The What If Guy - Lauren Blakely Page 0,9

the table, making it an order.

I freeze, weighing the choice more seriously now that she’s done what Teagan does best.

Instigate.

Do I want to see him again? Do I want to take a chance and potentially meet my what-if guy?

But as I look around the conference room, looking back are the faces of my staffers, who’ve been willing to test lots of apps, plenty of dates, and gobs of crazy ideas.

Is it so hard for me to test one too?

It’s all in the name of modern love.

And since it’s merely an experiment for work, I can’t truly be hurt if he never responds. This is purely business. It’s solely an experiment.

I pride myself on efficiency. Part of being a good boss means you need to be decisive.

To march forward.

After I leave the conference room, I spend the next half hour in my office drafting a post. It needs to be clever and enticing, but not tawdry. It should be specific, but also leave room for him to supply details to prove he’d been there.

And it must be inviting. It should invite him to respond.

Because even though I’m doing this for the good of The Dating Pool, I want him to respond.

For the good of The Dating Pool, but also for me.

For my ego, and for my curiosity. For all the what-ifs that ran through my mind this morning.

Looking for Mr. Lunch Box:

We both wanted the same thing. We were tenacious, neither one letting go, at odds, even as we agreed on several key issues related to Joe Cool. We were in the midst of negotiations when your phone rang.

I have a hunch about the counteroffer that was coming next. I hope I’m not wrong.

So, if you were going to ask what I thought you were going to ask, then I suspect you’ll answer this post.

And when you do, tell me what we discussed about a certain dog.

Perhaps then we could continue our conversation over a mojito or two.

P.S. I was going to request the same thing I hoped you would. I’m an equal opportunity kind of gal.

Xoxo

The Gal Who Got the Lunchbox

4

Logan

Crouched down beneath the kitchen table, I raise one fist, covered in a rainbow-striped sock, then make the fist talk. “What’s that I see? Down the path that weaves through the enchanted forest? A tree full of jelly beans?”

A green frog of sorts bonks my hand, bouncing in excitement. “And I will eat all the jelly beans,” my daughter says, operating her amphibian sock puppet. “I will ribbit them out.”

I make the rainbow hand creature plead obsequiously. “Oh, Mr. Frog, will you please share the jelly beans with your most humble servant?”

Amelia adopts her most stern voice right next to me. “Only if Queen LaTofu can share them too.”

I move the makeshift mouth of my sock puppet, as Friday evening puppet theater builds toward the closing curtain. “Can Queen LaTofu hunt jelly beans?”

“Yes, Mr. Rainbow Sockhead. She can. She’s a rare breed of jelly-bean-hunting cat.” My daughter drops her sock-puppet-covered hand, bolts up, and rushes across the living room to a pink miniature chair that I bought for her, but which has been commandeered by the cat.

“C’mere, Queen LaTofu. Come play sock puppets with Daddy and me,” Amelia says, scooping up the fluffy black-and-white tabby with the flag-size tail. I give thanks that my sister’s choice won the cat-naming battle when my ex, my kid, and I adopted the rescue cat a few years ago. Stacey wanted Miss Muffy Meow, I was eager for Mercutio or even Purrcutio, and my sister suggested the name inspired by one of her favorite rappers.

Amelia picked her favorite from the three.

As I kneel by the kitchen table, my puppet on pause, Amelia hauls the docile tabby cat over to the puppet theater. She’s not your average cat. She has her own Instagram account, and it’s crazy popular, mostly because Amelia snaps shots of the cat in poses similar to pop stars for her social feed. The cat is quite pliable, and she’s also a total ham. I should have suggested Camera Hog as her name.

Queen LaTofu joins our puppet show in the way that only a cat can. She stretches across the puppet theater stage and takes a bath as we finish our enchanted forest escapades.

News flash—we find all the jelly beans.

They’re in the kitchen cupboard.

Amelia and I grab the bag, head for the couch, and devour some cotton-candy and cherry-flavored jelly beans before I tell my kid it’s time to get ready for