The ninety-degree swivel.

The sweep of his eyes around the room.

The second they lock on mine.

The are you serious flinch.

Even from across the conference room, I can read his gaze. It flickers with I still want you, which quickly blinks into Holy shit, I’m seeing things, which then vanishes into no fucking way, and recedes into I’m going to pretend last night never happened.

“Great to meet you, Bryn,” he says, his tone warm but completely neutral, all business. “You’ve done an amazing job making The Dating Pool a must-read site. The article this morning on eye contact was fantastic. And the numbers on it already look great.” He strides across the conference room, stopping in front of me, stretching out a hand. “And it’s a pleasure to meet the force behind its awesomeness.”

Nothing in his demeanor says we slept together.

I should be glad.

I am glad.

I don’t need the CEO shooting me flirty glances.

Still.

I do like his flirty glances.

His dirty ones too.

I square my shoulders as I shake his hand. “So good to meet you too.”

He moves on to Teagan and the other directors and VPs until he’s met with all the department heads.

Hadley clears her throat, standing at the front of the conference table. “It’s an honor to know this site is in excellent hands. It goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway. I had a lot of offers and a lot of interest in this property because you’ve all made it so valuable, but Mr. Clarke’s firm put forth an offer that greatly values and respects the work you have done, and his offer made it possible to keep everyone on board.”

She gestures to Isaac, who nods a hello before his deep baritone booms across the room. “This should be an easy transition. But the long and short of it is that all VPs now report to Mr. Clarke rather than Ms. Williamson, and everything else should be the same old, same old. Keep doing your magic.”

He’s so chill on the outside, and that’s why he’s so dang good at his job—because his warm persona masks his rigid adherence to rules.

He turns the floor back over to Hadley, who goes on about how Logan will be working here in our offices for the next two weeks then coming in once a week after that, but I drown out the details as I look across the table at the man who bent me over my couch last night.

The man who adored my breasts.

Who talked to my cat.

Who made me laugh.

Who asked me out again without any bullshit or waiting games.

The man who sent me not a horrific dick pic, but a fantastic pussycat shot.

THE MAN I NOW REPORT TO.

That man is meeting my eyes, and mouthing, I had no idea.

I mouth back, Me neither.

Then it’s Logan’s turn. And he talks about his vision for The Dating Pool. The great things we’ve done. The great things we will do.

It’s inspiring, to be sure.

It’s also the height of irony.

After an hour of the most painful corporate meeting in the history of business, we adjourn. I racewalk back to my office, heels clicking on the floor, then yank open the door, slam it shut, and slump down at my desk, my face hitting the cold metal surface.

My breakfast threatens to pay a repeat visit, but I keep it down, focusing on my breathing.

When I look up, my heart is racing, my hands are clammy, and I grab the photo of my mom on my desk. “What would you do? What would you do if you were me? Besides laugh and say, ‘Oh, sweets, you got yourself in some serious hot water.’”

I wish she were here to answer the question. We’d grab a Coke, the kind from a glass bottle fished from the bottom of the cooler, and I’d lay this at her feet over a lunch of some soup, a sandwich, and a playlist.

She always made me feel understood.

She was my rock, my sounding board, the person who had my back even when I was foolish, especially when I was ambitious, and certainly every time I was thrown for ten million loops.

The woman who had sayings for everything. Sayings about life and love and men.

The woman who barely needed a man.

Is that what she’d say?

Sweets, you didn’t need him. You’ve got this.

My throat tightens. “Why aren’t you here for me to talk to?”

She simply smiles back, leaning against a sign for Tara’s Roadside Tacos, pointing up at the missing T in the third word. “Acos. Let’s have acos for lunch, Bryn,” she’d said that day two years ago.

They were the best acos ever.

I draw a deep breath, knowing that she’d comment on neither men nor love.

She’d dig into her handbag of hard-won wisdom and offer something else. She’d tell me to do the right thing.

And that leaves me only one choice.

I need to cancel Friday night.

I’ve just grabbed my phone to send Logan a text when someone knocks on my door.

12LOGAN

You don’t become CEO of your own media company at thirty-two without some skills.