How to negotiate.

How to anticipate.

And how to strategize.

Also, it’s vital to never let them see you sweat.

Yet, as I sit here in this swank leather chair and lead this meeting with the team, I am sweating all the fuck over.

Metaphorically.

Because how the hell did I miss this?

How did I not know she worked for the site?

I did my due diligence. I scoured The Dating Pool, a site I started following after Summer entered an essay contest it was running, and when the opportunity arose to purchase the lifestyle website leader, it was too good to pass up. I read tons of articles in my research. And I never saw her name. That name, Bryn, would have stuck with me simply because it’s uncommon.

Bryn . . . I say it in my head, trying to recall how Hadley had introduced her. I couldn’t picture her byline either. But it wouldn’t have mattered last night, because I hadn’t known her last name.

Fuck. Is that in a rule book for modern dating? Is there some guidebook for divorced dads I wasn’t given? Rule number four: don’t forget to ask for her last name, you dipshit.

I know Peppermint Patty’s last name. Would it have been so hard to snag Bryn’s last night when I left?

I blame my dick.

Seems fitting. Dicks are to blame for almost everything.

When the meeting ends, all I want is to pull her into an empty office, pin her to the wall, and beg her to tell me this is all a mistake.

Then kiss the hell out of her, and hey, take her out to lunch too, for good measure.

But I can’t let on that I know her. Instead, I talk to Hadley, wishing her well and wishing that I could get away from her quickly. Before I track down Bryn, I need to call Oliver and find out how the hell this happened.

“Thank you again for bringing this opportunity to me,” I say to Hadley as the conversation wraps up.

“That went swimmingly,” Hadley says, clasping my hand. “You’re the perfect one to shepherd this site to the next level. As for me, I’m ready to hit the boardwalk and retire.”

“Boardwalk? Do you live on the beach?” I ask.

“No, but I’m going to tackle life’s next big adventure. Write a roller-coaster blog. I’ll be traveling up and down the West Coast visiting all the great amusement parks,” she says.

“That sounds . . . amusing,” I remark as she waves goodbye on the way out of the conference room. With blinders on, I head to the elevator, step inside, and stab the button for the lobby. The second I hit the street, I dial Oliver.

“Oliver Harris,” he says, answering right away.

“Oliver Harris, why didn’t you tell me a Bryn Hawthorne worked at The Dating Pool?” I hiss. “She’s the woman I went home with last night.”

“What? The lunch lady?”

“Lunch box. It was a lunch box,” I correct him, marching down the street in the Village near Your Little Loves, the scene of the eye-fucking the other morning.

That damn shop. No wonder I met her there after I’d been to see Hadley. It’s right next to her office. That wasn’t kismet. It was proximity.

“Let me get this straight,” Oliver says, clearly reining in a laugh. “The woman you shagged works at the company your media firm just bought?”

“Why didn’t I get a list of names of all the employees while I was scouting this purchase? You’re my lawyer, man. I need you to have my back.”

He snaps his fingers audibly. “Right. Of course. Knew I forgot something. My mistake. I absolutely should have sent you a list of employees so you could cross-check it against potential hookups.”

I stop outside a ramen shop, resting my forehead against the brick wall as the sun beats down, mocking me with its perfect day-ness in the middle of the rain cloud of my love life. My about-to-be-shattered love life. “Isn’t that your job as an attorney?”

There’s a pause. Then Oliver says, “Hmm. Let me check my corporate bio and see if it specifies that it’s my responsibility to disclose the names of each and every employee in case the incoming CEO wants to stick his knob in any of them.” He hums like he’s scrolling a list. “Not there. Nope, not there either. Wherever did I see it? Ah, bollocks. You’re right. It is article 2009 in section 510 of the attorney code of conduct. So very sorry. This is obviously all my fault.”

I groan, scrubbing a hand over my face. “I know, man. I know it’s not something you’re supposed to do. Or know. And there’s no way I could have known either. But seriously, what the fuck? What are the fucking chances? I’m beating myself up, Oliver. Of all the employees of the site I just bought, one of the highest-ranking ones is the only woman in years who I’ve wanted to go on a second date with.”

Oliver sighs, chuckling sympathetically. “Sorry, mate. That really does take the cake.”

“Yup,” I say, then add, “And I was just giving you a hard time. I’m frustrated and pissed. I should have . . .”

But I don’t know what I should have or could have done differently.

I let the thought fall away unfinished. “I had an awesome time with her, and I can’t believe this happened. This is all my fault.”

“Well, that is true, but I am sorry that the woman you like is off-limits now. I know it’s been a long time since you’ve fancied anyone, you picky bastard.”

I manage a small smile. “And I have good reason to be picky. I still have a scar on my back from the knife Stacey plunged into me.”

“Yeah, but on the plus side, at least you know there’s a chance of meeting someone you’re keen on now. For a long time, you figured it’d never happen.”

“That’s not quite the silver lining I was hoping for,” I say.

“If I find a better silver lining, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.”

I say goodbye to my buddy, turn around, and face the music. Drawing a deep, fueling breath, I ride the elevator, then head down the cool, air-conditioned hallway, where I smooth a hand down my shirt before I rap on her door.

Time to say goodbye to the best date I’ve had in ages.

A rustling of a chair sounds, then the door opens, and I’m looking at the woman I desperately want to see this Friday.

The woman I can’t see.

She looks stunning, and I want to draw her into my arms and kiss off all that peach lip gloss. I want to taste it, thread my fingers through her hair, and nibble on her neck.

I want to spend a few hours with the woman—having sushi, talking, laughing, and teasing.

Then I want to take her to bed. Please her. Make her sing. Make her scream. “Hey,” I say, my beleaguered sigh giving away my frustration.