Mister O Read online

  Her eyes lock on mine. “Seeing you undress for me,” she says, and her voice slides into that vulnerable tone she uses every now and then. The faintest of smiles tugs at her lips and pulls at my heart. We’re talking about sex, but we’re also not. She’s saying something else it seems, something about what it means to open up to someone, to let him in. Or maybe I just want to think that. I half wish I had that Harper decoder ring and could translate what she just said into what some part of me wishes it meant. But I’m not sure how to get in touch with that part. For so long, I’ve been primarily focused on one thing with women—driving them wild. With Harper I want that in spades, but I want something else, too.

  More.

  Even though I know I can’t have that with her, and there’s no point in dwelling on it.

  I grab a piece of bread, instead, and bite into it to keep from saying anything too revealing in response. The waitress arrives with a glass of wine for her and a beer for me, bringing to an end the serious moment.

  The rest of the meal is easy. We talk about work and movies, agreeing that The Usual Suspects has the best twist, then books, and which Harry Potter spell we’d most want to do. We both choose the ability to apparate. “Instant transportation. No more airplanes, no more cars, no more waiting,” I say, pressing my index finger to the table for emphasis. “We could just go to Fiji right now.”

  “Next stop, Bora Bora.”

  We even chat about the crossword puzzle, and she’s surprised when I tell her I finish it nearly every week.

  “Every week?” she asks, arching an eyebrow.

  “When you signed up to ride this ride, did you think you were only getting beauty here?” I gesture to myself then tap my temple. “There’s brains, too.”

  “The Sunday crossword is just really hard.”

  I shrug. “I like puzzles.” Like you. You’re a mystery to me sometimes.

  “Me too,” she adds, and sometimes we have so much in common it scares me.

  We stroll along Central Park after dinner. The evening air is cool, and a flurry of golden brown leaves skip past our feet in the night breeze.

  “I love fall in New York City,” she muses, glancing up at the trees, their branches bursting with color, canopying us as I walk her home. “It’s my favorite season.”

  “Why?”

  “I love fall clothes and scarves,” she says, her boots clicking against the sidewalk. “Fall colors, too—all the orange, and red, and gold. And the air is crisp, but not cold. And mostly, it just seems like the season Manhattan was designed for.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s romantic. It’s as if . . .” She pauses as if she’s taking time with her thoughts. She slows her pace and looks at me. “It’s as if Manhattan and fall have chemistry. Know what I mean?”

  “Like they’re meant to be?”

  “Yes. Exactly. New York was made for autumn,” she says, as a tall brunette and an even taller blond dude walk toward us, his arm draped around her shoulder. Harper and I move slightly to the right, and her eyes linger on them for a moment.

  “And autumn was made for New York,” I add, then I go for it. I wrap my arm around her shoulder. “Are you cold?”

  She shakes her head. “Not anymore.”

  Silence falls between us for the next block. It’s weird, because we’re usually so chatty. But it’s nice like this, walking through the city, New York unfolding before us in all its autumn splendor, elegant buildings on our left, a jewel of a park on our right.

  “Now it feels like a date,” she says under her breath, and my heart speeds up, pounding against my chest. Because I really like dating her. More than I should.

  But as I flip her words in my mind, I wonder if I’ve overstepped with her, and crossed a line she doesn’t want crossed. “Is that okay?”

  “Of course,” she says, as if she’s saying duh. “This is still lessons in dating, right? I mean, just because we added sex to the mix doesn’t mean we’re leaving the dating lessons in the dust, right?”

  My heart skids, slamming cruelly against my rib cage. I tell it to shut the fuck up, because I can’t keep letting it get out of line and wanting more. “Sure,” I say gruffly, but now I wonder if that dinner was a mock date. Is she practicing dating with me now, too? Sex is one thing, but trial dates gnaw at me. I don’t know why. They just do.

  “I thought I was pretty impressive at dinner with you tonight. I didn’t spill any red sauce on myself. I didn’t tell any embarrassing stories, and I spoke in complete and intelligible sentences the entire time,” she says, poking fun at herself.

  I manage a small laugh, trying to let go of whatever weirdness is ping-ponging inside my head. “You were pretty damn impressive.”

  “You know what this means, then?” she asks, a knowing grin on her face.

  “Nope.”

  “C’mon. Try,” she says, elbowing my ribs.

  I draw a blank. “No clue. Coming up empty.”

  “But I thought you liked puzzles,” she says, with a quirk in her lips.

  “I do, but I can’t solve this,” I admit, my tone clipped. I don’t know how to play her game.

  She tsks me. “It means,” she says, stopping, stepping closer, and grabbing the neck of my shirt, “that last night in your hotel was our first date, and this is our second date. And you know what third date protocol is.”

  Schwing!

  The decoder ring worked! I get it. She’s donned her Princess of Innuendo cape tonight, and she wants to fuck tomorrow. And that’s what I’m going to focus on. Not this dating shit that’s vexing me. Besides, there’s no need to be pissy when I’m going to have her coming all over my cock in less than twenty-four hours.

  Ah, there. I feel so much better with that image front and center in my head. Thank you very much, brain.

  I loop an arm around her waist. “I do, indeed, know what third date protocol is, and I intend to give you the full and proper treatment.”

  Then, because I want to give her a taste of what tomorrow will be like, and maybe, too, because I want to remind her that I can wind her up in a second, I kiss the hell out of her on the streets of Manhattan, yanking her close to me. She grinds her pelvis against my growing hard-on, and I’m about to whisper dirty things in her ear about how wet she’s getting. But I don’t want to end the kiss yet. I don’t want to stop at all, and she doesn’t seem to either.

  Until a bus rumbles by, spewing out a thick plume of exhaust that ruins the moment.

  Her phone buzzes as we separate, and she grabs it from her purse.

  Her mouth forms a surprised O as she scans her screen. “It’s Simon.”

  I clench my fists and look away. My jaw is set hard, and I hate the reminder right now. He’s the guy she’s really into. Fuck, he’s the one I’m training her for, right? For a moment, I wish that he doesn’t really like her, that he’ll let her down, that he’ll hurt her and she’ll run back to me. But I feel awful wanting that for her.

  “How is Mr. Hemsworth?” I ask, barely masking the bitterness in my tone.

  “It’s just a confirmation of the party info,” she says gently. “It’s later this week. Saturday morning, actually.” She shows me the text, and it’s not as if I need to see it. It really is only a work message, and I feel like a schmuck for letting my misplaced jealously shine through.

  But another note pops up on her screen.

  Would you like to get a coffee sometime soon? :)

  He used a fucking emoticon. I can’t believe it. I want to punch the air in victory, because that is complete and absolute grounds for a revocation of his man-card. “What’s with the smiley face?”

  “It’s cute,” she says, and she sounds a little dreamy, like she likes him.

  That’s it. I snap. “Don’t go. Don’t fuck him.”

  She wrenches back and looks at me as if I’ve sprouted two heads. Snake heads, based on the vitriol in my tone. She parks her hands on her hips. “What the hell does that mean, Nick?”


  I scrub a hand over my jaw. I try to let go of the jealousy, but it’s not a green-eyed monster for nothing. “Just not yet, okay? Don’t fuck him while we’re fucking,” I say, keeping my words as crass as can be. I can’t let her see that the thought of anyone else touching her eats me alive.

  “I would never do that.” Her tone is full of hurt.

  “Well, how do I know?”

  She pushes my chest, shoves me hard. “Get real. Seriously. I told you I haven’t slept with anyone in a few years. I told you I barely know what I’m doing in bed. I’m not going to sleep with you and someone else at the same time. I’m not even going to date him right now.” She slices a hand through the air. “I would never be with you and someone else. Never.”

  And I’m an asshole.

  “I wouldn’t, either,” I say softly. “I don’t want to be with anyone else right now, either, and I didn’t mean to suggest you would.”

  She stares at me and exhales. Her eyes seem to soften, but she crosses her arms over her chest. I’m not forgiven yet.

  I reach out and wrap my arms around her. She lets me hold her, but doesn’t reciprocate. “It’s just we never said we wouldn’t while we do this.” Whatever this is.

  “I didn’t think we had to. Isn’t it obvious we won’t? I won’t. You won’t. It’s that simple. It’s not even a rule we need to establish. It’s just an is.”

  And fuck, the way she says that, so certain and determined, so clear on who she is, hooks into my chest.

  I am so utterly fucked with this girl. And I don’t just mean fucked in that way. I mean it in every way.

  After I return to my home, I text her.

  I’m sorry. I acted like a dick

  I shower, slide under the sheets, and grab my phone. There’s no reply, and all I can think is I screwed up badly.

  22

  I wake up far too early for my taste. As I grab my phone from the nightstand, a twinge of hope rises in my chest. It’s then dashed by the absence of a reply.

  Shit.

  I pull on shorts and a pullover, lace up my sneakers, and jam in my earbuds. I run hard in Central Park, my phone in my hand the whole time as the sun rises, waking up Manhattan.

  Still nothing.

  I hit the gym for a quick round of weights, then return to my apartment and down a glass of water. I’m wiping the sweat from my brow when my phone dings. I take a deep breath. I really hope she’s not pissed anymore.

  I unlock the screen, see her name, and click open her text.

  Princess: Good morning :) :) :) :) :) :) :)

  I laugh at the way she needles me with her flurry of emoticons.

  I try to respond in kind, tapping out a hi and adding a smiley face. But. I. Can’t. Do. It. And evidently, I don’t have to. Another text arrives seconds later.

  Princess: I crashed as soon as I walked in the door last night. Apparently multiple Os are the best recipe for a solid night’s sleep. By the way, why is dick an insult?

  I laugh as I lean against the fridge and write back.

  That’s a good question.

  Princess: I think dicks should be used for good, and referred to positively.

  Does that make you a dick ambassador? Spreading the word about the unfair use of the male appendage as a put-down?

  Princess: Yes. It does. I’m going to start using dick as a compliment. Here goes. Nick, you’re a dick. Also, I like your dick.

  And she’s come roaring back with her sharp-tongued, dirty wit. My texting Harper. My naughty magician. I tap out a reply, suggesting a new insult.

  How about ass? Wait. Scratch that. Ass suffers from the same undeserved fate. It should never be an insult. Also, I like your ass. Though love might be a more appropriate verb to express the depths of my admiration for that particular body part of yours.

  I hit send then quickly add another note.

  Also, would you please let me apologize for last night? I was such a . . . jerk.

  Princess: You said you were sorry last night, and we’re good. I’m not upset. I swear. I’m just glad we’re on the same page.

  We are. So much.

  Princess: There won’t be anyone else.

  Same here. Also, Harper?

  Princess: Yeah?

  Sometimes you ask me if something we do is okay, and I want you to know you’ve never done a thing in bed that hasn’t turned me on . . . your mouth, your face, your hair, your body, the way you touch me, the way you respond . . . it’s all one massive turn-on.

  Her reply arrives seconds later.

  Princess: Now I have butterflies . . .

  And I grin like a fool.

  I’m taking you out tonight. What do you want to do? Dinner? Movie? Trapeze lesson? Art show? Museum? Horse-drawn carriage?

  Princess: None of the above. But I have an idea. I’d love to plan our date.

  She texts me a time and tells me she’ll send more details later. As I get ready for work I send her a text. Something I’ve always wanted to say to her.

  By the way, I can still taste you . . .

  Within a minute, a response lands on my phone. I groan as lust thrums through me. This picture couldn’t be more perfect—a shot of her legs, with her fingers on the waistband of a pair of light blue panties that dangle on her ankles. I don’t know if the lacy garment is going on, or going off, but I know this much—I’m going to need a few more minutes alone with this photo before I leave for work, and in my mind the clothes are definitely coming off.

  Ten minutes later, I catch the subway to Comedy Nation, feeling pretty damn good that not only do I have a date, not only are we going to engage in proper protocol, but she also felt butterflies.

  I might not be as skilled at deciphering Harper’s cues outside of the bedroom, but I know one thing for sure—butterflies are better than dicks.

  And I mean dick as a compliment.

  That easy breezy feeling carries me through the day. After a long session with the show’s writers, then a meeting with marketing, Serena pulls me aside in the conference room. “I almost forgot to tell you.”

  Even her standard preface to a Gino request can’t get me down. “There’s a cocktail party at the end of the week. Friday night,” she says, then gives me the details. Friday is just a few days before the contract talks Gino has scheduled with Tyler.

  “I’ll be there. Any rules?”

  “Just be your usual charming self. But not too charming. You know how it goes.”

  “Can I bring a date?”

  Her eyes widen. “Ooh, tell me more. Who’s the lucky lady?”

  I shake my head. “It’s not serious. But she’s the one who came with me to bowling a few weeks ago.”

  “Ooh. The one,” she teases, with a big wink.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Sure you didn’t,” she says, shooting me a knowing look.

  “It’s only temporary.”

  She rubs her hand over her basketball belly. “That’s what I once claimed about Jared,” she says, mentioning her husband. “Now look how permanent we are.”

  “Powerhouse couple, and you’re ready to pop,” I say, since her husband works in the TV business, too, at a broadcast network.

  “So you never know about these temporary flings.”

  But I can’t let myself entertain those thoughts. If I do, then butterflies will get in my head and mess with it. Before I know it, Mister Orgasm will have turned into a love-struck fool by the end of the TV season.

  A little after six, just as I’m stepping into the elevator, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

  “Hold the elevator,” Gino shouts from down the hall.

  I swear the dude has a homing device installed to track me down, which is all kinds of creepy. He flashes a massive grin when he joins me, clapping me on the back.

  “Nick Hammer. Just the man I was thinking of.”

  Words I never want to hear coming out of his mouth.

  “That so?”

  He nods
vigorously and rubs his hands together as the elevator begins its downward trek. “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to our chat last week about the show. And I think I’ve got just the recipe to tone it down a notch.”

  Tension coils in me. “Okay.” I wait for him to say more.

  He rocks back on his heels. “But you know what? I’ll just wait until I see Tyler Nichols next Monday, and I’ll give him the down and dirty. Make it a surprise for him, and for you, too.” He raises his eyebrows in an evil glint. “I do love surprises, don’t you?”

  “Like when a woman wears a red teddy under a trench coat? That kind of surprise?” I deadpan.

  He clasps a hand to his belly and laughs as the car slows at his floor. “And that’s what we pay you the big bucks for.” He steps out, wraps his hand over the door, and pokes his head in. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Yeah. For red teddy jokes,” I mutter as he walks off.

  As soon as I reach the lobby, I dial Tyler and give him the down low. “What surprise is he talking about?”

  “I’m meeting him a week from today,” my lawyer says in a reassuring tone. “I have no doubt he’s just posturing as we head to negotiations. This is his style. He’s like a cat who likes to play with his food before he eats it.”

  I cringe. “Did you just compare me to cat food?”

  Tyler laughs. “That came out wrong. But listen, man, we’ve got your back. Just go to the cocktail party in a few days, keep smiling, and we’ll take care of the show when I see him in a week.”

  Easier said than done.

  Because the show takes care of me. The show has given me this life in New York, the home that I own, even the shirt I’m wearing. It’s given me everything, and I don’t want to fuck it up.