Prologue
Logan
Some things in life are hard, some are damn hard, and some might as well be impossible.
Snagging a dream job?
Tough, but I finagled it.
Raising a kid solo?
Anything but easy, but I must be doing something right, because mine is awesome.
But try meeting a woman when you’re in your thirties, a single dad with zero free time.
Wait. Make that a woman you like, who’s fun to talk to, and who’s not going to stab you in the back, or the spleen, or right in the heart with a jagged knife.
Now that’s a Herculean task.
I’m not sure it’s possible to find someone like that no matter who you are. You might call me jaded, but I prefer to think I’ve learned from my mistakes.
I live in the present, sure, but I don’t forget what life has taught me.
I’m careful. I’m cautious. And when it comes to my romantic life, I am as skeptical as a fact-checker, looking for hoaxes, lies, and emotional scams like it’s my job.
And that’s worked well for me.
Right up to the day I pop into a store to grab a gift for the most important person in my world. I know what I’m after. I should be in and out in a minute.
Instead, I lock eyes with the sexiest brunette I’ve ever seen.
And her hand is on the same Snoopy lunch box I want.
Game on.
Game fucking on.
I thought I knew what “tough” was. But I forgot that it’s when you assume you have life all figured out that it decides to make an ass out of you.
And I have a feeling I’m about to get schooled.
1
Bryn
From the very first line, I know.
This is it. This article will be perfect for impressing the new site owners next week.
Attention, cynics! “Their eyes locked across a crowded room” is not a lie. It’s based on science.
“See?” I tap my tablet, showing the piece to Teagan. “It’s not just a movie cliché or a romance novel trope. There is real science behind the power of the gaze.”
With a flip of her red hair, Teagan gives me a grin that could be a You know it, girl meme. “Love is science, and science is sexy.”
We shuffle closer to the front of the line at my favorite coffee joint in all of Manhattan, which happens to be next door to a delightfully quirky collectible shop I might need to hit up next.
“Truer words,” I agree. The science of love is one of the many topics we aim to tackle on the dating and relationship advice site where we work, with me in charge of content and Teagan handling social media. One of our writers submitted this article this morning, analyzing whether those much-derided romantic standbys hold water outside of rom-coms and chick flicks.
I’m not going to lie—when this article landed in my email inbox this morning, I crossed my heart, then offered prayers to the editorial goddesses. The good news is, so far, this article is killing it. I need for it to kill, dismember, and dispose of the body though. It has to be one of the best pieces we ever publish.
As I read on, strands of brown hair fall from my makeshift updo, and I tuck them back into the pencil that’s doubling as a hair accessory. “Want to know the ins and outs of why eye contact is so powerful?” I read aloud.
Teagan shoots me a naughty look. “I always want to know the ins and outs, baby.”
I mime a slam dunk with my free hand. “And that’s one innuendo for the redhead, and it’s only ten a.m.”
She wags a finger at me. “Hey! Don’t count me short. I innuendo’d the hell out of this coffee invite. What was it I said when you asked me if I was in the mood for a cup of joe?”
I slide into an imitation of my best friend. “‘Yes. A large. I always want a large one.’ So, I concede—that’s two so far for you today.”
“It’s a good day when I can get multiples.”
I pretend to drum a rim shot. “There she goes again, folks. Three and counting.”
She takes a bow. “Thank you.” Then another. “Thank you very much, my adoring, perverted fans.”
The pink-haired woman ahead of us scans the chalkboard menu, her horse-size ponytail swishing back and forth. “I’d like a hot white mocha with ten pumps of white mocha. And can you make it thick?” she asks the barista in a conspiratorial whisper.
Teagan’s eyes widen. Her mouth opens.
I point a warning finger at her, shaking my head. “Find the will to resist,” I murmur.
“Usually we recommend twelve pumps for maximum thickness,” the barista says, and I manage to keep it together when the pinkified gal says, a little giddily, “A dozen pumps it is.”
Teagan though?
She purses her lips tight, holding in the wisecrack. She’s a kettle about to boil, a balloon about to pop. She fights like hell, but this wide-open opportunity tests her resolve something fierce. It’s a valiant struggle, but the naughty play-by-play commentator KOs her better nature, and she blurts out, “That’s what she said!”
When Pinkie Pie spins around, shooting Teagan a did you really say that to a stranger stare, I clasp my friend’s shoulder and give the woman a contrite look. “Forgive her. She’s often mentally inhabited by a twelve-year-old boy.”
“Aren’t we all, now and then,” Pinkie says, offering a little tip, “But maybe you both should try a thick mocha, and you’ll see what you’re missing.”
She turns back to the counter, and Teagan whispers to me, “See? The world needs more bawdy humor.”
“Dick jokes, here we come,” I say, straight-faced.
Teagan pats my shoulder proudly. “That’s one innuendo for you, lady boss. Keep it up.”
With a slow and steady pace, I arch a brow. “Was that one or was it two?”
“Two. It counts as a double play.”
“Go me.” I return to the article, clearing my throat as I read on. I’ve been on the hunt for something grabby to run next week when the new management takes over—just to remind the bigwigs why they bought the site and how genius it is to keep all the employees on board. I need pieces that show off my staff’s talent and the insight that lures web traffic. “According to research, we perceive people who make eye contact as being intelligent and sincere . . . and we want eye contact to last for three seconds, but no more than nine. Also, we often experience physical reactions to those who make intense eye contact. Your pulse quickens, your skin prickles, your stomach flips,” I say as the barista finishes the multi-pumped drink for Pinkie Pie, who thanks him, waves goodbye to Teagan, and leaves.
Hmm.
Maybe I should test this eye-contact theory right now.
See if there’s anything to it. After all, it’s been a while, and I wouldn’t mind a stomach flip. Hell, I’d settle for a stomach wiggle.
Plus, the barista’s not bad looking. With strong cheekbones and full lips, he’s well within the certified hottie range.
The barista locks his blue eyes on me and asks what I’d like. As I place my order, I wait for some sort of organ gymnastics—anything to prove the theory. But even though he’s handsome, and even though I do the eyeball tango for the allotted time, I’m not flooded with endorphins telling me to toss my panties at him.