The What If Guy - Lauren Blakely Page 0,33
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