Page 2 of What If It's You?

Ten to one odds he would leave the towel there, but I had bigger fish to fry today—C-suite fish, I remembered with a spike of anxiety. Besides, if I was totally honest with myself, his poet’s soulwasmy favorite thing about him, the carefree way he moved throughthe world something I’d always envied and never been able to embody. Poets weren’t known for their love of spreadsheets, after all.

I took a deep breath, ticked through all the items in my bag one last time, reassuring myself they were all in their designated places, then hoisted it onto my shoulder, my work brain already kicking into gear.

“I’ve gotta go, my first meeting is in an hour and I need to run through my deck another time before it starts. See you tonight at Mother Hen? The reservation is for seven, right?” I didn’t need to ask—it had been in my calendar for a month, and I’d been using the prospect of the restaurant’s familiar fare and gigantic martinis as a mental “reward” for sticking the landing on this morning’s presentation. On top of that, we’d had anniversary dinners at the same restaurant every year since we got together—Ollie’s romantic side loved a good tradition.

But double-checking was sort of athingwith me, especially when I was feeling anxious. I glanced down at my bag a third time, pulling open the inside pouch to reassure myself that my ID badge hadn’t sprouted legs during the night.

“It is. But before you go…” He moved over to his side of the bed, pulling the acoustic guitar that lived in our bedroom off its stand. He plucked each string, twisted one of the pegs slightly, then turned to me, strumming a single chord.

“I don’t think they’re ready…”—his voice was soulful, almost mournful—“for you, Laurel…”

“Ollie.” I glared at him from beneath a lowered brow. “I donothave time for this.”

“I don’t think they’re ready…foryou,Laur-or-or-el,” he warbled, closing his eyes, leaning into the drama of his cover. I sniffed out a laugh.

“Seriously? ‘Bootylicious’? Is that really the vibe I need for my big meeting?” I couldn’t pinpoint when, precisely, he’d started serenading me in advance of major work events, but over the years his “pep-up songs” had grown progressively more ridiculous.

He took a few steps closer, bending his head to hold my gaze as he strummed a few slow chords.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m singing an absolutely original tune inspired by your undeniable fierceness. It came to me in a dream last night and I thought to myself ‘Ollie, you need to share this with Laurel, it’s important that she hear it before she walks into battle.’ ” He shrugged. “When the muse calls, Laurel, I have to answer. On that note…Can they handle…handle you?” He sang the last few words, leaning so close that I could smell the spicy notes of his bodywash. “I don’t think they’re ready…” He drew the last word out to ludicrous length and I groan-laughed, rolling my eyes. He responded with a melodious solo on the guitar.

I really should have headed out—the meetingwasimportant—but I didn’t move as he pressed his forehead to mine, letting the warmth of his skin dissolve a little of the anxiety coursing through me.

“Itisa battle, you know. And you’d better hope I win it, otherwise I’m not gonna be able to float my half of that trip to Morocco you keep fantasizing about.”

“I don’t have to hope, Laurel. I have faith. In you, and in the epic power of…your jelly.” Gripping the guitar neck with one hand, he reached around with the other to playfully squeeze my ass.

“You’re soweird,Ollie,” I said, my embarrassed-teenager tone totally at odds with the grin I wasn’t even fighting anymore. A flurry of the lust that had kicked up when he emerged from the bathroom swirled through my stomach.

“Think what that says aboutyou,Lo.” He raised his eyebrows. “I can’t help the person I am, but you…youchosethis.” He gestured to himself, then plucked out a few more minor chords, shaking his head sorrowfully.

I laughed, anxiety fully forgotten. Ollie always had been good at getting me out of mybut what if…and then maybe…doom loop and back into the present.

“Probably nothing good. On that note…” I slid my hand around the back of Ollie’s neck, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, thepressure of them against my own reassuringly familiar. “I’m leaving now.”

“Seriously, though, you’re going to kill it. Can’t wait to celebrate your victory tonight.”

The warmth in his eyes lingered in my chest all the way out the door. The “Bootylicious” chorus stuck around even longer, the familiar tune adding a little spring to my step as I made my way down the street.

Which might be why it didn’t click into place until I was halfway to the T stop: Not only did Ollie have a ring, it was our five-year anniversary. And he washim. The family romantic. The musician with a poet’s soul who had always loved a grand gesture.

I broke out in a clammy sweat as the realization hit me: He wasn’t just planning to propose, he was going to do ittonight.

“And how can you be certain that the increase in clickthroughs was due to the new marketing strategy?” Jim Donovan, the SVP of Raincheck, our cloud storage service, raised an eyebrow.

“What do you take me for, Jim?” I said, my smile jovial as my stomach muscles tightened for battle. Jim had spent a decade in the trenches at Apple back in the dark ages and seemed to think this somehow made him the inheritor of Steve Jobs’s genius mantle. “I’d never try out a strategy this innovative in a vacuum. Next slide?

“You’ll see here, we A/B-tested the new strategy against our current campaign as well as against one of our most successful campaigns from the past few years, and in both cases the increase was in the double digits.” I raised a hand, preempting the protest I knew was coming. “We used a fresh batch of users, of course, so the data should be solid. Which is why I’m recommending we implement this campaign broadly across users as soon as possible, which should lead directly to…” I tilted my head at Owen, the admin running the presentations, who dutifully advanced to the last slide in my deck, a graphic one of my direct reports had worked upshowing a woman cavorting in a field of money. “Significant increases in ad revenue over the next quarter.”

Paul, the SVP of Pix—the social platform that was still our biggest product by far—chuckled appreciatively. I exhaled, relief flooding me. He and Jim might have the same three letters in front of their titles, but everyone knew that Paul hadwaymore power.

“Great work, Laurel. Really great work.” Paul smiled warmly at me. Where Jim tried to flex his power through disdain, Paul had always relied on positive reinforcement. Which was probably how he got such a plum title in the first place. “I don’t think we need an A/B test to know that you’re already adding huge value in your new role.”

I clamped my jaw against the grin threatening to split my entire face. The room was packed with heads of department, I had to at least try to act like I belonged here.

But Ollie had been right. I’d totally nailed it. And Jim, at least, had not been anywherenearready for this jelly.

“Okay, I’m sure we all have places to be. Owen will pull together the action items from today’s meeting and send them out with the minutes by end of day,” Paul said. “Thanks, everyone. Really excited to see what’s coming next.”

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