I order a beer, then join them.

  “So, we have loads to celebrate tonight,” I say.

  “Yes, how good of you to grace us with your presence. Maybe you’ll have something to celebrate soon,” Logan deadpans.

  “Maybe I will, but let’s start with you.”

  Fitz raises a glass and stretches his free hand across the table to knock Logan on the shoulder. “To this cat finally getting on the apps. The ladies of New York had better watch out. They don’t even know what’s coming their way.”

  Logan takes a drink. “Speaking of, remember that woman I told you guys about at lunch the other day?”

  My ears prick. I know who he’s talking about. I also know what went down and it’s way more complicated than he ever expected. “The Snoopy lunchbox woman?” I ask just to make sure who we’re discussing.

  “She’s the one,” Logan says, heavily. “Her name is Bryn, and she is the sexiest, most captivating, most off-limits woman I’ve ever met.”

  “Did anything else happen since you and I last talked?” I ask.

  “Yeah, stop holding out on me, bro,” Fitz says. “I want all the deets too.”

  “It’s quite complicated,” I say, like a warning.

  Logan scratches his jaw. “Crazy complicated,” he says, then catches Fitz up to speed on the details.

  “Whoa. I do not envy you there, Logan. Good luck with that. It actually sounds mega complicated,” Fitz says.

  “And you?” I ask Fitz. “What’s your news?”

  “My little sister was just accepted into the art program of her dreams—in London. So I’ll be taking her over there in a few months, helping her get set up.”

  “Say hello to the homeland for me. And don’t forget to check out The Magpie. Some of my mates over there were raving about it. It’s their favorite local bar.”

  Fitz taps his temple. “I’ll file that away.”

  “Supposedly, the bartenders are good-looking.”

  He arches a brow. “Tell me more.”

  I laugh. “You’ll have to figure out that part on your own.”

  “Maybe you’ll meet someone with an accent just like Oliver’s who’ll sweep you off your feet,” Logan chimes in.

  Fitz laughs. “Not gonna lie—I do love a hot British accent. But getting swept off my feet? I don’t think so.”

  I shrug. “It can happen to the best of us, mate. After all, tomorrow I’m going shopping.”

  43

  OLIVER

  A few weeks later

  Another satisfying last meal is on the books.

  We leave Melt My Heart on a Sunday afternoon and wander through Central Park, the afternoon sun warming our skin, the birds chirping.

  “I’ve decided,” I announce as we walk along the path.

  “And what did you decide?”

  “The grilled cheese at Melt My Heart wins.”

  She shoots me an oh really look. “What about that sandwich makes the cut?”

  I drape an arm around her, loving that I can, that I have the freedom to touch her as we walk and talk. “It meets the most critical requirement. It says something about how I lived my life.”

  “It says you loved carbs and cheese? Get in line. Me too.”

  “Carbs and cheese are the hallmarks of a well-lived life.”

  She laughs as we near the carousel. “Words to live by.”

  The carnival music grows louder as the merry-go-round comes into view. “But in this case,” I say, returning to the reason we’re here, “I believe what it says is this.”

  I stop, take her hand, and meet her gaze. “I hope it says that the grilled cheese sandwiches we just devoured are the last meal we’ll have before . . .”

  I drop down to one knee, take her hand, and finish the thought. “Before you become my fiancée for real.”

  She gasps, her hand covering her mouth. “Ollie.”

  “Summer, I’ve been falling in love with you since I was seventeen, and I plan to keep falling in love with you for the rest of my life. Will you marry me? Because I would love for my best friend to become my wife.”

  Her smile is worthy of a million social media posts. Of a thousand Instagram likes. Of all the BuzzFeed lists ever made.

  But it’s just for me.

  No cameras.

  No pictures.

  No Twitter.

  And that’s how I want it to be, as the woman I love falls to her knees, throws her arms around me, and smothers me in kisses.

  Well, I could get used to this.

  When she breaks the kiss, she says, “Yes. In case that wasn’t clear—yes.”

  I take out a box from my pocket, slide a diamond solitaire on her finger, and kiss the hell out of my very real fiancée.

  EPILOGUE

  Summer

  A few months later

  Dear Sexy Ex-Fiancé,

  I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again.

  Exes are exes for a reason.

  But not always for bad reasons.

  You’re an ex now for the best of reasons.

  Because you’re graduating. You’re moving on up and kicking all of those old titles to the wayside.

  You’re no longer the guy I crushed on. You’re no longer my pretend ex-boyfriend. You’re definitely not my fake fiancé. And you’re about to leave your position as my real fiancé.

  Today, you become my husband.

  And as I write this on the morning of our wedding day, I can’t wait to walk down the aisle and say, “I do.”

  But fair warning.

  I might jump into your arms.

  Who am I kidding? I will definitely jump into your arms.

  It’s what I’ve been wanting to do for so many years.

  And you know what I’ve learned from falling in love with you when we were younger?

  That every day gets better. Every day, I love you more. And every day, I love knowing you.

  Once upon a time, I wasn’t ready to give my all to a relationship.

  That changed with you.

  And I want it all with you.

  There is a world out there and so much to see. I want to see it with you. Always with you.

  So, thank you for being the sexiest ex-fiancé of all. Now, it’s time for you to move into your new role, so let me say this . . .

  Dear Sexy-As-Sin Husband—I’m going to love you for the rest of my life.

  Eager for Logan’s story? His single dad office romance is FREE in KU in The What If Guy!

  Binge the entire Guys Who Got Away series FREE in KU!

  Birthday Suit: Leo & Lulu/Friends to Lovers/Best Friend’s Ex

  Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend: Oliver & Summer/Friends to Lovers/Fake Fiancée

  The What If Guy: Logan & Bryn/Boss/Employee

  Thanks for Last Night: Ransom & Teagan/Friends to Lovers/Player Auction

  The Dream Guy Next Door: Liam and January/Neighbors to Lovers/Single Parents

  Lucky Suit: Kristen and Cameron/Mistaken Identity

  And

  A Guy Walks Into My Bar, an MM standalone spinoff: Dean and Fitz

  BE A LOVELY

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  THE WHAT IF GUY

  A GUYS WHO GOT AWAY NOVEL

  ABOUT

  It should be an easy rule to follow - don't bang your boss...

  But I didn't know who he was when I met him.

  And the first time I saw him, our connection sounded like the stuff of romantic legends -- that whole "their eyes locked across a crowded room" moment that turned into more.I didn't believe it. . . . until it happened to me.

  Fine, the charming, clever, sexy-as-sin guy in the tailored suit was only trying to buy the same Snoopy lunchbox (as a gift!), but still, our eyes totally locked, and my lady parts definitely tingled as we vied for the prize.

  Naturally, I did what any badass business woman would do.

  Negotiated for the lunchbox, then found my what-if guy online and made plans to see him the next night.

  One night only -- that was the deal we made.

  But one fantastic night had us both changing our minds in the morning. And making plans for another.

  Until I walked into the office to learn he just bought my company.

  And here's the biggest rule of romantic legends -- no matter what, don't bang your boss.

  Especially if you're already falling for him.

  THE WHAT IF GUY

  By Lauren Blakely

  To be the first to find out when all of my upcoming books go live click here!

  PRO TIP: Add lauren@laurenblakely.com to your contacts before signing up to make sure the emails go to your inbox!

  Did you know this book is also available in audio and paperback on all major retailers? Go to my website for links!

  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.

  Or to snag his number.

  Le sigh.

  I drop my tablet in my purse, and when our drinks are ready, Teagan and I head out onto Seventh Avenue.

  This West Village block holds not only my favorite coffee shop, but the quirky gift shop next door is usually worth a peek, and what I see through the window most definitely makes my chest tingle. I can just make out my favorite cartoon character, and it reminds me of all my happiest days.

  My heart clutches as I look at it. A swell of emotions rises in me—longing, missing, loving.

  Happiness is an elusive thing, and you have to find ways to seize it and hold on tightly.

  I point at the sign for Your Little Loves. “I’m going to pop into the store before the meeting. Want to join?”

  Taking a sip of her drink, Teagan shakes her head. “I need to answer some emails.”

  “You mean check out your Tinder profile?” I ask with a sly smile.

  “No. I mean answer some emails.” She winks, and the truth is I’ll never know if she’s answering emails or checking her profile, but that’s her business. Teagan always gets her work done even while juggling her, ahem, outside interests. And hey, I’m stopping my workday to go shopping, so fair’s fair.

  “See you in a few minutes,” I say, and head into the shop, zooming in on the prize in my crosshairs.

  A Snoopy lunch box.

  It gives me warm fuzzies, activating memories of hunting retro collectibles like this at garage sales.

  Happy times indeed.

  This lunch box would be a perfect keepsake box to store some postcards in.