The Hot One(53)

Simon nods. “Women like gifts.”

“Wisdom from on high,” I say, knocking my glass to his. “The question is what to get her. Flowers? Or chocolate? Or something quirkier, like a necklace made from recycled bike chains?”

Simon furrows his brow. “They make that?”

“Yeah, they’re actually kind of cool looking. Stark and sort of industrial, but sexy. And Delaney’s all about being green, so I think she’d dig it.”

“Seems you have your answer.”

“But is that enough? Is it defying the odds? The thing is, I think I’m already in love with her again. I want to prove myself. Show her how seriously I care about her. Remember when you said I needed a grand gesture?”

Simon laughs. “You’re going to show up naked at her doorstep this time? Run down the street in your birthday suit? Wait. Wait.” He holds up his hand. “I know. Take her to a Yankees game and do the full monty on the Jumbotron.”

I give him a look. “If that’s what it takes, I’d do it.”

He whistles. “You’ve got cojones. Oh, and feel free to call me when you need to post bail.”

I spin my coaster. “Don’t worry, Travers. I’ve got you on speed dial.”

But I’ve got something else in mind—something that doesn’t involve my balls on a Jumbotron.





22





Delaney



* * *



Tyler stands in my sliver of a hallway, his eyes closed.

I run my fingers lightly through his lush brown locks, savoring the soft feel of his thick hair. I could do this for a while. But we have a party to go to.

“Ready?”

“Absolutely.”

His eyes are closed. The hairstyle I picked for him is a surprise. I slide the banana-blond wig over his skull, tucking his brown hair into the wig cap. He smirks and smiles the whole time. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, per my instructions.

I adjust the wig, then I tell him to stand still as I grab a red-checked bandana from the coffee table. I tie that around his forehead, tucking it under the bright bangs. He wiggles his eyebrows as I do that.

Next, I grab some leather wristbands and snap them on his right arm.

“I’m going to look so hot,” he says.

I drop a kiss on the tip of his nose. “Even like this, yes, you are.” I step back, appraising my handiwork. Technically, Gigi’s fete isn’t a costume party so I didn’t plan to go full-on dress-up, but I couldn’t help myself once I saw the wig. I had no choice but to accessorize it.

I put my hands on his shoulders and walk him to the mirror. “Open your eyes.”

He does as told, and his laughter starts with a trickle, then small little burst. Then, like a dam unleashed, it becomes a waterfall of belly laughs.

He shakes his head at his reflection and turns to me. “I’m your Axl Rose, angel. You got me a mullet.”

A grin spreads. “And no one has ever rocked a mullet like you have.”

“You do have a big thing for hair bands.” He runs a palm over the too-bright blond hair that’s spiky on top and long on the sides.

I hope he knows it’s a compliment that I picked this look for him. Sure, it’s ironic, but it’s also a nod to one of my guilty pleasures. “You do know I had a huge crush on Axl Rose back in the day?”

He runs the back of his fingers over my cheek. “I am one hundred percent aware of that crush, and I couldn’t be more honored to rock the look. And will you be wearing a Joan Jett rocker-chick ’do?” He presses his hands together in prayer. “Please say yes, please say yes, please say yes.”

I laugh and drag a hand down his chest, enjoying the feel of his hard muscles through the fabric of his T-shirt. “Just you wait.”

I head to my bedroom and shut the door. I won’t be playing Joan Jett or Belinda Carlisle tonight. But I think he’ll like my look anyway, even though I didn’t pick it for him. I picked it for me. It’s fun, playful, and bold. It’s the opposite of the more muted looks I wear to work.

But more than anything, the wig I picked makes me happy. I twist my hair up, tuck it into a nylon cap, and then pull on a sapphire blue wig. The fake hair hits me just below the chin in a cute bob. I kick off my jeans and slip on a white dress.

For the pièce de résistance, I grab a pair of boots from my closet. Nicole tracked them down for me. She hoofed it all over the city in hot pursuit of the sexiest pair of size-ten flipper-feet ankle boots she could find. When she presented these gray beauties to me last night over happy hour drinks, she said, “A peace offering.”

I arched a brow. “There’s no need for an olive branch when you’ve done nothing wrong.”

Nicole shook her head. “I do need to make peace. Because I want you to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I’m here for you. I support you. When you go on your date tomorrow night, I want you to know I’m behind you.” She squeezed my hand, and her green eyes teared up. “I mean it, hon. All I want is for you to be happy. If this man makes you happy, then you should go for it, and you should have the hottest pair of boots in existence to match your little go-go outfit.” She smiled and threw her arms around me. “You’re going to look like Katy Perry.”