I gesture to the loveseat along her wall. “May I sit?”
“Of course.”
She doesn’t sit next to me. She sits in her desk chair. My gaze drifts to the door. Still open. I cross the few feet and shut it. This is not a conversation anyone should hear.
I don’t mince words. “Listen, I had no idea you worked here.”
A mirthless laugh is her answer. “I had no idea you were buying our site. Media finance? ‘I’m in media finance,’” she says, imitating me.
“I could say the same of you. ‘I run a lifestyle site,’” I parrot back.
Her eyes widen. “Well, I do run a lifestyle site.”
“I know, I know. It’s ironic. We purposefully decided not to discuss work, and it turns out maybe we should have.”
She arches one brow. “Should we have though? Do you actually wish we’d discovered this last night?”
Damn. Talk about forward. This is why I dig Bryn—she doesn’t play around. She speaks her mind.
It’s a valid question that she’s asked.
Do I wish I’d known?
If I knew, we might not have continued the date. And I don’t know that last night should be erased from our personal history.
“You’re right. I suppose I’m glad I didn’t know who you were. Plausible deniability is a good thing.”
“A very good thing in this case.”
“Anyway, now that we are talking about the elephant in the room, yes, I am in media finance. Synchronicity Media is a media portfolio firm, and we buy websites and other media properties that we think will have synergy.”
“Synergy,” she says, with a laugh and a too-cute eye roll.
“Hey, now. What’s wrong with synergy?”
She adopts a more serious expression and formal tone. “Hey, Bob. Let’s dive into the transparency of all the synergies in our business systems.” She returns to her own voice. “‘Synergy’ is just sooo corporate.”
“Sometimes I have to be sooo corporate.” I give it back to her but add a smile.
“Fine, be all corporate,” she says, and there’s that pals tone again, but it’s laced with a little flirtiness that I don’t want to let go of.
“I will be all corporate,” I say, trying to rein in a smile.
Dammit. I don’t want to give up a second chance with her.
She leans back in her chair, letting it spin a few inches, then she sighs. “What are the chances the guy I met in a cute little collectible shop would be my new CEO?”
The realist in me answers. “More than average, actually. I’d been meeting with Hadley before I popped into the store. Meeting with her to finalize some terms.”
“And now the sale is final.” It comes out a little heavily.
I drag a hand through my hair. “Look, even though I’m glad I didn’t know you work here, since it gave us the chance to have last night, and I don’t and won’t regret the most epic date and most epic sex of my life”—I stop to register the curve in her lips, the glint in her eyes—“I’m also surprised I didn’t put two and two together. I read a ton of articles on the site beforehand. I bought the site because I thought the content was great and the traffic and ad numbers are insane. But I don’t recall reading an article from a Bryn. It’s kind of a memorable name.”
She offers a faint smile. “Maybe you remember the byline of Elizabeth Hawthorne?”
The light bulb flicks on, and I groan. “Are you kidding me?”
“That’s me.”
I laugh, but it’s borderline humorless. “I remember that name now. I enjoyed her articles, especially the one calling for the eradication of dick pics.”
She pumps a fist. “That article worked. Yay! You sent me a pussy shot instead.”
“See? I can be trained. Though, confession time, I have never sent a dick pic to anyone. Also, you’re the first woman to receive a kitty shot.”
She brings her hand to her chest. “I am the luckiest gal in New York. Because Queen LT is awesome, and I do want more pics of her. Anyway, Bryn is my middle name, though I’ve always gone by it. I use Elizabeth as my byline because I didn’t want an easily traceable name when writing about dating. Elizabeth is easier. A broader name. But I don’t write that often for the site.”
“Because you’re in charge of all the content,” I say, stating the obvious.
“And now you’re in charge of all the site,” she says, also laying out the cold, hard facts.
“Yeah.” Another sigh. Another wish that she weren’t off-limits.
“Which means . . .” She stops, waving her hand like she’s saying goodbye. “I won’t be seeing you on Friday night.”
13LOGAN
I scrub a hand across my chin, wishing I could find a way around this problem. That’s what I do—find alternative paths to a solution. But I don’t see a route to Bryn. An appropriate one anyway. Reluctantly, I agree. “Friday night does seem to be out of the question now.”
