I stare at her from the level of the bar top. “I hate lies.”

“I know you do. But for all intents and purposes, it is the truth.”

And perhaps it is. Nothing more is coming of my date, no matter how much more I want.

I spend the weekend seeing my friends, hunting garage sales outside the city, and daydreaming about my what-if guy.

Because that’s all he’ll ever be, and all we’ll ever have is dreams and the memory of what could have been.

17LOGAN

Numbers don’t lie.

They reveal all the truths, and this truth is that the audience wants another date. The advertisers want it too.

The email in my inbox on Monday morning is like a trail of gumdrops, promising more ad deals if we keep delivering numbers not only like we did for the eye-contact piece, but for “Mr. Smolder” too.

This is good, and this is bad.

My stomach twists, and yet I also want to punch the air. I want the new acquisition to flourish, but I also don’t want to so much as skirt the edges of a scandal.

“You okay, Daddy?” Amelia asks when I join her in the kitchen.

“Of course. Why?”

At the table, she pours cereal in her bowl. “You look happy and sad at the same time.”

I ruffle her hair. “You’re too observant for your own good.”

She smiles as she lifts a spoon. “What makes you happy? What makes you sad?”

I grab an apple, wash it, and bring it to the table. Crunching into it, I contemplate her question. The first one is easy. “You make me happy.”

She smiles. “Thank you!”

I draw a deep, fortifying breath. “Not being able to solve a problem makes me sad.”

She tilts her head as she shoves another spoonful into her mouth. After she chews, she asks, “Is it a math problem?”

“Kind of.”

“That’s good, then. There’s always a solution. Just keep trying.”

I nod, letting her simple wisdom soak in. Maybe there is a solution.

And the solution has nothing to do with numbers.

After I take Amelia to school, I ask Oliver to meet me for a cup of coffee.

My longtime friend takes a drink as I lay out the details, and when I’m done, he sets down the glass and whistles. “It’s been a little more than a week. And you truly want to try seeing her again?”

I let the thought marinate for a moment, stirring it around, wondering how it’ll taste, before I say, “I like Bryn. A lot. At first, when I saw the site numbers for the piece, I thought wanting to see her was because of the article. But then I realized it’s not that at all. I don’t care if she writes about me or us or the app again. I like her. I want to date her, plain and simple. I want to know how to do this the right way. Is it against the rules, or does it just require disclosure if I date her?”

He strokes his chin, switching instantly to full-on legal mode. “You’d have to disclose it to HR. You shouldn’t be dating a direct report, and if you are, you’d need to discuss with HR about having her moved to a different manager. You’re the CEO, so you don’t technically need her reporting to you, and you’re not even going to be in the same office much after this week, but you still need to do this the right way.” He begins to rattle off options. “You could, for instance, add in layers of executive or senior VPs between you and the other VPs. Or you could have her report to your COO. That’s a reasonable solution, and it’s better, frankly, than sneaking around.”

The wheels in my brain turn faster, picking up speed. Sure, it’s only been a few days, but I’m so damn drawn to Bryn that I want to see what’s there. “Should I do that? Is that crazy?”

Smirking, Oliver taps his chest. “You’re asking the guy who engineered a fake fiancée-ship with his best friend so as not to lose a client. I’m hardly the best one to give advice on this. But I can tell you this for sure—talk to her first.”

I noodle on his advice all day and into the next, weighing it, considering it from all angles.

And forty-eight hours later, I still feel the same way.

I text Bryn and ask if she can meet me after work that afternoon to discuss a business matter.

This is business after all.

I’m not nervous. I’m not nervous. I’m not nervous.

Hell, I don’t get nervous.

My plan is to be straightforward with Bryn the second she walks into Dr. Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium. It’s on the Upper West Side, and I know Bryn lives in the Village, but I didn’t want to meet her near work.

At six on the dot, she enters.

And I’m a little nervous now.

But I’m also certain. Forget “Mr. Smolder.” Forget the numbers. The numbers just illuminated what I’ve learned this week. I want to give this a shot. I hope she wants to as well.

Bryn walks over to me. She’s still in her work clothes—a green skirt and a black blouse.

It’s no surprise that she looks stunning. But there’s more at play than mere looks. All our conversations over the last week have stoked my desire to see what we might find between us.

When she reaches me in the back of the shop, I stand and brush a kiss on her cheek before I realize what I’ve done. “Shit, sorry.”

With a curious smile, she asks, “Why?”

“I’m trying to be professional,” I say, gesturing to a chair.

“How’s that working out for you?”

I run a hand over my hair, laughing lightly. “Terribly. Can I get you something?”

“Sure. A latte would be great,” she says.