The Hot One(13)

“Um,” she says, deadpan. “How do you caricature a Pollock?”

“Excellent question. Here’s how. He said he liked to pretend Pollock’s abstract paintings were representations of everyday things. Pickle jars, brooms, cereal . . . So, Nick was drawing a cereal bowl with a cat shooting lasers into it.”

She laughs. “That’s kind of crazy and genius at the same time.”

“Anyway, we chatted for a few minutes and wound up becoming buddies.”

“And then he became your client later on,” she adds.

“We stayed in touch after college.” I stop talking as a morsel of guilt crawls through me from wherever it had been lurking. I feel like shit for my choices—I kept in contact with my friends, but I didn’t stay in touch with the girl I loved. But I couldn’t. It was too hard. Too fucking tempting. If I’d stayed in touch with her, I never would have gone after my dreams. “He became my first client,” I say, focusing on the topic, rather than dwelling on things I couldn’t change.

“So the cat cartoon is like a memento of your friendship?”

I adjust the knot in my tie. “In a way, but it’s also a new show concept he’s sketching. A cat with magical superpowers. His name is Cat Crazypants, the Great Illusionist.”

“I want to see that show . . . tonight. You had me at ‘cat with superpowers.’ I’ve been hoping to adopt a cat someday soon.”

“A cat with superpowers?”

She laughs. “If that’s an option, sure. I’d also like him to have six toes.”

I laugh. “Like the Hemingway cats?”

“Yes, but I learned all the details from an author I like who has several of these cats—Tawna Fenske. They’re called polydactyl. The coolest thing is their extra toe is kind of like a thumb,” she tells me, her voice rising with excitement.

“Can they open doors and such with these thumbs?”

“Of course. Drawers and cans, too. Tawna even gave me an early copy of her next book—the heroine inherits a B&B that’s now a sanctuary for polydactyl cats, so I’m even more hooked on them now. You should tell your client he can give his cat a real superpower with an extra toe.”

I sit up straighter, sensing an opening, and try once more to win a date with her. “I could tell you more about the cartoon cat over a drink.”

“Ooh. Bribery now.”

“You call it bribery. I call it giving the woman what she wants. You want a kitty cat with powers. I can deliver. Over drinks.” My tone is full of confidence, but my chest is tight with nerves.

I want her to say yes so fucking badly.

My suggestion is met with silence then a heavy sigh. Before she even speaks, the lightness of the conversation seeps away. Her quiet is nothing but a preface to a no.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Tyler,” she says softly.

It’s not a no, but it sure as hell isn’t any closer to a yes.

“Why? We’re chatting. We’re getting along.” I push, like I would in a business negotiation. “How could it be bad to have one drink with me?”

“Because it’s too easy with you,” she says.

“What?” I furrow my brow. “That makes no sense. What’s too easy?”

“Talking to you. Chatting. It’s all too easy.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It might be a bad thing,” she says, her tone soft.

“We were always good at talking, Delaney.”

“I know,” she says softly, but with a hint of longing I latch onto.

“We were good at a lot of things,” I say, low and husky. “Remember that time in the library?”

“Which one?” Her tone turns a little breathy, and that sound encourages me. We’re not at no after all, and I’ve got to keep trying.

“Every time,” I say, my mind awash in a deliciously dirty image of her backed up against the shelves, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted in an O, her hair wild. She bit my neck to muffle the noise as she came hard. “But especially that afternoon when you wore that little red skirt, and we got to know exactly how sturdy the books on the French Revolution were.”

A small whimper seems to escape her. But then, just as quickly, she seems to reel it in, cloaking her weak moment with a quip and a light laugh. “The barricades of books all came tumbling down.” Her voice shifts to pragmatic. “But still, I’m not sure—”

I’m not resting my case so easily. I’ve got plenty of evidence to present to her.

“How about the afternoon in the English lecture hall? The professor left, and it was just you and me in the back row. We loved being sneaky, loved those stolen moments,” I say, and a flash of images pops before my eyes. Delaney’s hand slipping inside my jeans, those wild eyes lit with desire, her mouth finding my ear, begging to do it right then and there. “We were damn good at all of that, too.”

“Tyler,” she says with a sigh. “Why are you doing this? We both know we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. That’s not up for debate. We don’t need to go tripping back in time.”

“Why am I doing this?” I repeat. “Because I know we were good together. But do you know we were good together?” I turn the question back to her, like the counselor I am.