The Hot One(14)

She relents a touch. “Yes, we were good together.”

“Then have a drink with me.”

“Why? For old time’s sake?” Her tone is softer now, inviting. Maybe I’ve knocked a brick free from her wall.

This is as much of an opening as I’m going to get, so I grab hold of it. “For old times and new times. C’mon. Say yes. You know you want to.”

She scoffs. “Are you kidding me?”

I furrow my brow, wondering what I’d said. “No. I’m deadly serious.”

“You know you want to? You are un-freaking-believable,” she says with a laugh, but not the good kind of laugh.

I groan, dropping my forehead into my palm. Just when I thought I was getting close with her. “Sure sounded like you wanted to,” I mumble.

She huffs. “Maybe I did. But then you act all cocky and pushy, saying you know what I want.”

“I’m not being cocky.”

“You were. You always were so sure of yourself. As if I can’t possibly have any other opinion than wanting to have a drink with you.”

“You are more than welcome to have another opinion. But I’m not going to apologize for wanting that opinion to be yes. I want to see you. How hard is that to understand?”

“We don’t always get what we want, Tyler. How hard is that to understand?”

“It’s not hard. And even if you’re pissed at me, I still want you to say yes.”

“Why? So you can win this one, too? Is this your latest debate with me? Do you think I’ll say yes if you remind me how good we were in bed? That you rocked my world in the sheets, and in the stacks, and in the back row of English class? Did you think you’d just strip for me and all my brain cells would evaporate when you showed me your magic cock?”

“No. But would that work?”

She laughs, and I can’t tell if it’s a “you’re ridiculous” snort, or a “just try me” chuckle. “I bet you’d like to know.” Then she’s no longer laughing. Instead, she sighs, and her words are laced with sadness. “You haven’t even said you were sorry for the way you hurt me. We had plans, Tyler. Plans. You upended all of that. Every last thing.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, desperately earnest. “I swear, I’m sorry.”

“It’s a little late, isn’t it? Maybe you should have said that eight years ago.”

“Maybe I should have. But maybe if you see me in person I can say it properly, and you’ll believe it.”

“I’m not really sure why you think saying it properly is the key.” She tosses my words back at me. “Meaning it is what matters.”



Later, I meet Simon for a drink at Speakeasy. This time, I don’t serve up the situation with my usual bravado. I simply tell him what went down. He’s smart, and he also has a reputation for being upfront and honest. He has a young daughter, and he recently fell in love with his daughter’s nanny. She’s madly in love with him, too. If anyone knows women, it’s this guy.

“Give me your advice. What do I do?”

He takes a drink of his beer then sets it down. “She’s telling you that you need a grand gesture to get back in the game.”

I nod. “Got it. I’m at the plate. I need to swing for the fences.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Sorry, man. You don’t even have a ticket to the game now. You’re wandering around the parking lot, begging scalpers, and even they won’t sell to you. You need a grand gesture just to get into the ballpark. Something to get her to notice you. Something to remind her why she once loved you.”

I flash back to the phone call from earlier. To what Delaney might want from me.

I grab my beer, knock back a thirsty gulp, and slap the glass onto the bar. “You’re right. Go big or go home.”

And in an instant, I know what to do.





5





Delaney



* * *



Nicole was right.

Trevor is a hottie.

And a smartypants.

And he’s interesting to talk to.

After work on Wednesday evening, we meet outside Central Park, grab some kabobs at a food truck called Skewered just inside the park entrance, then stroll and chat.

Trevor is a former brewmaster who now hosts a popular online video series about beer, mostly the craft kind. He travels around the country, visits different breweries, and taste tests the beer.

“Toughest part of the job?” I ask.

He takes a bite of a chicken kabab then answers. “The spitting. Honestly, I’d have to say it’s the constant spitting after the tasting.”

I laugh. “Do you have to carry a bucket with you? Or do you prefer an old-fashioned spittoon?”

He holds up a finger. “Actually, I’m quite advanced. I have a custom mug that says ‘When in doubt, spit it out.’” His smile lights up his handsome face and his light blue eyes.

I arch an eyebrow. “Do you really have a mug?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Nah. The truth is far less glamorous. I just spit into a glass.”

“Ever wish you could swallow?” I ask, then nibble on the grilled eggplant on a stick that I ordered.