The Hot One Page 8

  I crack up. “Nicole knows what happened. I did invite both of you here today. She’s on deadline, though, writing a column about how to deal with bizarre sexual proposals, so she’s occupied thinking up tips for turning down pegging, toe-sucking, or hot sauce fetishes.”

  An eyebrow rises. “Hot sauce fetish? Is that a thing?”

  I nod. “There’s a fetish for everything. However, Nicole still managed to berate me for a full minute.” I shudder as I recall the full weight of Nicole’s vexation. I’d texted her, and moments later she called and shouted “You can’t be serious?” over the line. Even when I gave her the CliffNotes, she warned me to be careful. Then she made me tell her all about my date with Trevor and proceeded to remind me why he’s a great catch.

  “He is a great catch. I’ve no doubt about that,” I’d told her.

  “And he said he had a wonderful time with you, so please keep him on the front burner.”

  “I will,” I promised before she jumped off to bang out more words.

  But now the question on the front burner in my mind is how to do drinks with Tyler. I meet Penny’s eyes as I drop the tissue from the right shoe into the box. “Can you give me some advice?”

  “Anything.”

  “How do I know if I can trust him again? It’s only drinks, but what should I be on the lookout for? I feel like understanding men has eluded me in the last few years. My dating experience is woeful. But you’re back with Gabriel. How were you able to let go of the past?”

  Penny sighs. “We didn’t have the sort of past you guys did. But even so, the way I put it behind us was to learn who he is today. What made him tick. How he was the same. How he was different. When you see Tyler, don’t just get caught up in a swirl of reminiscence. Learn about the man he’s become. See if that man is someone you want to spend time with.”

  That feels way more intense than I’m ready for. I backpedal from the idea, kicking off my work flip-flops. “I’m only going out for drinks.”

  Penny smirks and reins in a laugh. She holds it in so hard, it’s as if her face is about to burst.

  “You don’t believe me?” I ask defensively as I slide my bare feet into the red sling-backs.

  Penny erupts in laughter as the saleswoman returns with boots. “Say. That. Again,” Penny says in between gasping breaths.

  “I’m only going out for drinks,” I mutter.

  The rail-thin saleswoman tries to straighten out a smile, and Penny points at her. “Even Blue Suede Jane doesn’t believe it’s just drinks.”

  I cock my head, eyeing one then the other. “Seriously, ladies? Both of you?”

  Jane laughs sweetly and gestures to my feet as I stand up in the red heels. “Well, you are shopping for shoes. I can’t think of a bigger sign that something isn’t just drinks. A new pair of shoes means you really like a guy.”

  We all let our eyes drift down to my toes. Jane gasps first, Penny clasps her hand on her mouth, and I beam at the heavenly vision before me.

  The shoes are divine.

  In fact, these red peep-toes are perfect for a date with a man who went to such lengths just to earn the right to drinks.

  Just drinks.

  Just drinks.

  Just drinks.

  That mantra echoes in my head as I walk to the bar, listening to a podcast on local politics. The poli-sci major in me can’t resist, and I like to be informed on the issues facing my city. But I have a harder time focusing on the words of the hosts because my heart beats faster and my skin prickles as memories fight their way to the front of my brain.

  Memories I haven’t let myself linger on in ages.

  At Brown, Tyler and I were a team, a pack of two, fueled by our shared desire to learn everything. We studied together, quizzing each other for our tests on modern United States history or on twentieth-century literature. We hunted for interesting lectures from guest speakers on the hottest issues of the day. We walked to and from classes together, and spent many nights in the library, hunched over our laptops.

  When it came to our backgrounds, we were as different as they come. I didn’t grow up with much, and my dad took off when I was fourteen and my little brother, Caleb, was twelve. I can’t really overstate how much that sucked.

  But I dealt with it and moved on, and that’s why I’m in a better spot now to be able to track him down.

  At the time, though, he left us with nothing. I went to public high school outside of Tampa and busted my butt in my classes so I could go to a good school. Hard work paid off, and I nabbed a scholarship to Brown. Tyler came from money and a happy home in Los Angeles, growing up with his brother and their two parents, who ran a successful business together.

  His parents had already finished saving for his full education by the time he was five.

  Our drive, though, was parallel, along with our love of learning. We spent many late nights at the college snack bar, debating anything and everything. We’d share an ice cream with sprinkles, and we’d talk, then head back to my dorm, or his. Once the door closed, all the talk would vanish, and we’d find ourselves engaged in the most favorite collegiate activity of all.

  Getting horizontal.

  The second the clothes came undone the aspiring lawyers disappeared, and we became those people who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Skin to skin, lips to lips, we came together, and I’d never felt so close to anyone in my life. It was a perfect union of respect, desire, and love.

  It was everything I’d never felt in my home, but wanted in my life.

  Sometimes on weekends, we went on long drives. He had a black BMW, and during the fall, we’d get claustrophobic and take off, driving through the tree-lined neighborhoods in Providence, then beyond. We escaped a few towns over, finding hills, and hidden places, and then we’d pull over.

  We got to know our way around the front and back seats of his Beemer quite well. Every time he touched me, I felt cherished. Whether in the car, the shower, the dorm, the library, the bed, or the car, he adored me.

  He fought for a chance with me, and then once we were together, I was never second best. I was his equal, and that made me love him even more.

  That’s what hurt so much when he broke up with me. Not the end to our plans, not his tactless and calloused word choices, not even what went down at the debate.

  What hurt the most was that I’d lost him.

  When I reach the bar, I remember Penny’s words and focus on the here and now.

  Today.

  Tonight.

  Not the past.

  9

  Tyler

  * * *

  She looks like a sexy angel as she walks toward me. Blond hair, flowing and silky over her bare shoulders. A slash of pink gloss on those fantastic lips.

  And those hot-as-fuck red shoes.

  I’m not sure I ever saw her in heels before. College wasn’t exactly the place for four-inch fuck-me pumps. So I’m not sure she knows that I have a thing for shoes. Not wearing them. Please. But I do have it bad for how fucking sexy a woman looks in a gorgeous pair of heels.

  And no one, no woman in the history of the world, has ever looked this good in red shoes.

  “Hey you,” I say.

  She greets me with a smile. “Hi.”

  We walk through the bar.

  “Ladies first.” I gesture to the small, circular booth at the back of the Lucky Spot bar. A low white candle in the middle of the table flickers, casting a faint glow across the wood.

  Delaney slides in first and I follow her.

  Questions ping-pong in my head. How close can I sit to her? Do I launch right into the catch-up banter? Or dive into those-were-the-days chitchat that reminds her of how good we were together? Do I tell her when I saw her last weekend it stirred up something inside me? And I don’t just mean the physical. Seeing her was a knockout blow I didn’t see coming.

  Clay might say it ignited regret. But I see it more as a storm of possibilities and “what ifs.” Perhaps the biggest one
is this—what if I hadn’t followed Professor Blair’s advice at the end of college?

  I shake off the thoughts that have been plaguing me all day.

  Delaney’s here. I’m here. Time to treat this night like a first date, not a stroll down memory lane.

  I’m dressed for a first date—jeans, a button-down shirt, the cuffs rolled up to my forearms. Delaney wears a pair of jeans that do nothing but stoke my desire to stare at her ass all night, but that’s not possible since we’re sitting. A black sleeveless top affords a lovely hint of cleavage, and that same turtle charm I spotted earlier glints in the soft blue lighting.

  “So,” I begin, clearing my throat as I rub my palms against my thighs. I’m fucking nervous. This is not acceptable. Yesterday, I stood naked in front of her, and tonight I’m dressed, yet at a loss for meaningful words. “How are you?”

  “Good,” she says, taking her time. “How are you?”

  Stupid. Nervous. Ready to kick myself.

  “Great. Totally great. How was your day?” I ask, and yep, I’m going to bitch-slap my own face in front of the mirror.

  This is so not me. I need to get my shit together right now.

  “I had a great day. Work was crazy busy.”

  That’s a perfect opening to make a joke about yesterday, and what kept her crazy busy in the morning, emphasis on crazy.

  But for some dumbass reason, I say, “Your shoes are nice.”

  Can I just smack myself now? Because what in the fuckity fuck was that?

  She smiles, and seeing her lips curve up makes my heart beat faster. “Thank you. I got them after work yesterday.”

  “Oh yeah?” I sit up straighter. Her shopping habits are a most excellent sign.

  She nods. “And I only had to go to one store. Amazingly, they had these shoes in my size.” She casts her gaze downward. “Me and my big feet.”

  “Hey, I always liked your big feet,” I say, and inside I wipe my hand across my forehead because just maybe I can pull out of this conversational nosedive.

  She lifts her face. “Thanks.”

  C’mon, man. Pull up on the stick before this plane crashes and burns.

  Okay, she likes shoes. Shoes are sexy. I’ll stick with footwear. But for some reason, the words out of my mouth are about the least sexy part of them. “Did they have those little packets in the shoebox?”

  Nice one, dickhead.

  She furrows her brow. “Silica gel, you mean? Those packets?”

  I’ve got to sell this to the jury like I meant to bring up fucking silica gel. Like it’s the most fascinating subject in the universe. “The ones that say ‘Do not eat.’”

  She shoots me a look that says why on earth are you asking me this question. “Yes. There was one in the box for these red shoes, in fact,” she says slowly, like she’s talking to someone who needs extra time to understand speech.

  But I don’t try to stop the slide into awkward. Instead, I embrace the weirdness. I dive into it, roll around in it, embrace it. “Were you tempted to nibble on it?”

  She laughs lightly, and that sound tells me my bizarre topic has leveled out the plane in spite of myself. “Well, if they didn’t have that warning, surely I would have.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. We’re getting into the swing of things. “How do you think the silica gel makers started those warnings? Let’s be frank here.” I stab my finger on the table like I’m making a serious point in court. “Somebody must have tried to eat one in order to get that warning.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Probably the same person who started ripping tags off mattresses.”

  I slam a palm on the table. “It’s horrible to think some scofflaw is going around tearing off tags on mattresses.”

  “Hey there!”

  I turn toward the upbeat voice. The waitress has materialized at our table like she’s arrived magically in a cloud of smoke. I didn’t even see her coming. She’s young, maybe twenty-two, and she bounces on her toes, making her black ponytail swing back and forth.

  “Hello there,” Delaney says with a smile.

  “How is everyone doing tonight?”

  “Grand,” I answer, then wink at Delaney. “Just grand.”

  “Grander,” Delaney says, weighing in, too.

  Whatever nerves or worries I had before are officially squashed. They’ve gone sayonara, and I couldn’t be happier to see them skedaddle.

  “Excellent,” the chipper waitress says as she slides an orange ceramic bowl to the middle of the table. “These are mustard-dusted pretzels and honey-roasted nuts to get you started.”

  I arch an eyebrow as my mouth waters.

  Delaney points her thumb at me. “You just named his two favorite snack foods in the universe.”

  The waitress beams. “I’m so glad to hear that. You will love these pretzels. We use a special house recipe for the mustard coating.”

  “Bring it on then,” I say, grabbing a handful. I pop the mini pretzels in my mouth along with a few nuts and crunch down. I roll my eyes in over-the-top delight and mouth “so good.”

  Delaney laughs then says to the waitress, “Better bring him a beer. He can’t manage his nuts without a brew.”

  As I swallow drily, I say, “I so can.”

  “Get this man a pale ale, and a Riesling for me, please,” Delaney says, meeting my gaze briefly as if to say That okay? I say yes with my eyes—I like her drink order.

  “Be back soon.” The waitress turns on her heel and takes off.

  A dry spot lodges in my throat as I chew on the pretzels.

  I swallow.

  Roughly.

  And then a dreaded sensation descends on me. I look around for a glass of water, but we don’t have any yet. I draw a breath, but I’m not about to cough. Nor am I about to choke to death. Instead, this rough, Saharan-like feeling spreads in my throat, and it’s followed by literally my least favorite thing in the world.

  Hiccups.

  Delaney’s laughter ceases. “Not the dreaded—”

  I nod, as an errant “erp” bursts from my lips.

  Fuck me.

  I hate hiccups because they hurt. I hate them because they’re hard to get rid of. And I hate them because they are my weakness. I get hiccups at the mere sight of crackers, or bread, or nuts. I’ve tried everything from handstands to holding my breath while staring in a mirror to drinking water upside down and half drowning myself.

  Delaney grabs my hand. “Hold your breath.”

  Inhaling deeply, I purse my lips. I count in my head, and she counts under her breath. When she gets to fifteen, a brand new noise rattles free.

  It sounds like I’m beeping.

  I curse.

  “I’ll go get you some water,” she says, scooting out of the booth and rushing away to find a beverage. I hold my breath once more, to no avail.

  Hiccups and I have a love-hate relationship. I hate them, but they love me. A few seconds later, the click-clack of heels grows louder, and I look up to see Delaney sliding back into the booth. She thrusts a big glass of water at me. “Thank you,” I mutter, before I down half of it. Hoping. Praying. Begging for this to be the end of tonight’s hiccup episode brought to you by mustard-dusted pretzels.

  I set down the glass and take a quick stock of my insides. My chest feels quiet. Throat, too. All’s well in America, it seems, and I flash a smile.

  Delaney wipes her forehead. “Whew. I thought you were going to hiccup forever like that time—”

  And another evil gremlin shoots up my chest and springs free.

  That time is the night we had dinner with Professor Blair, my senior advisor, who also mentored me in my pre-law endeavors. He invited us to his home, one of those stately Victorian affairs in Providence, less than one mile from campus. His wife was in academia, too, the headmistress of a local girls’ school. He invited some of his top students for dinner, and it was an honor. We actually dressed like the Ivy League students we were. The fire roared in their fireplace, and his wife sat perc
hed on the edge of a cranberry red couch with ornately carved oak arms, a glass of red wine in her hand. One entire wall in their living room was lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves, filled with the kind of books that if cracked open gave off the opium scent of old, rich, timeworn pages.

  The whole crew of pre-law suck-ups like myself gathered around the mahogany coffee table. Professor Blair brought a tray of cheese, crackers, and bread to the table.

  I swear that fucking bread was drier than the Gobi. It contained less water than a pitcher of sand. And instantly, I hiccuped.

  Hiccups are a natural phenomenon, but it’s everyone’s reaction to them that’s unbearably awkward. The “can I get you something, dear?” from Mrs. Blair. The way everyone tries to pretend you’re fine, even though you kept firing off every twenty seconds.

  But that’s what I try to do with Delaney right now. Pretend it’s not happening.

  “So, you were saying something about shoes?” I say, trying my best to rewind the night.

  Delaney points behind me. “Holy shit. Did you see that guy? He’s coming straight at us.”

  I snap my gaze in that direction, but don’t see anyone. “Who?” I furrow my brow.

  She waves wildly. “There. He’s huge. The one with the ring in his nose.”

  My shoulders sag, and I turn back to her. “Nice try. But you weren’t scary enough.”

  I hiccup again.

  Once more, she scoots out of the booth, and this time she grabs my hand. She tugs me away from the table and grabs the water glass in one hand. “Follow me. Eyes on this the whole time.” She points to her ass.

  “I can do that,” I say, a surge of confidence coursing through me, and I watch her butt as she walks through the bar. My eyes don’t stray from the sight of that firm, tight ass that I used to love to squeeze as she rode me.

  And my dick stands up and pays attention.

  Well, what have we here? Yep, the shameless bastard in my pants is on alert now, its one eye watching the lovely woman strutting in front of me. And I do believe we may have uncovered a cure for what ails me. As an antidote, this is the best distraction in the universe. Delaney rounds the corner to the restroom, and I sigh happily. This is the cure, and I want it over and over.