hello, team!” Hadley calls out. Her crisp, sophisticated tones fill the room. “Good to see all of you.”

I swing my gaze behind me. The hall is clear. My heart speeds up. Fight-or-flight time. This is my chance to make a run for it. Escape into the elevators, exit onto the street, and skedaddle from this you’ve got to be kidding moment.

But I don’t run. Instead, I furrow my brow and cycle mentally through all the emails from management, trying to remember if anyone happened to mention a hot, clever, dominant but still sweet, well-dressed man buying the company.

Wouldn’t that have been helpful information? Like, more helpful than the valuation, or that the new owner would run the site business as usual, no layoffs?

Groan.

Hadley’s eyes catch mine, and she gestures to the doorway where I’m still imitating a slack-jawed statue. “Ah, there’s our VP of Content, Bryn Hawthorne. Bryn is the mastermind behind all the yummy articles our site visitors devour.”

“Hi there,” I say with a little wave.

And if I thought I was shocked, that’s nothing compared to the slo-mo realization playing out across Logan’s features right now.

The ninety-degree swivel.

The sweep of his eyes around the room.

The second they lock on mine.

The are you serious flinch.

Even from across the conference room, I can read his gaze. It flickers with I still want you, which quickly blinks