The Hot One Page 10

  We keep the rest of the conversation simpler, lubricated by talk of music and books, TV and film. He wants to know if I’m still a fan of “skinny boy rockers with eye makeup.”

  Oh yeah.

  I show him my latest playlist, so he knows some loves never die. “And don’t try to pretend you don’t like Poison. You were just as hooked on the band as I was when we played Guitar Hero’s ‘Talk Dirty to Me.’” I give him my best I’m-cross-examining-you stare. “I heard you sing that one under your breath when we played the video game.”

  “I was hooked on the directive of that one song title, and I believe you, as well, enjoyed the dirty talk.”

  A hint of heat floods my cheeks. He’s right. I sure did love his naughty mouth.

  While we catch up, I drink another glass of wine, and he finishes his beer. This Riesling tastes delicious, and maybe it’s the alcohol warming me up and breaking me down at once, but this buzzy feeling inside makes me want to flirt.

  We were so damn good at flirting, and I just can’t resist.

  I twirl a strand of hair and bite the corner of my lip. My go-to move and it always worked on Tyler. If I wanted him to grab a book from my shelf, pick up some snacks, turn up the thermostat, I’d do the move.

  He joked that he was silly putty, and that one touch, one look, one press of my teeth into a little nibble, and he’d groan sexily, then give me the moon with some sprinkles on top.

  I brush my fingers along his forearm then drag one over the top of his hand. His eyes darken with heat, and I like knowing I still affect him. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten you were going to tell me about the cat with superpowers. Spill the beans, Nichols.”

  “Ah, yes,” he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows. “Seems I have something you want.” He moves in closer, and the temperature in me rises. “You really want to know about the pussycat on the TV show?”

  “I do want to know,” I say, breathily.

  He brushes the hair from my neck, and I shiver from his touch. “You won’t tell a soul?”

  “I promise.” My voice is feathery soft, and maybe I’m the one who’s putty. Because he melts me. He just fucking melts me with every little touch.

  “Swear?”

  I make an X over my chest, and he follows the path of my fingers, lingering on the tops of my breasts. The weight of his stare makes my nipples hard. My God, this man. I want him to touch me. It’s so damn difficult to last more than a few minutes with him without longing for contact, for the intensity of the physical. He bends his neck, brings his mouth near my ear. I draw a quick breath as he whispers, “Mind control.”

  I swat his chest. “Get out of here.”

  “Scout’s honor,” he says with a believe-me grin. “Cat Crazypants, the Great Illusionist, has sick powers of mind control. His paws also are like suction cups so that he can climb the sides of tall buildings. He uses them to vanquish the forces of evil.”

  “Be still my heart—a do-gooder. Don’t tell me he can fly, too.”

  He scoffs. “He’s an animated cat with kickass superpowers, Delaney. Of course he can fly.”

  I grin, loving these details. Maybe it’s the little girl in me, who gobbled up fairy tales once upon a time. Perhaps as an adult I’ve graduated to late-night cartoons and naughtier shows. But the common thread remains—a little bit of magic to grease the way out of a bad situation. Magical stories have always been my escape. “I can’t believe I have all the classified intel on Cat Crazypants.” I shift gears slightly. “I’ve been thinking about adopting a cat. Maybe I should name him Cat Crazypants.”

  “Let me ask a question. If you’re already picking out names, why don’t you have the cat yet?”

  I shrug then toss out a possibility. “I have commitment issues?”

  Yeah, the wine is definitely working. I don’t usually blurt stuff out. I don’t serve up my emotional baggage on a platter while out on dates. Or maybe it’s not just the wine. Perhaps I can speak freely with Tyler because he knows this already. He’s well aware that I’ve struggled with closeness thanks to mom and dear old dad.

  “I know all about your commitment issues,” he says with a laugh, and I’m relieved he can joke. “You’ll just have to take it slow, then, with your someday feline companion.”

  “I don’t know if taking it slow works when you adopt a cat. You can’t really try it out. You need to be ready to take the plunge.”

  “That is true. You definitely can’t date a cat,” he says.

  “Also, I want a cuddly cat, and that’s hard to find.”

  “Fuck, woman. You’ve got quite a long list of requirements in a pussycat.” His brown eyes sparkle like he knows we’re talking about more than domestic animals right now. I suppose I do have a list, but what modern woman doesn’t? I want what I want—the very best man.

  I mean cat.

  I want a good cat.

  That’s all I want. Four legs, a tail, and one that won’t pee on the floor or scratch the furniture. Is that so much to ask? Sure, the extra toes would be fun and all, but that’s like asking for eight inches in a man. Ideal, but hard to find. I raise my wine glass. “To the quest for a perfect six-toed cat,” I say, offering my glass for clinking. He tips his beer glass to mine.

  After I swallow the rest of the Reisling, another wave of warmth sweeps over me and threatens to tear down my defenses.

  But these defenses exist for a reason.

  Cats have claws.

  And cat analogies seem fitting right now. Felines seduce you. They ask to be petted. Then they unleash those claws.

  Cats can hurt you.

  This is the man who hurt me. This is the guy who coldly left me with barely an explanation. I know someone else who did that too—my dad did that to my mom, and I haven’t seen or talked to the person who’s responsible for half my DNA in nearly a decade. I eye my nearly empty glass. “I better slow down.”

  “Still a lightweight?”

  “Yes. One more of these, and I’ll be toast.” I force a smile, as if that’s the real issue. Truth be told, drinking makes me frisky. And that’s a chance I can’t take right now. I can’t just flirt my way back into friendship with him. Or into whatever-ship this is.

  No matter how good he kisses, no matter how well we can shoot the breeze, I need to remember the pain.

  I stop the flirting and ask the real question. “Tyler,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m curious if this is why you wanted to have drinks.”

  He tilts his head like the RCA dog. “What do you mean?”

  “Did you really want to talk about cats and life and friends and work? Is that what you wanted?”

  I wait for his answer.

  12

  Tyler

  * * *

  What I want is rooted in why I needed to see her.

  I thought it was curiosity. That’s what I told my cousin last weekend. And while I did want to learn all these things about her present life, I now know tonight’s not just about my curiosity.

  This date is about everything I’ve denied for the last week.

  My need to reconnect with her has stemmed straight from regret.

  Like an alarm blaring in my ear at five a.m., blasting me from bed, it’s an unavoidable truth—I regret breaking up with her.

  Oh hell, do I ever.

  Maybe it doesn’t make sense, but I thought I was driven by a new need to see her again, not by an old need. Now, after the talking and the joking, the teasing about bad hair days, and the hot, searing kiss that nearly turned into fucking, I’m sure that regret has barreled past curiosity. It’s fueling me. I miss this woman. I fucking miss what we could have had if I hadn’t been so pigheaded about ending us years ago.

  That’s why I have to talk to her about what went down.

  I’d hinted at the subject in my striptease. The why.

  And now I need to tell her.

  “Yes. To talk to you and hear about what you’re up to now. But that’s not the only reason I wanted to see you.”
I drum my fingers on the table. “Remember the other day when I stopped by your office?”

  She laughs. “Is that how you refer to it? Stopping by my office?”

  I flash her a crooked grin. “Why, yes. Seems an apropos way to describe my visit.” Then my smile fades. The moment turns more serious. “While I was there, I said breaking up with you was something I thought I had to do.”

  A dark cloud passes over her eyes. She sits up straighter, shifting away from me. “I remember.”

  I hold up my hands like I have nothing to hide. “I’m not being a revisionist historian here. Please know I’m not trying to justify how I ended it. I simply want to clear up the past. When I said I thought I had to split up with you, that was because I didn’t believe I could have both you and the career I wanted.”

  “I know that, Tyler,” she says, her tone exasperated. “That was very clear then. You don’t have to remind me.”

  Shit. I’m making it worse. I lay my hand on her forearm. Her skin is soft and warm, and this close, I catch a faint scent of her again. She smells fresh, like flowers and springtime. “I’m not trying to pour salt into a wound. And I’m not trying to shift the blame. I’m saying I was an idiot because I believed Professor Blair.”

  She frowns in confusion.

  Then I tell her the whole story. From the D on the paper, to the way he cleaned his glasses, to his cutthroat advice.

  She sneers when I finish. “Honestly, I’m not surprised he was against me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I always thought he was a pompous windbag.”

  I laugh. “He kind of was. But he was my advisor and seemed to be looking out for my best interests. I was obsessed with my career at the time, or its potential. It seemed an all or nothing choice to me, and you were the casualty. I’m not saying that was a wise choice. It was just the choice I made. That’s why I ended things the way I did. I didn’t explain it well at the time, and I’m not saying an explanation would have made it better, but I owe you the reason why I was so cold, and I want to give it to you.”

  She reaches for her glass, but she doesn’t drink. She runs the pad of her finger along the rim and shoots me a pointed look. “Okay.” Her tone is cool. “You’ve given it.”

  “Ouch.”

  She shrugs.

  But even if she’s giving up on me, I’m not done. “Look,” I say, making my case, keeping my gaze locked with hers, “wrong or right, I did believe any distractions would get in the way of law school.” I tap my chest. “That’s on me. I made that choice. And it was a bad fucking choice. But I did it, and once I decided—stupidly—that I couldn’t have both, I knew I had to go cold turkey on you.”

  “Cold turkey is putting it mildly,” she scoffs. “One minute, we meant everything to each other. The next minute, you were gone from my life. Clean break.”

  For a moment, I let my head hang. Then I raise my face, meet her eyes once more, and take the wine glass from her hand. I set it on the table, and hold both her hands in mine. The fact that she allows it emboldens me. It’s crazy that I’ve already backed her up to the wall and kissed her like the world was on fire, and yet I still get excited to hold her hand. “I know,” I say, imploring her. “I loved you so fucking much it was the only way I could do it.”

  She blinks, then her lips part. “What?” she speaks softly, gently.

  I squeeze her hands. “It’s true. It killed me ending things, and I knew I would’ve caved if I saw you at all or kept in touch. That’s why I didn’t call, or email, or anything.” I grip her hands harder. “I wanted to. I fought the urge every day. But if I had talked to you, I would’ve caved.”

  She sighs heavily. “I get why you felt you had to do it. I don’t like it, but I do understand. But you need to know how much it hurt. And it’s all fine and good to sit here with you and laugh and have a drink, because I’m a big girl and I’m over it. But that doesn’t change how it felt at the time—like a huge hole in my heart. And not just because of my parents. It hurt when you left me because I loved you, and because we had planned a future together.”

  I won’t give her any platitudes about how it hurt me, too. Nor will I try to Psych 101 away her family history. I have to man up and own my choices. The breakup is all on me. “I regret what I did, Delaney. That’s what I want to say. I can’t go back in time and rewrite things, but I want you to know that sitting here with you, talking to you, kissing you—every second is like drinking a big bottle of regret.”

  “How does it taste, counselor?” she asks, a small curve in her lips.

  “Bitter. It tastes bitter.”

  “I know that taste well,” she says, then she sighs deeply. Neither one of us says anything more. I’m not usually good with silence, but perhaps it’s necessary to process what went down.

  Well, for a few seconds at least. I’m glad she breaks it when she speaks again. “But I’m curious about something. If you wanted to be Mr. Courtroom Trial Lawyer so badly that you walked away from me, how the heck did you wind up in entertainment law? That’s not really a courtroom-centric field of law.”

  I laugh and lean back, glad that the tough part is over for now. “You’re right. Entertainment law is mostly deal and contract focused. And as for the change, it’s a funny story, and a short one.”

  She stares at me expectantly. “Waiting.”

  I scratch my chin. “I learned pretty quickly what excited me about law. It turns out what I really liked wasn’t the drama of the courtroom. It was the entertainment part.”

  She cracks up, tossing her head back. “Oh my God, are you kidding me?”

  I shrug sheepishly. “Don’t get me wrong. I do think that part of the business is ridiculously cool. But once I was in law school, I realized, thanks to my cousin, that what I loved was entertainment itself. Movies, TV shows, books. That’s what inspired me in the first place. And I love helping clients in those areas to realize their dreams.”

  “I always knew you’d be great at your job. I’m not surprised you’re a superstar now in your field and you’re barely thirty.”

  I arch one eyebrow. “How do you know I’m a superstar?”

  Her lips curve up. “I looked you up after we talked. Read up on your client list. Saw what you were up to. It’s impressive. I’m proud of you.”

  And fuck, if I don’t still have it bad for her, those words reel me in. Yeah, I’m feeling regret big-time, but that feeling is mixed with some hope now, and it’s chased with potential. Maybe I have a second chance with her.

  A burst of excitement flares inside me. To get there, I want to understand more of who she is today, this woman with the red shoes, and the magic hands, and the turtle charm, who loves her posse madly.

  “What about you? You always did give me amazing shoulder rubs, but your career change is a lot bigger than simply practicing a different area of law. What’s that all about? How did you make the change?”

  Before she can answer, though, the waitress appears, asking if we want refills.

  Delaney shakes her head. She turns to me as the waitress leaves, and taps her empty glass. “If I have another one of these, I might do something I regret.”

  My chest falls.

  There’s that word again. I’m not the only one dealing with regret, or the prospect of it.

  Then, she meets my eyes, and says softly, “I had a change of heart. That’s all. And now I really need to go.”

  Change of heart.

  That’s exactly what I don’t want her to have with me right now. I need to plead my case for another shot. And since she’s seeing her friends tomorrow, they’re the real judge and jury I’ll have to impress. I’ve got a small window to make sure Delaney knows I’m not the same guy who walked away eight years ago. I can be different.

  After I pay, we head outside. Standing on the sidewalk in front of the bar, I raise my hand and finger the strands of her hair. I play to my strengths again. The physical. She leans into my hand. There. Yeah. That.

/>   And another strength? Memory for details, especially about the things that are important to me. “Are you going for a run tomorrow morning?”

  She gives me a “how’d you know my schedule” look.

  “I figured you go for a run nearly every morning.”

  A small smile is my answer. “I do.”

  “With your friends?”

  She shakes her head. “Tomorrow I’m solo. I like to run early on Saturday, since I have appointments in the morning. And getting Nicole out of bed at that hour is like asking a dog to eat broccoli.”

  “Early wake-up calls don’t bother me, nor does broccoli. Tell me where to meet you.”

  “Tyler,” she says, resisting.

  I drop my hand to her shoulder. “Just a run. That’s all. We can run and talk. Or we can run and not talk.”

  “Why?”

  I cup her cheek and run my thumb over her top lip. “Because seeing you reminds me that I was wrong to listen to Professor Blair. And since I don’t have Cat Crazypants’s power to turn back time, all I can do is ask to be your running companion tomorrow morning.”

  Her brown eyes sparkle. “Cat Crazypants can turn back time?”

  “He sure as hell can.”

  And maybe I can, too, in my own way, since she says yes.

  I’ve been granted a continuance.

  13

  Tyler

  * * *

  In the half light of the early dawn, I jog lightly from my apartment and through the tree-lined streets on the Upper East Side, my phone pressed to my ear.

  It’s a Saturday morning and early as hell, but I have a nervous client to talk down again. “Jay, I spoke with Craig yesterday and told him we weren’t going to budge on the last point for After Dark. It’s a deal-breaker.”