I need to try though. He deserves that much, and so do I. He’s not asking me to do this for the “Mr. Smolder” series to continue. He is asking me to do this because he cares for me.

  That makes a huge difference.

  But the thing is . . .

  “It’s not that I don’t want to do that,” I say, but then backpedal because a double negative isn’t the way to go. “I want that, Logan. I do. Please know I do.”

  A tiny smile curves his lips. “Good.” It comes out as a relieved whisper.

  I swallow past the stone in my throat. “But it changes a lot for me.”

  His eyes are serious, intense, and he nods, getting it. “I know. I completely understand that this is more of a risk for you to take on than it is for me.”

  “And there’s Isaac.” I picture the man I discuss baseball with. Only baseball. “Isaac is great, but he and I only ever talk about the Yankees. And I like it that way. I like debating the team’s chances with him. I like that I don’t have to go to him with trouble. I like not discussing my love life with him.” I take another drink, needing a moment to sort through the tangled skein of issues I’d face. “And sure, on the one hand, I run a site where discussing our love lives is par for the course. It’s the very reason for the site. But I prefer doing that when said love life is with someone who’s not involved with signing the checks.”

  He’s stoic, but I can see a hint of sadness in his eyes, like I’ve just sucker-punched him. Maybe I have, though it’s the bare truth. I never intended to tango with my boss. Don’t mix business with pleasure. That’s one of my mantras. One of my mother’s too.

  But that look on his face tugs on my heart. Makes me want to say yes. His honesty, his forthrightness, they make me want to loop my arms around his neck and smother him with kisses then ask him to take me home.

  Trouble is, I don’t know how to balance these warring wishes. “I’ve worked hard to keep my personal life separate from business. I don’t date people I work with. I want to inspire the people I work with. I want to elevate them. Help them be the best. I don’t want to be a source of office gossip, though, and I keep thinking I will be if we’re together. It’s like my mom always said: Don’t give them something to talk about.”

  “The opposite of the Bonnie Raitt anthem,” he says wryly.

  “Exactly. I try to do the opposite.” I reach for his hand, wanting to take it, but knowing I can’t yet. Because I don’t know if I can do this. Flirting in the office was risky enough, but this—his offer—is the real line. This is the public line.

  I place my hands in my lap.

  “But I’m not saying no. I’m saying”—I draw a deep breath—“I’d like to think about it this weekend.”

  “Of course.”

  The speed of his answer, the certainty behind it is one more reason why I’ll be giving it so much thought.

  Later that night, as I sink onto the bed next to Bruce, I bury my face in my hands. How can I date my boss when one wrong move could mean losing everything I’ve worked for?

  The answer is simple.

  I can’t.

  But is that the answer I’ll give?

  19

  BRUCE

  Day 897 in Prison

  What?

  Who was disturbing his slumber?

  Bruce had been training hard to sleep twenty-two hours a day. He’d surpassed twenty-one the other month and had closed in on twenty-two a few weeks ago.

  He was enticingly near to making that mark today.

  He barely bothered to open one eye, doing so only because he needed to know the enemy.

  Ah, the woman.

  The jailer.

  The human he tried to resist.

  She’d flopped down next to him on his bed. She liked to call it her bed, but he knew whose it truly was. His. The entire expanse of soft blankets and warm pillows belonged to him.

  He’d commandeered it months ago, his first act of jailhouse rebellion, claiming it as his own, rubbing his body against it, leaving fur where he could.

  Marking it all over.

  “Bruce,” the woman said with a sigh, sliding a hand along his spine.

  Ah, that was sort of . . . pleasant. Her hand felt exceptionally good.

  “What am I going to do?”

  Bruce hoped she’d pet him. She’d vastly improved her petting skills over all these long days of incarceration. She used to pet his belly, and he’d taught her quickly, with a few well-placed nicks and scratches, NEVER TO DO THAT AGAIN.

  Fast learner, she now only stroked his back.

  Purr-fection.

  “He wants to tell HR. To be open. To try dating. And I want that. Truly, I do. But what if . . .”

  What if she stopped stroking him? That would sadden Bruce immensely, so he amplified his noise-making device, using it to encourage her to keep it up.

  Petting like this would put him back to sleep, and sleep was what he craved most.

  Well, after trout.

  And flounder.

  And, admittedly, a grilled branzino. His mouth watered as he remembered the one she’d given him a few weeks ago. That was when he’d first started to curl up with her at night. After all, branzinos were branzinos, and he’d wanted her to know he’d appreciated the gift of adoration laid at his paws.

  “What if it all comes back to haunt me?” she continued with a heavy sigh. “If it doesn’t work out, I’m just the woman who dated the CEO. Who slept with the boss. And he’s still . . . the boss. Nothing changes for him. It’s harder for women, you know.”

  It’s harder for cats who can’t catch branzinos on their own. That was what was hard. Try not having access to a stream for fishing. Talk about misery.

  She chattered on as she stroked his fur. “I told him I need to think about it. Maybe over the weekend. Because what if it goes south like everything did with Evan? That can happen, right?”

  Evan. The word sounded so familiar.

  Ah, Evan. That name she’d used for the wretched man she’d once lived with. That man, if Bruce recalled correctly, had been jealous of him. That Bruce was far more beautiful than any human could ever be was reason enough, but also, the woman liked Bruce, and Evan was jealous of a cat.

  Well, that only made him smart. He should be jealous of a cat.

  But Evan had never given Bruce a branzino. Bruce’s stomach convulsed at the memory of his long-ago jailer, of Evan’s selfishness in keeping branzinos only for himself.

  Bruce leapt up, hacked several times, then proceeded to vomit up his dinner.

  All over the covers.

  There. That’d show her what he thought of Evan. That would answer her question.

  “Oh, Bruce. You poor thing. I hope you feel better soon. Let me change the bedding.” As she cleaned up his sick, she sighed. “That’s obviously a sign that it could all go wrong. Relationships always do, don’t they?”

  Bruce climbed up on the windowsill and licked his paw. Then, because he’d once seen her laugh when she watched a cat do this, he swatted a mug off the sill.

  Crash.

  The mug broke. Yes, that was satisfying too.

  “Oh, brilliant!”

  She snapped a photo of the carnage, stroked his back, and scratched his ears. She did seem pleased with him, and that was, he had to admit, growing more appealing by the day.

  20

  BRYN

  On Thursday I have meetings all day with our content partners.

  As I zip around town, I think.

  As I dart into meetings, I contemplate.

  As I march down the sidewalk, I wonder.

  The whole time I dip into the big ol’ bag of advice my mom left behind, fishing around for that one perfect bit of wisdom.

  But I’m not sure which one to clutch, the go for it adage or the do the right thing motto.

  I spend Friday prepping for my trip to California next week. After work, I meet with Teagan at Peace of Cake. Our friend Amy comes too, because she loves us and because she can’t resist cake.

  After I order a slice of coconut cake to share, Amy plops into a chair, red glasses on, and gestures grandly to me. “You have called me to a cake meeting. I can only presume you have a big dilemma.”

  “Yes. I put it before the cat, and he gave me contradictory advice,” I say as Amy digs in.

  “Huh. How odd for a cat to be contrary,” Teagan says drolly.

  “Shocking, I know.”

  “So, what’s the dealio?” Amy asks.

  I spread my hands on the table, leaning on the scale I use for bad decisions. “On a scale of one to a box of rocks, how dumb is it to date the guy who just bought the site I work for?”

  Amy flinches, her fork freezing in midair.

  My shoulders sag. “I’ll take that as a vote for a truck full of rocks. A quarry full of stone.”

  Teagan clears her throat and points at me. “In Bryn’s defense, she was dating him before he bought the site.”

  “Well, before either of us knew who the other one was,” I clarify.

  Amy blinks. “Back it up, ladies, and explain. Don’t leave out any juicy details.”

  I unspool the tale, especially what weighs on me the most. “I love my employees. I love Matthew and Rosario, Quentin and James. And I can’t help but wonder how they’ll view me if they know I’m sleeping with the guy in charge.” I fiddle with my bracelets. “Will they see me as less of a lady boss? As more foolish? Will I seem less strong, less kick-ass? I want to be this badass woman who knows her mind. Who goes after what she wants. Like my mom was,” I say, and I don’t choke up. I stay strong. Because that’s who she was. That’s what she taught me to do, how to be.

  Teagan squeezes my hand. “You are strong. You’re so much like her in the ways that matter, sweetie.”

  “But what if the people I work with don’t see me that way?” I ask softly. That’s the big issue. My job matters to me. My identity matters. I care deeply for the staff at the site.

  Amy taps her chin thoughtfully. “It’s hard, I know, because you want them to respect you.”

  “And sometimes, call me crazy, but people can be judgy of women,” Teagan puts in.

  “Yeah. Just a little bit. So I don’t know if the answer is easy.”

  “It’s not easy,” Teagan says, eyes locked with mine.

  “It’s a choice,” Amy adds, setting down her fork, holding that same serious tone.

  “How do I make it?” I ask. “How do I choose?”

  Amy sighs heavily. “You have what is known as a double-bath-bomb problem.”

  I knit my brow. “And what is that?”

  “It’s a million shades of gray that can only be sifted through with a good long soak in a tub. So, you soak, and you contemplate.”

  That I can do.

  21

  LOGAN

  With laser focus, I eye the pitch.

  I call on the same focus I’ve tried to employ all day yesterday and today. The focus I’ve needed to resist Bryn since we met at the coffee shop two nights ago.

  To stay away from her office. To refrain from texting her. To give her the space she asked for.

  As the ball crosses the plate, my metal bat connects with a thwack.

  The sound of possibility.

  For a split second, my eyes follow the ball’s trajectory over the field, but there’s no time to linger. It’s Friday night, and I have a game to win. I hustle down the first baseline, watching the flight of the ball.

  “Go, Daddy, go!”

  Amelia’s cheer from the bleachers is loud and proud, energizing me to run even faster.

  My foot lands on the first base bag right as the ball soars past the fence in Central Park. I thrust my arms skyward. “Yes!”

  A shout comes from ahead of me on the field. “I knew you were good for something!” My sister’s rounding second base, heading toward third.

  Oliver’s ahead of her, shouting back at me, “I never gave up on you. Not once in all these years.”

  I roll my eyes. “You two are so sweet,” I call out, laughing as I follow them, adrenaline surging, chased by the thrill of victory—that home run seals the game for my team.

  After I trot around the bases, I cross home plate, smacking the palms of my sister and Oliver. “Woohoo! We did it!”

  “You did it, Daddy! You’re the best!” Amelia shouts from her vantage point on Fitz’s shoulders as he joins the rest of the team.

  Fitz lifts his arms, wraps them around her waist, and lifts her off his shoulders. “That tickles! Don’t drop me, Fitzy,” she says to him as he sets her down gently.

  He tickles her waist. “Never. I’d never tickle you while you were on my shoulders. Only the ground, and then you’ll beg for mercy from the tickle monster.”

  With a boisterous laugh, she wiggles away. “Stop, tickle monster, stop!” She rushes to me, hugging me. “Your home run was my favorite part of the game.” She taps her lip. “Except Calvin and Hobbes was a little better.”

  “What?” I act indignant.

  “Fitz was reading to me the whole time he wasn’t playing, and we read Calvin and Hobbes,” she says.

  I ruffle her hair. “You can never go wrong with one of America’s best comics,” I say, grateful that my friends take turns keeping Amelia occupied.

  “Amelia,” Fitz chides. “Tell your dad the truth. You read a lot of it to me too.”

  My kid smiles at me, big and bright. “It’s true, Daddy. I read to Fitzy. And he was super impressed because I am an awesome reader, thanks to you.” She pats my forearm and tells Fitz, “He reads to me every night.”

  “I taught him how to read,” he deadpans.

  I roll my eyes, but then meet my friend’s blue-eyed gaze, clapping him on the shoulder. “Thanks for hanging with her during the game.”

  He tousles her hair. “One of my favorite things to do.” He looks at the crew—Summer, Oliver, and me. “You guys up for some chow before the show? I’m hungry just from watching Logan expend all that energy on a grand slam.”

  Summer gestures uptown. “I’ve got to stop by the fitness center. I want to see how the kickboxing class went tonight, but I can join you guys in a bit.”

  Oliver slips an arm around her waist. “I bet it went perfectly. What could go wrong with kickboxing for seniors?”

  “Gee. I don’t know,” Summer says. “That’s why I need to go. But we’ll meet up with you guys at the Lucky Spot, right? Check out the new band.”

  “See you there,” I say, grateful to hang with my crew tonight, since I don’t actually know when I’ll hear from Bryn again on the do you want to disclose and date question. But I’ll give her time.

  Oliver and Summer grab their softball gear and head off.

  “I want to go out with you and your friends tonight,” Amelia says, frowning as she bats puppy-dog, take-me-with-you eyes. They work in most circumstances. Except tonight, since my time with her is unwinding.

  I drop a kiss to her cheek. “I know you do, sweetie. But mommy is here to pick you up, and I’m sure she has something fun planned with you this weekend.”

  I sling the softball gear onto my shoulder, and we leave with Fitz to meet Stacey at the Seventy-Second Street entrance to the park.

  Her voice hits my ears as we near the exit. “And would you believe, David, then she said there was no way she was going to bring nut-free treats for the class. And I said, ‘Yes way, you have to.’”

  I roll my eyes. Stacey has never let go of the need to be the classroom nut police. Admirable goal, to be sure. But it never warranted so much . . . conversation.

  And I’m damn grateful I no longer have to listen to it.

  “Mommy!”

  Amelia takes off running, flinging herself at her mom. Seeing my girl like this, loving both her parents, keeps me focused on getting along with my ex. I’d do anything for Amelia—anything to make her life in two homes as easy as possible.

  Still, I mutter under my breath to my friend, “Why does she always have to bring him?”

  Fitz claps my shoulder. “You got this, bro.”

  And he’s right. I do have this. It’s been two years, and it doesn’t hurt like it used to, seeing her with the guy she left me for.

  The guy she cheated with.

  He’s some jerkwad at an investment firm I did business with. An office manager type who worked fewer hours than me.

  That was her criteria, it seemed.

  She met David at a business dinner for my firm. And what did she do then? Took up with him while I was at the office. When I found out, she begged me to take her back.

  Said she was sorry.

  Said it was a mistake.

  That it would never happen again.

  When I said no fucking way were we staying together, she changed her tune.

  “I was lonely. All you do is work. You were working all the time,” she said, like it was my fault she’d strayed.

  Also, she was wrong.

  I was home every night by seven. Home nearly every weekend. I rarely missed storytime or bedtime or bath time. I made breakfast with Amelia every morning and took her to preschool most days.

  But when our marriage cracked, Stacey flung my work in my face. “I want someone who can give me more attention. You spend all your time on business. David’s not like that. He’s focused on me. He’s off at five every night.”

  I hardly think two hours a night made much difference.

  The bigger issue was Stacey and I had been drifting apart for years. College sweethearts, we got married two years after graduation. Amelia was born a few years later, and we were young twentysomething parents trying to make it in Manhattan.

  We tried for a while, and Stacey encouraged me to focus on my business, since it had a tremendous upside in the money department.

  But money wasn’t enough.

  Honestly, if I had worked less, I don’t think that would have been enough either. Stacey and I stopped loving each other well before she had an affair.

  Doesn’t make it right that she cheated.

  But I’ll also never cast her as the bad guy in front of my kid.