The What If Guy - Lauren Blakely Page 0,6

box on my desk, patting the side of it.

I lift my chin, a reminder that everything is fine.

I don’t need a number. Men are luxuries. I glance at the photo of my mother on my desk, all sassy in a red dress, smiling like she knew the secrets of the world. You don’t need a man. You can conquer the world on your own.

“Words to live by,” I say to her, then to myself, “All I wanted was the lunch box anyway.” I’m talking back to the lingering smidgeon of disappointment in my gut. “And that’s what I got.”

I leave my office and pop by Teagan’s, sweeping my arm out to make a pronouncement. “We should do a follow-up on that article on five ways to spot a weirdo you don’t want to date. Because I have a number six.” I give her the bullet points of my failed negotiation. “We met over a Snoopy lunch box. We had amazing eye-smolder. There was flirting, then he took a call and left, dashing all my hopes for a future. So I think we should add Walk away from men who buy lunch boxes.”

Teagan shakes her head as we walk to the conference room down the hall. “I call BS.”

“I know, right? Something was up with him for sure,” I say. “Who vies for a Snoopy lunch box? He probably goes to furry conventions.”

Teagan wags a finger at me. “No, girl. I call BS on you.”

I jerk back, bringing my hand to my chest. “Me?”

“You. Here’s why. One, there is nothing wrong with furry conventions. To each her own kink, you know that. You have yours.”

I shoot her a side-eye. “Shh. We don’t discuss my kink in the office.”

“Yeah, whatever. Two, I bet something came up, hence his phone call. But now you’ve put on your tough-girl armor, and you’re pretending you didn’t have a magic moment when you so did.”

I heave a sigh. She’s not entirely wrong—on any of her points. “Furries are fine. Completely fine. But you don’t think it’s weird that he was buying a lunch box?”

She scrunches her brow. “If I don’t think it’s weird that you collect vintage tchotchkes to honor your mom, then why would I think it’s weird that he was buying one? And you don’t really either.”

I blink. “I don’t?”

She smiles as we turn the corner. “It’s cute. He probably has a niece or a daughter.”

I groan abjectly. “Ugh. He’s married.”

“Hello? Have you heard of this thing called divorce? Divorced men have kids. You can date a divorced man. You are a divorced woman.”

“I am?”

She rolls her eyes. “Stop it. You’re putting on your armor because you don’t want to get hurt again. You’re looking for excuses. But sometimes you have to dive in and wade through the dating pool.”

I shoot her a hard stare. “You literally just name-checked our website in your argument on why I should consider this guy.”

“I did. Clever, huh? So, date the hot divorcé.”

“I’m not dating him. That’s my point. We had a moment. A fantastic, fiery, flirty moment that was veering this close to something more.” I hold up my thumb and forefinger, showing a sliver of space between them. “I practically served myself up on a silver platter. I had ‘ask me out’ in neon on my forehead.” Then I shrug. “But he got a call, and we didn’t exchange numbers, and I’m not going to go haunt Your Little Loves every day at ten in the morning in case he returns. Thus, there is no dating pool to dive into with this guy.”

We reach the conference room, a visual reminder of my to-do list. It’s a list I thoroughly enjoy, since making this site sing is my passion.

I say hi to the writers, editors, and designers who make The Dating Pool one of the most trafficked relationship and lifestyle sites on the web.

After quick hellos and what-are-you-up-tos, we segue to business and review the newest columns, lists, tips, and articles, including the eye-contact piece.

Then it’s time for Idea Palooza. I nod at everyone gathered around the conference table: Teagan; chestnut-haired Rosario, an eager junior editor; dimpled Matthew, a clever senior writer who edits my pieces; hawk-eyed Quentin in graphic design, whose analytical eye is crucial for our success; and baby-faced James, who’s young, brilliant, and sassy.

“So, talk to me,” I say, “What are your ideas for new pieces? What do we want to work on next?”

For the next thirty minutes, the team brainstorms, and we pick