The Hot One(43)

17





Delaney



* * *



Nicole marches along the cobblestones, stops in front of me, and shoots me a dagger stare outside Jen and Dena’s Wig Emporium in Greenwich Village. A mannequin head sporting a leprechaun green bob cut peers at us with unblinking eyes.

Nicole parks her hands on her hips. “What do you have to say for yourself, missy?”

“I’m in the market for a fun new wig?” I offer tentatively, hoping to deflect a lashing from one of my closest friends even as I brace for it.

The only saving grace will be strength in numbers, since Penny’s on my team. But she’s not here yet, and these bodiless heads in the display window aren’t going to save me from Nicole’s ire. I gird myself for the verbal whipping.

Her green eyes narrow. “Let’s talk about why we’re getting two wigs.” She taps her toe on the sidewalk, the leather boot beating a rhythm of frustration. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

She opens her mouth wide, but words seem to fail her. I smirk. Nicole is rarely speechless. But the dialogue desertion doesn’t last long. “You have some serious explaining to do.” She pokes my shoulder. “How did one drink turn into a morning jog, and then another date? A date we need to go wig shopping for, of all things?”

I break down her question into the easily manageable parts. “I try to run every morning, and you’re allergic to six a.m. starts. So Tyler went with me, and then we ran into a client in the park, and she invited us to her party.”

Yes, there. Blame it on Gigi.

Nicole huffs and wags a scolding finger at me. “Now you’re trying to talk circles around me, when all I’m trying to do is protect you from getting hurt.”

“Nicole,” I say plaintively. I know she means well. I know she’s only pissed because she’s looking out for me in a super protective, mama bear, slash-anyone-who-comes-near-her-cubs way.

She heaves a sigh and then softens. “‘Laney-girl, exes are bad news. Do I need to remind you of the top five reasons you should never get back together with an ex even if he blows your mind in bed?”

That was the title of one of her recent columns. I read it, but I didn’t memorize it. Seems I didn’t need to, though, because she holds up her index finger, and I’ve got a feeling she knows this quintet cold.

“Number one. You broke up for a reason.” She stares me down.

I hold out my hands, admitting that much.

“Number two.” She counts off with two fingers. “He hurt you like a son of a bitch.”

I screw up the corner of my lips. “I don’t think you said son of a bitch in your column.”

Like I can catch this woman on a technicality. But hey, I have to try.

“I write online. You bet I used ‘son of a bitch,’ and if I have to use ‘motherfucker,’ too, I will.”

I raise my hands in surrender. “Wouldn’t want to run into you in a dark alley.”

“Damn straight. I know Krav Maga. On to number three. They often have new bad habits, and the new ones can be even more disgusting than the old ones.”

I scrunch my brow. “Seriously? That’s a reason?”

She nods. “What if he hogs the bed now? What if he cuts his toenails in front of you? What if he expects you to pick up his dirty socks?” She cringes to emphasize the horror of this parade of possible gross behaviors. “Burps? Picks his teeth? Doesn’t text back in a timely manner? Leaves cabinet doors open? Sucks annoyingly on a water bottle?”

I give her a look like she’s insane. Because, seriously? “Leaves cabinet doors open? That’s a thing?”

Her eyes blaze with anger. “Has that ever happened to you? Because it is a living hell. Shoulder bruises. Smacked eyes. Scratched temples. It’s like evil elves booby-trapped your home.”

I lean my hip against the store window, where a rainbow-colored head stares at me. I point at Nicole. “I’m feeling like that might be something someone did to you.”

“And it drove me insane,” she says, gripping her head.

“Nicole, anyone can do those things. Why is that uniquely annoying with an ex?”

“My point exactly. Everything, literally everything”—she slashes an emphatic hand through the air—“is more annoying with an ex. It’s all amplified, especially bad habits. That’s the nature of a second chance. You already gave him a first chance. Everything is in stereo the second time around.”

“Tyler never did those things before, though. No cupboard doors swinging madly and no slurping of bottles. So I’m not biting on the habit issue.”

She huffs. “Number four. The sex might be different.”

I laugh and shake my head. “That one is not an issue. Whatsoever.”

She stalks me, backs me up to the window, and sets a hand against the display, breathing fire. “You did not sleep with him.”

“There was no . . . penetration involved,” I say, then I clasp my hand over my mouth. “Oops. Wait. There was.” I waggle my fingers.

“You dirty girl,” she says, but her lips twitch, and it’s clear she’s reining in a smile.

I wiggle my eyebrows. “Also, the penetration was even better than before, and that’s saying something.”