The Hot One(54)

But after I slip on the boots, which jack me up by three inches, it’s not the pop star I look like. It’s a kids’ TV star. When I return to the hallway where Tyler’s leaning against the wall, his eyes roam my figure from head to toe. His jaw falls in slow motion like a crank is winding it wide open, as he takes me in. “You . . .”

He doesn’t say anything more. I think he might be speechless. He licks his lips and tries again. “You look . . .”

I smile and jut out a hip, giving him a sexy little pose.

He detaches himself from the wall, strides over to me, and sets his hands on my hips, clasping me tight. “I can’t believe you have just given me Smurf fantasies. But you have. You are the sexiest fucking woman I’ve ever seen, my Smurfette.”

I’ll take that over a pop star anyway, considering what he does next.

He slams his mouth to mine. He sweeps his tongue over my lips, then insistently pushes inside my mouth. He kisses me roughly, with hunger. His stubble scratches my chin, and the whiskery burn sends a rush of heat down my chest and straight between my legs.

Already I’m hot for him, needy for him. He bends me back, demanding more from my lips, wanting all of my mouth, kissing me like it’s the only thing on earth left to do.

Kiss and crush and devour.

I moan into his mouth, and he swallows all my sounds then kisses me impossibly harder. My head goes fuzzy, my brain turning into a haze of heat.

And I know as he marks my lips, and takes what he needs from my mouth, that my quip about ninety days is going to be pretty goddamn funny later. The joke will be on me. Like 89.5 days sooner.

When he kisses me like this, and he touches me like that, I fall harder for him.

That’s what I’ve been doing all week, with the dates, and the coffee, and the breakfast, and the office visit, and the walking and talking and kissing, and the running. Through it all, I’ve been falling for this man again.

My heart hammers with the realization. It crashes against my sternum, demanding attention. And I absolutely notice it. I feel everything—the pounding against my ribcage, the flush over my skin as it turns hot, the blood speeding through the freeways in my body. Most of all, I pay attention to how every molecule in me wants to get closer to him.

These feelings scared me in the past.

They scare me again now.

But not as much, and not as deeply, and not enough to stop me. I didn’t expect to fall again so quickly, but here it is. I’m in his arms, and I know this is where I belong.

At some point, we come up for air. His eyes are fiery. Blazing with need.

He licks his lips then shakes his head like he’s clearing his thoughts. He pulls me up and cups my cheeks in his big hands. “I’m crazy for you, my Smurf.”

“Oh Tyler,” I say with a happy murmur. “I’m so crazy for you.” Then I add, with a little wink, “Axl.”

That earns me yet another kiss.

As we leave, with his hand in mind, my heart stutters. For a moment, it feels like a skipped beat. Like fear. How have I let myself fall under his spell again so easily? But then, as I loop an arm around his shoulder and absently rub, kneading the knots as he moans his approval, the answer is clear.

I believe in healing. It’s my job, but it’s also my mantra.

I try to repair ailments for a living. I like to think I’ve healed the wounds inside me.

Through forgiveness. Through moving on. Through letting go.

Now, I’m letting go in a whole new way as I fall again and more wildly for this daring, cocky, funny, caring man with a mullet, a big mouth, and a heart of gold.

I’m not sure I ever forgave my father for leaving us. But he’s my dad. He was supposed to stay.

With Tyler, I have a chance to forgive in a way I never could with my dad. To move beyond the past. Looking back, I can see I made mistakes, too. I didn’t always open my heart when I should have. Sometimes, I kept my fears too close to the vest. I put up walls from time to time.

And just as he has a new chance with me, I have a new chance to be the person I want to be. As we walk through the New York evening, hand in hand on our way to a wig party, I thread my fingers more tightly through his.

I take a breath.

Shore up my heart.

Prepare to say something I haven’t told a soul. Not Penny, not Nicole, and certainly not my mom. “I’m trying to find my dad.”

My chest pinches and my throat squeezes.

Tyler slows his pace and meets my gaze. “Yeah? How’s that going?”

His tone is so normal, so measured, so wonderfully calm, that it eases the pain of some of the shards and splinters inside me. “I hired a private detective. I wanted to see where he is. If he’s still married. If he has more kids.”

“What did you find out?”

“He’s in Canada.” With each sentence I utter out loud, I feel lighter and freer. As the sounds of the New York evening clatter around us, from cabs screeching by, to buses slogging fumes, to the click-clack of harried New Yorkers, I enter my happy zone.

It’s a little bubble with this man who adored me once upon a time and seems to yet again. He makes me feel like all my heart is safe with him—the happy parts, and the scarred parts, and the ones that are still healing, too.

“He’s still married.” I add, “But I’m waiting for more info.”

“What will you do when you get it?”