The What If Guy - Lauren Blakely Page 0,8

voice to a stage whisper. “But I still love you all best.”

Then Teagan raises her hand. Perfect. She will bring her brand of irreverence to any article.

I point at her, then tap some notes into my tablet, marking her down for the assignment. “Yes, Teagan. I accept your offer. You can do it. Your pieces are always hilarious.”

She laughs lightly, a you’re so cute chuckle. “I was going to suggest you do Mr. Lunch Box.”

My gaze snaps up from the tablet, and I stare an oh no, you didn’t at her. But oh yes, she did, even though she knows the team will pounce on those words.

“Ooh. Who is Mr. Lunch Box?” Rosario asks, her voice dripping with curiosity as she bats her lashes.

Matthew parks his chin in his hand. “We’re waiting, boss lady. Details, details. Leave no hot stone unturned.”

I narrow my eyes and growl at Teagan. “You’re dead to me.”

She simply smiles, the evil genius. “Well, you did have a moment,” Teagan adds. “You didn’t seize the strawberry-fennel moment, so maybe this is your potato-chip-chocolate-chunk swirl.”

“Don’t keep us in the dark. Who is Mr. Lunch Box?” Quentin asks, eyes wide with question marks. “And does he like sweet and salty too?”

“He’s no one,” I say, heat creeping across my cheeks. Mentioning him makes me feel a little foolish. It was naive to think he was going to ask me out. We were simply chatting, nothing more.

“Sounds like no one is someone,” Rosario goads, wiggling her fingers to get me to serve up the tale.

“She met him in Your Little Loves. They grabbed the same lunch box, and their chemistry was so strong it was like a science experiment,” Teagan says, throwing raw steak to the lions.

“Ooh, does he look like a hot scientist?” Matthew asks. “Lab jackets are sexy.”

“I think it sounds like a rom-com meet-cute. When do you meet-cute him again?” Quentin asks.

I hold up a stop-sign hand and shake my head. “I’m not seeing him again. I don’t even know his name.”

Matthew slaps the table for emphasis. “But you had a moment, and that’s what Made Connections is. You should try it, Bryn. You’re like patient zero.”

“And why does that description somehow feel apropos?” I shudder.

Teagan leans back in her chair and crosses her arms with a satisfied smirk. “He’s right. You’re the one who had an actual missed connection. Ergo, you ought to test it.”

“What was he like? Mr. Lunch Box?” Matthew presses on. “Tell us all more about the chemistry. Were there beakers bubbling over?”

I flashback to an hour ago—the locked eyes, the heat in my chest, the finger brushing . . . That moment when I was sure he’d ask for my number.

My chest tingles, and that wild whoosh I felt earlier reappears, running roughshod over my skin.

There was definitely a moment.

More than one.

There were many, and they weren’t foolish at all. I wasn’t naive in the least to think there was something brewing.

Chemistry, for sure. No doubt about that. Would it translate to the bedroom though? His eyes had been etched with hunger, dominance, even, so a woman could dream.

I relent and give my team some gossip fodder. “Looks like Henry Cavill, dresses like a Tom Ford model, sounds like he could read erotic audiobooks, and banters like he’s in a Noël Coward play.” But since neither the man nor I sealed the deal, maybe there is a reason. Maybe he’s in a relationship.

Rosario’s lips curve into a grin, her eyes twinkling. “Okay, I’ve reconsidered. I’ll get on Made Connections for you.” She pretends to type into her phone and says aloud, “Looking for Mr. Lunch Box. K, thanks, bye.”

“Looking for Mr. Lunch Box,” Teagan muses as if she’s testing out the words. “It has a certain ring to it.”

“Yes, but Mr. Lunch Box might be involved with someone,” I say.

“He might, but you don’t know till you try.” Teagan types on her phone for real, picking up speed. “Maybe he’s checking the app out now, looking for you. What if your what-if guy is looking for his what-if girl?”

“Yeah, right,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’m sure he’s not on it. And honestly, even if I post, I doubt he’ll respond.”

“Then the story is the app doesn’t work,” Teagan says, matter-of-factly. “And that’s useful intel too. This piece will have so much social media cred.” She hands her phone to me, sliding it across the table, with a pleased-as-punch expression on her pretty face. “I signed you up. Now post.”

She taps