The What If Guy - Lauren Blakely Page 0,37

road. And then later, when I was older and Mom retired, we went scavenging for kitsch together at sales and stuff. We still went on road trips, but we were always on the hunt for little tchotchkes. She loved Snoopy, hence my overpowering drive to snag the Snoopy lunch box.”

Bryn only talks of her mother in the past tense. Gently, I ask, “Did she pass away, Bryn?”

“Yes.”

There’s a hitch in her voice, a sheen in her eyes, and I have no choice but to comfort her. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I say, then I cross the distance, wrap my arms around her, and hold her in a gentle embrace.

It’s not sexual. It’s just a hug. But as she settles against me, drawing a breath then letting go, it sure feels like she needs this right now.

And I can give that to her.

For a few brief seconds, it occurs to me that it’s far too early to do this. We hardly know each other. But it feels wrong not to comfort her.

“Thanks,” she says, her voice a little wobbly as she answers, separating from me. “She died two years ago. She had . . . pneumonia of all things. Healthy as a proverbial horse all of her days. Even two summers ago, we were still road-tripping, picking up souvenirs, telling stories. She got sick in a little town in Pennsylvania. We were swinging by this collectible shop that had a signed lithograph of Snoopy battling the Red Baron, but we never made it there. She was coughing so badly, and we thought it was allergies, but it turned out it was more.” She waves a hand like she can shoo away the sadness, then she grabs a picture of a woman who looks like her, just older, and shows it to me. “This is her on our last summer trip, when we got acos.”

I regard the shot of Bryn’s mom smiling wryly under a roadside sign. “That’s a great picture. But how were the acos? As good as tacos?”

“They were delish.” She sets down the photo. “Anyway, that was very sweet of you to give me a hug.”

I narrow my eyes, growling. “Don’t let the badass persona and tough-as-nails personality fool you. I’m a softie underneath. I kind of have to be—I’m raising a little girl.”

“Funny, Logan, but I never thought you were tough as nails,” she teases.

“Hey, now. I’m super manly.”

“You’re manly in the ways I like and sweet in the other ways.”

Gently, I run a hand down her arm. “I’m sorry about your mom. I’m glad you were close to her though. It sounds like you guys had a great relationship.”

“We did. She was so sarcastic; we got along like thieves. She’s the one who hooked me on those retro housewives.” She brings a finger to her lips. “Oh, wait, shhh. You can’t know about those, since you’ve never been to my home.”

I go along with the ruse. “I have no idea what you’re like at all. I don’t know anything about your cat or your shower or your desires.”

“And I don’t know a thing about you. Except you’re a softie. Hey.” She parks a hand on her hip, indignant. “What’s your daughter like?”

I smile—it’s easy to do when someone asks about Amelia. “Want to see a picture?”

“Um, yeah.” She wiggles her fingers, a show me now command.

I whip out my phone and flip to a shot of the curly-haired towhead who’s the love of my life. Amelia is climbing a jungle gym in Central Park in this one.

“She’s gorgeous, and she looks brilliant. Tell me three things about her,” Bryn says.

“Only three?”

“You can share more if you’d like, but I figured three is a good start.”

I grin, because when will I not go on and on about my offspring? “Amelia is not only the cutest kid in the world, but she’s wildly creative and loves animals.”

“Those are three very good things, but . . .” She trails off like she has a secret up her sleeve.

“But what?”

She smiles. “I happen to know a fourth thing.”

I concentrate, trying to recall what she might know about my kid. Then it hits me. “Right, she likes Snoopy. Of course you know that.”

“Ooh, I know five things now.”

My brow knits. “Okay, serve it up. What’s the fifth thing?”

Bryn holds up her pinky. “She has her daddy wrapped around her little finger.”

I laugh, a faint heat spreading across my cheeks. I shrug. “True that.”

A bell chimes from her computer.

“I have a call,” she says