The Hot One(26)

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 perched 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.