The What If Guy - Lauren Blakely Page 0,57

send. Six words. A band name. A terrible band name, but a truthful wish list.

What do I want now? This list says it all. Sending it is like putting my heart on the line. But this conversation feels as if it’s the truest one I’ve ever had with a woman. It feels like everything I didn’t know I wanted two weeks ago.

Everything I want desperately now.

And it’s all wrapped up in her.

I hit send, and I wait to see how she responds.

She doesn’t make me wait long.

Bryn: Can I call you?

Logan: Of course.

Bryn: Is FaceTime okay? I mean, I did just see your face.

Logan: Go for it.

Seconds later, the phone rings. When I answer, my heart thumps. What the hell is happening to me? I’m reacting like she’s my girlfriend and I haven’t seen her in a month, because I’m ridiculously stoked to see her in her workout clothes. She wears a rose-colored sports bra, and her brown hair is pulled high in a ponytail.

“Like my hula-hoop outfit?” she asks, gesturing to her workout clothes.

“Love it. When is your class?”

“A couple hours. But I was up and showered, so I figured I’d read, or maybe visit a museum or something before I went to the class.”

That wasn’t entirely what I was hoping she wanted to do today. And that wasn’t why I thought she was calling either. But I tell myself to be patient. “That sounds fun,” I say, giving her the space she seems to still need. She hasn’t said anything since I asked if she wanted to disclose and date—so romantic. I bet this is her way of calling to let me down easy.

And I should return to the only role I should play.

Be the boss. See her occasionally at The Dating Pool.

She’s only my employee. She’s not my lover. She’s not my girlfriend. I’m letting my stupid, dormant, hungry heart make assumptions.

“So, Amy, the one who teaches hula hoop—I texted her last night to see if she knew about hula hooping for seven-year-olds. Turns out Amy is doing classes for kids at the Y. So, if Amelia ever wants to go, I highly recommend it. It includes hula hooping and jump rope tricks.”

“Amelia would love that,” I say. I love, too, that Bryn looked into the class. But I don’t want to talk about my kid. I want to talk about whether there’s an us. I feel like I’m on the edge of my seat, waiting for her answer.

She draws a deep breath then licks her lips. “But that’s not why I called.”

I sit up straighter, my muscles tense. “Why did you call?”

“Those things you said just now?”

I nod, my fists clenched. “Yeah.”

“I’m kind of terrified of what it might mean. I’ve tried to be a certain person at work for all these years. Someone who follows the rules, who respects them, who’s fun and fair.”

I nod in understanding, bracing myself for the inevitable. Her reputation matters. She’s spent years building it. One wrong move and it could come tumbling down. “I understand, Bryn.”

She shrugs a little helplessly, but a little happily too. “But I want those same things, Logan. And I think I want them with you.”

I can’t stop grinning. I can’t stop feeling. My heart thumps like a herd of horses in my chest. It’s crazy, utterly crazy, to feel this way this soon.

But the evidence says maybe it’s not insane. Because I’m happy again. The sun came out, and it’s shining down on me.

“Come over,” I say.

“Now?”

“Yes. Now. I want to see you so damn badly. Give me twenty minutes to shower. If you haven’t eaten, I can make you breakfast.”

Her grin is magnetic. “You cook too?”

“Yes, I do. Am I more endearing?”

“I didn’t think it was possible, but yes, yes, you are.” With her free hand, she shoos me. “Go, shower. Send me your address. I’ll be there soon.”

I say goodbye and send it to her. The smile on my face feels a mile wide.

In the bathroom, I crank up the music, get in the shower, and do something I haven’t done in ages—I sing along. It’s “Hooked on a Feeling.” And surely that’s the reason. You can’t not sing along to this tune. I grab the shampoo bottle and belt out the chorus.

Grateful I don’t have roommates to catch me in the act of butchering such an epic tune, I croon my heart out.

I sing to the entire Upper East Side.

To all of Manhattan.

To the city.

And most of all, to myself. Because