I stop in my tracks. “I accept your adulation, but . . . why?”

Matthew’s grin is supersize as he swivels his laptop around. I peer closer at the screen. Looks like my “Mr. Smolder” piece.

“You’re clapping because you liked the article?” I ask, brow furrowed. “I mean, it was a good piece, but do I deserve cheers like a conquering hero?”

Quentin tuts. “Bryn, have you looked at the response on social media?”

“Not since this morning when we posted it. I’ve been working.” Nerves flutter in my belly—social media is the edge of a blade. Land on the wrong side of it, and you’re dead.

Rosario does a dance in her chair. “The numbers are insane. And check out the comments. They’re a little bada bing.”

Oh, dear.

I have a sinking feeling about why my team is cheering.

Why they’re happy.

Check out the comments can only be good for the site.

But bad for me. Because it means the audience wants more of my Mr. Smolder tale. And I’ll have to feed them, like a zookeeper tossing meat into the maw of a lion. Except I don’t have any rations to toss their way. I don’t have another date with Mr. Smolder to pull out of the feed bag.

I sink into a chair, my stomach churning, my throat tightening. I look up at Teagan, help me written in my eyes.

She’s all business as she rattles off shares, likes, retweets, and comments for “Mr. Smolder.” Most of all, comments. They’re positive, but curious. So damn curious. The site visitors want to know more, more, more.

And when, when, when.

My cheeks flame with every word I hear.

GuyOnAMission: Oh! This is everything I need to use the app. Gonna post about the woman who answered the door the other day in nothing but her towel. I was delivering packages, and I’m pretty sure she wanted to invite me in.

AlwaysDatingInNY: “Delivering packages”? Euphemism, much?

GuyOnAMission: Euphemism? No way. I wish! But guess what? I just signed up for Made Connections.

DatingSucksEverywhere: I hate dating, but this is like dating on steroids! Now I can try to find the cute brunette coming down the escalator at Whole Foods while I was on the up escalator. She had pumpkin spice latte–flavored beer. I was going to get pumpkin spice applesauce. Meant to be? Like you and Mr. Smolder.

AlwaysDatingInNY: Wow. Can you two come over for snack time with me?

QuirkyGuyInTheCity: I locked eyes with a woman across Love in the Time of Cholera at the indie bookstore the other day. Time to find her. Time to find her, win her, and read to her.

AlwaysDatingInNY: Brill idea, but hey, maybe try something more festive?

GuyOnAMission: Personally, I’d recommend Sophie Kinsella. Those Shopaholic books are so fun!

QuirkyGuyInTheCity: Thanks. When I need dating tips, I like to come to the comments section of a dating site.

AlwaysDatingInNY: Uh, yeah. That’s where you are. Good luck with your Cholera, man.

ReadyforLove: I want to meet my very own Mr. Smolder. Or a Mr. Steamy. Or Mr. McDreamy. And I saw all of them on the subway yesterday! Yay me! Signing up now! I’m going to find them!

DreamingofTheOne: A few days ago, I was walking through the park and I spotted a yoga class. This guy was doing the best downward-facing dog ever. And then he saw me. And he smiled and he slipped, and we laughed, and it was so cute. And now I’m going to find him thanks to this app.

AlwaysDatingInNY: Okay, enough about you. I want to hear more about Mr. Smolder. What’s next? He sounds perfect. When are you going to see this hunk again???

WantsMoreKissing: I see you gave the app five big smooches . . . but I want to hear what else is big! Do tell . . .

That’s only the tip of the comment iceberg. There are maybe ten million more.

“Our site audience is eager to know when you’re going to do a follow-up story,” Teagan says, her tone even and balanced. “And, in my humble opinion, that’s something we should discuss privately.”

The emphasis on the adverb is loud and clear.

But no one seems to care.

Matthew’s jaw drops. “Why? We discuss everything here. I write about the dates my boyfriend and I go on.”

“Yes. And I told you all that I had a promising Tinder hookup,” Rosario points out.

James points at Matthew’s screen, looking at me. “You did say you had another date with him, Bryn.”

Quentin pins me with an inquisitive stare. “When is it? Your adoring fans want to know. I want to know.”

Teagan cuts in again. “Guys, did it occur to you that maybe she’s waiting to hear back from Mr. Smolder? Maybe she needs to confirm plans with him?”

Rosario growls, brandishing her claws. “He hasn’t texted you back? Where is he? I will cut him. I will cut Mr. Lunch Box.”

Matthew slams a fist on the table. “I will give him words. Vitriolic words.”

“He’s a douche-canoe jerk-face for not texting you back,” Quentin adds, piling on the whiplash shift in mood.

And I feel like I’m about to hurl up a lunch of lies in front of my staff. I dig deep, call on my lady-boss nerves of steel, and do what I have to do, hating myself for saying, “I’ll let you know when I hear from him.”

When the day ends, it can only be wine o’clock.

Teagan and I hit our favorite spot, Tristan’s. I order a glass of chardonnay, then sink down, rest my face on the bar, and moan. “I’m a liar. I love our people. I love everyone at the site, and I lied to them.”

“No. I did,” Teagan says.

I roll my eyes, my stomach still tight. “You lied for me. I essentially lied too. We are wonder-twin power-liars, but it’s my fault.”

“They don’t need to know the details. It’s personal.”

“Yes, but our business is personal. And I want to do a good job. I want to be a good boss. And I’m the boss who’s lusting after her boss. How do I manage this? What do I do now?”

She pets my hair. “You don’t have to do anything. You run the content. You’re in charge, and you have zero obligations to write anything more about Mr. Smolder, Mr. Lunch Box, or the new CEO. You can say nothing came of it. It’s close enough to the truth.”