With a sliver of frustration, I reply as I head down Seventh Avenue: Love it, but let me run it past the higher-ups. More soon!
I close the email, wishing briefly that I were the higher-up. As the VP, I’ve already hit the ceiling on the content side. I’d love to be able to approve and manage deals like this. Maybe someday though.
For now, I’m lucky to have a job I love, and that includes penning the piece I wrote this morning. As I walk, I go over parts of the article in my head.
Admittedly, I was the slightest bit nervous when I walked to the bar to meet him. Would he be as clever as I’d remembered? Would we have enough to say to each other? Would that spark, ignited so quickly and easily, burn for longer than a few minutes?
The verdict?
It burned all night.
My date—let’s call him Mr. Smolder—was witty, engaging, and best of all, the opposite of self-centered. He asked me questions, he listened, and we talked.
Did we do more than talk?
A woman doesn’t kiss and tell.
But if I did, let me just say—I’d have something to talk about.
Oh, hell, would I ever have something to talk about.
And it would be something so good, so delicious that Mr. Smolder and I would be meeting again.
Yep. This modern woman has a second date with him, and she can’t wait.
Made Connections gets five big smooches.
As I near the office, I stop dead in my tracks, a sharp realization hitting me out of the blue.
Should I tell Logan I’m writing about him?
Oh, crud.
I should.
I definitely should.
That’s only fair.
I probably should have said something last night, but the article fell out of my head at Gin Joint. It didn’t feel like I was there for work—I was there for me.
And I’m seeing him again for me. But he deserves to know, and this is something better shared in a call than via text.
Resuming my pace, I turn on a side street to call him, a fleet of nervous birds flapping in my chest. Phone calls are so passé. These days, they only spell trouble. Surely that’s what he’ll think when he sees my name on the screen.
He answers immediately, the sound of typing in the background. “Hey there.” His voice is warm but curious, with an undercurrent of Why are you calling me?
“Hi. I know this is crazy, making a phone call and all,” I say, trying to keep it easy-breezy.
“So crazy, Bryn.” The sound of typing ceases.
“Trust me, I know.” My stomach plummets. “But I wanted to chat instead of text.”
“Sure. What’s up?” His tone turns markedly serious.
“You know how I said I run a lifestyle site?”
“You mentioned that.” Outright cautious now, like I’m about to shout, You’ve been punk’d!
I breathe out as if I’m in a yoga class. “So, as part of that, we test different apps.”
“Ohhh.” It comes out as ten tons of disappointment.
“No, it’s good, Logan. I swear. I tried out Made Connections to find you, but also because we were testing dating apps for the site. I didn’t mention it last night because it honestly had little to do with our date. Well, I wanted to see you, and my staff volunteered me as tribute, since I had told them about the Mr. Lunch Box moment, and how much I wanted to go out with you.”
“Okay, this is a little better,” he says, still tentative.
“Anyway, everything collided—meeting you at the store, wanting to see you again, testing the app. And I do want to go out with you for sushi. I’m also writing a piece about how well the app worked. No names, occupation, or identifying traits,” I assure him, then push out a laugh. “I just wrote generally about how much I enjoyed the app and that it was a success.”
I take a beat, hoping I sound honest to him. I feel honest. “I truly wasn’t thinking about the article last night at all. I was just having a great time. And I want to have a great time on Friday too. I hope you don’t mind, but if you do, I’m happy to kill the piece.”
He breathes a big sigh. “I thought you were going to tell me I was being catfished or something.”
I shake my head, though he can’t see me. “No, I think you’ll like the piece. I hope you will, at least. I called you Mr. Smolder, and said great things about you.”
I can practically see him smile. “I have to say I was definitely a little concerned. Honesty is important to me. Especially given what I said about my marriage.”
“Me too, Logan. Honesty matters. That’s why I called you the second it occurred to me that I should,” I say, nerves still winging through me. “But the article isn’t the reason I want to see you again.”
