“Don’t keep us in the dark. Who is Mr. Lunch Box?” Quentin asks, eyes wide with question marks. “And does he like sweet and salty too?”
“He’s no one,” I say, heat creeping across my cheeks. Mentioning him makes me feel a little foolish. It was naive to think he was going to ask me out. We were simply chatting, nothing more.
“Sounds like no one is someone,” Rosario goads, wiggling her fingers to get me to serve up the tale.
“She met him in Your Little Loves. They grabbed the same lunch box, and their chemistry was so strong it was like a science experiment,” Teagan says, throwing raw steak to the lions.
“Ooh, does he look like a hot scientist?” Matthew asks. “Lab jackets are sexy.”
“I think it sounds like a rom-com meet-cute. When do you meet-cute him again?” Quentin asks.
I hold up a stop-sign hand and shake my head. “I’m not seeing him again. I don’t even know his name.”
Matthew slaps the table for emphasis. “But you had a moment, and that’s what Made Connections is. You should try it, Bryn. You’re like patient zero.”
“And why does that description somehow feel apropos?” I shudder.
Teagan leans back in her chair and crosses her arms with a satisfied smirk. “He’s right. You’re the one who had an actual missed connection. Ergo, you ought to test it.”
“What was he like? Mr. Lunch Box?” Matthew presses on. “Tell us all more about the chemistry. Were there beakers bubbling over?”
I flashback to an hour ago—the locked eyes, the heat in my chest, the finger brushing . . . That moment when I was sure he’d ask for my number.
My chest tingles, and that wild whoosh I felt earlier reappears, running roughshod over my skin.
There was definitely a moment.
More than one.
There were many, and they weren’t foolish at all. I wasn’t naive in the least to think there was something brewing.
Chemistry, for sure. No doubt about that. Would it translate to the bedroom though? His eyes had been etched with hunger, dominance, even, so a woman could dream.
I relent and give my team some gossip fodder. “Looks like Henry Cavill, dresses like a Tom Ford model, sounds like he could read erotic audiobooks, and banters like he’s in a Noël Coward play.” But since neither the man nor I sealed the deal, maybe there is a reason. Maybe he’s in a relationship.
Rosario’s lips curve into a grin, her eyes twinkling. “Okay, I’ve reconsidered. I’ll get on Made Connections for you.” She pretends to type into her phone and says aloud, “Looking for Mr. Lunch Box. K, thanks, bye.”
“Looking for Mr. Lunch Box,” Teagan muses as if she’s testing out the words. “It has a certain ring to it.”
“Yes, but Mr. Lunch Box might be involved with someone,” I say.
“He might, but you don’t know till you try.” Teagan types on her phone for real, picking up speed. “Maybe he’s checking the app out now, looking for you. What if your what-if guy is looking for his what-if girl?”
“Yeah, right,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’m sure he’s not on it. And honestly, even if I post, I doubt he’ll respond.”
“Then the story is the app doesn’t work,” Teagan says, matter-of-factly. “And that’s useful intel too. This piece will have so much social media cred.” She hands her phone to me, sliding it across the table, with a pleased-as-punch expression on her pretty face. “I signed you up. Now post.”
She taps the table, making it an order.
I freeze, weighing the choice more seriously now that she’s done what Teagan does best.
Instigate.
Do I want to see him again? Do I want to take a chance and potentially meet my what-if guy?
But as I look around the conference room, looking back are the faces of my staffers, who’ve been willing to test lots of apps, plenty of dates, and gobs of crazy ideas.
Is it so hard for me to test one too?
It’s all in the name of modern love.
And since it’s merely an experiment for work, I can’t truly be hurt if he never responds. This is purely business. It’s solely an experiment.
I pride myself on efficiency. Part of being a good boss means you need to be decisive.
To march forward.
After I leave the conference room, I spend the next half hour in my office drafting a post. It needs to be clever and enticing, but not tawdry. It should be specific, but also leave room for him to supply details to prove he’d been there.
And it must be inviting. It should invite him to respond.
Because even though I’m doing this for the good of The Dating Pool, I want him to respond.
For the good of The Dating Pool, but also for me.
For my ego, and for my curiosity. For all the what-ifs that ran through my mind this morning.
Looking for Mr. Lunch Box:
We both wanted the same thing. We were tenacious, neither one letting go, at odds, even as we agreed on several key issues related to Joe Cool. We were in the midst of negotiations when your phone rang.
I have a hunch about the counteroffer that was coming next. I hope I’m not wrong.
So, if you were going to ask what I thought you were going to ask, then I suspect you’ll answer this post.
And when you do, tell me what we discussed about a certain dog.
Perhaps then we could continue our conversation over a mojito or two.
P.S. I was going to request the same thing I hoped you would. I’m an equal opportunity kind of gal.
Xoxo
The Gal Who Got the Lunchbox
4
Logan
Crouched down beneath the kitchen table, I raise one fist, covered in a rainbow-striped sock, then make the fist talk. “What’s that I see? Down the path that weaves through the enchanted forest? A tree full of jelly beans?”
A green frog of sorts bonks my hand, bouncing in excitement. “And I will eat all the jelly beans,” my daughter says, operating her amphibian sock puppet. “I will ribbit them out.”
I make the rainbow hand creature plead obsequiously. “Oh, Mr. Frog, will you please share the jelly beans with your most humble servant?”
Amelia adopts her most stern voice right next to me. “Only if Queen LaTofu can share them too.”
I move the makeshift mouth of my sock puppet, as Friday evening puppet theater builds toward the closing curtain. “Can Queen LaTofu hunt jelly beans?”
“Yes, Mr. Rainbow Sockhead. She can. She’s a rare breed of jelly-bean-hunting cat.” My daughter drops her sock-puppet-covered hand, bolts up, and rushes across the living room to a pink miniature chair that I bought for her, but which has been commandeered by the cat.
“C’mere, Queen LaTofu. Come play sock puppets with Daddy and me,” Amelia says, scooping up the fluffy black-and-white tabby with the flag-size tail. I give thanks that my sister’s choice won the cat-naming battle when my ex, my kid, and I adopted the rescue cat a few years ago. Stacey wanted Miss Muffy Meow, I was eager for Mercutio or even Purrcutio, and my sister suggested the name inspired by one of her favorite rappers.