“You sure?”
I smile. “I’m so sure. I want to see you again for me. It just so happens that the app also worked particularly well.”
“So it’s a twofer,” he says, his tone lighter.
“A good twofer.”
“As long as I get to see you again, that works for me. When does it post?”
“Probably a day or two.”
“And what’s the name of your site?”
As I tell him, his other line beeps. “I didn’t catch that. But my assistant just buzzed, and I have a huge meeting downtown this morning, so let’s catch up later.”
“Yes, let’s.”
“Also, thank you.”
He ends the call, and a few minutes later, I head into my building.
This is going to be a great week. The eye-contact article goes live any minute and will achieve fast traction. The new owner will be wildly impressed, I know it.
And I’ve met a man I like.
Whoever said Mondays suck was wrong.
Dead wrong.
After I unlock my office and drop my purse on the couch, Teagan pops in. Her eyes are etched with question marks. “Tell me all. I want every dirty detail.”
With a grin, I shut the door and give her the download.
She practically dances a jig. “Gah, that sounds amazing. Also, word on the street is the new owners are coming by today and are meeting us all at eleven o’clock. Be on your best behavior.”
“You mean, don’t flirt with the new boss?” I joke.
She points at me. “Exactly.”
“I promise I’ll be a model employee. Besides, I’m sure he or she will be so amazed by our fabulous new article on the home page that it’ll be all they can talk about.”
“No doubt. I tweeted it out, and we have, like, a gazillion retweets already.”
“I love when you’re precise with numbers.”
She winks. “A gazillion is a lot.”
And a gazillion feels like our site traffic this morning as I watch it go up, up, up. Our advertisers are going to throw us a parade.
Two hours later, my alarm buzzes, the signal that it’s time for the big meeting. I grab my tablet, pop by Teagan’s office to collect her, then head into the conference room.
My jaw drops.
My stomach churns.
My skin prickles.
I’ve done way more than flirt with the new boss.
I banged him last night.
11BRYN
I’ve heard stories of women who are strong enough to lift Volkswagen buses, or who can sprint down the street at Usain Bolt speeds.
Fine, usually they pull off such feats to save a child.
But as I stand in the doorway of the conference room, I’m certain I could pass the Jamaican runner on the track right now if I were to jet.
Saving a kiddo? Please. I’ve got to save my own ass from last night’s epic mistake.
My stomach plummets like a cartoon elevator as reality smacks me in the jaw.
I imagine a smarmy TV host, face pancaked within an inch of its life, shoving a mic at me.
Bryn Hawthorne, we’re here from YOU JUST BANGED YOUR BOSS! and we’d like to know—on a scale of one to a box of rocks, how stupid do you feel right now?
I’d deer-in-headlights blink, then stumble my way to an answer of “Um, that’d be a one hundred, Bob.”
