The Hot One(38)

14





Delaney



* * *



“Delaney,” he says my name without any trace of nerves. “I would love to take you to the party. Would that work for you?”

No can I. No I wanna go. He just lays it out. A small voice in my head, a long-held part of me that fights to protect my heart, wants to say no.

But another part of me is surprised he wants to go so badly. Another part is intrigued. Tyler wasn’t the type of guy who’d go to a wig party back in the day. Yes, he went all out to get me to go on a first date. But even though he wanted me, we didn’t do every single thing together. Case in point—he was never into Halloween. When the rest of us dressed up and trick-or-treated in the dorms—for candy and small bottles of liquor because . . . college, obviously—he declined. Not his thing, he’d said. “May I never own a costume,” he told me, holding up his hand like he was taking an oath on a Bible. I didn’t really get the aversion, but I figured some guys don’t like pretending to be someone else. I could live with that. I was never going to insist he slip on a Superman suit for my entertainment.

Though, he did enjoy stripping me out of my black cat costume that year.

Yes, of course I went as a cat. Cats are sexy.

That’s why I’m surprised he’s inviting himself.

A hint of a smile tugs at my lips. “You’d want to go?”

“I would absolutely love to go.”

My eyes narrow as we crunch along a grassy section of the path. “Do you have a wig?”

He shakes his head.

“But you’d wear one? You’d really wear a wig?” I ask, skeptical. Because this Tyler doesn’t quite align with the man I knew. I haven’t seen this side of him. This willingness.

It is, admittedly, alluring.

“Of course I’d wear a wig. It’s a goddamn wig party,” he says, his voice booming like he’s making a speech. “I will wear a wig, and I will wear it with pride.”

Color me impressed. I tilt my head and stare at him, as I concoct a plan. “Any kind of wig?”

He shakes his finger at me as we round a bend in the path. “I know what you’re doing, and I won’t back down. Yes, I will wear a wig, and yes, you can pick it out. You know why I say that?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because if wearing a long black wig, or a combover pink wig, or a kinky, curly Richard Simmons wig means I get to spend more time with you, I will do it.” He taps his chest with both hands. “Let me introduce you to me. I’m the guy who wants you back. Badly.”

My heart races, and I don’t think it’s from exercise. He’s always been a daring man. He’s always gone after what he wanted. But I’ve never seen him bend like this to get it. Fine, we’re only talking about a wig. But it’s also a step. A sign. An olive branch. “I’m tempted.”

“Good. I can work with tempted. I like you tempted.”

He is tempting. So incredibly tempting. “Then I guess I need to shop for two wigs.”

Happiness dances across his chestnut brown eyes, and the look stirs butterflies in my chest. I should probably question my own decision to agree to another date. Clearly, I’m not ready to just crack open my heart again and share all my thoughts and feelings—I couldn't find it in me to tell him about the call with my dad that set in motion the change in career.

But at least I said enough about my choice.

I’m not ready to dig up all my emotions yet for a man who broke me.

Truthfully, I should probably put on my anti-heartbreak armor. Nicole would surely tell me to run the other way.

Wait. That’s not true. She’d say I should march right up to him and say “see you later, I’m outta here,” then strut off into the sunset, having protected my heart, but also had the last word.

But that’s not what I want to do.

What I want is something else entirely.

More of these butterflies.

We run in silence the rest of the way, and I let my mind go blank. I stop telling myself to keep Tyler at arm’s length. I don’t entirely want an arm’s length between us.

I want less length between us.

That’s why after our run, when my muscles are the good kind of sore, and he offers to walk me home, I say yes.

And that’s why I do the next thing, too. When we near my apartment, and he looks at me with the most vulnerable expression on his handsome face, and the most genuine look in his beautiful eyes, and says, “I want a second chance with you,” I invite him in.



I want him.

It’s just that simple.

There are no two ways about it.

I know what will happen, though, if I take him upstairs to my apartment on the fifth floor. The door will creak shut, since it’s one of those doors that cries out for WD-40 as it closes molasses-slow, and before it clicks shut, my clothes will be in a puddle.

I’ll grab his neck, rope my hands in his hair, and beg him.

I will absolutely beg him.

But we’re not at that point yet, so I tug him into the mail alcove at the end of the first-floor hallway.

My building consists of five floors and twenty apartments. We’re a quiet bunch in this building on the Upper West Side. It’s early on a Saturday, and even on weekday evenings, I rarely run into other residents, not even in the mail alcove. Since this isn’t a doorman building, we’re all alone.