Mister O(27)

“Sure. Happy to meet her.” Maybe Natalie and I will hit it off, and she’ll get my mind off the one person I need to stop thinking about.

“Wedding hookups are awesome, right?”

“They’re the best,” I say.

“And if there were anything more than hanging out going on with you and my sister, you know what I’d do to you.”

I run a hand through my hair. “You do realize neither I, nor my hair, are the least bit afraid of you. You’re like the definition of not scary, right?”

Spencer laughs. “I can be terrifying. Just ask my sister.”

But I don’t really want to talk to Harper about her brother. When I take out my phone later that day to text her, I find she’s already sent me a note.





12





I must have missed her text when it came through earlier.

Princess: Hey. Charlotte knows you smell like springtime, and it’s my doing. She saw my Bucky tattoo. I could have passed it off as my initiation to a new badass feline aficionado gang, but instead I fessed up. But I didn’t let on that you’re like my love doctor or something. And that you’re writing me prescriptions for the good stuff.





I laugh at her ability to poke fun at herself. As I kick back on my couch, I respond.



That’s not the important issue. What I want to know is—have you now given up showers in protest of something?



Her reply arrives quickly.

Princess: So . . . don’t laugh. But I really liked the drawing, so I didn’t wash my left forearm this morning. Picture that. I had my arm poking out the shower door so I wouldn’t erase it.





I push my head back into the couch pillow. Yeah, I’m picturing that perfectly. Almost like I’ve imagined it a million times before. Hot water streaming down her hair, droplets slipping over her tits then sliding down her belly and between her legs.



Yup. Got that image one hundred percent clear. But a picture always helps.



I can’t resist, even though I know there’s no chance she’ll ever send me a naughty photo. In fact, I’m not even sure she’s going to reply, since my phone is silent for several minutes, long enough for me to grab the paper and hunt for the Sunday crossword puzzle. This is the only reason I get the paper. The puzzle will take me all week, but I can almost always finish it.

As I find the section, my phone buzzes.

With an image.

Oh shit. There is a god. Wait. Make that a goddess.

Harper stands in her bathtub fully clothed, lifting her face to the showerhead that’s not on, snapping an image of herself reenacting her shower from this morning. This is hot, and my dick is going to thank me later for this photo when I can really spend time with it. She’s not even undressed, but she’s wearing a V-neck shirt that gives me a fantastic glimpse of cleavage. I want to bite that swell of her breast, draw her nipple between my teeth, then suck hard—make her moan, and writhe, and whisper my name. As I drink in the rest of the picture and how her neck is stretched long and inviting, I know I want to spend a lot of time there, too. I bet she’d like neck kisses. I’m certain she’d like my mouth all over her skin. I could do things to this girl to drive her out of her mind with pleasure.

And I really f*cking want to.

I open the message, and write back.



Hard to see. I think I’d have a better idea if you turned on the water.



Well, she does have a white T-shirt on. I mean, c’mon. A man has to try.

A note from her pops up.

Princess: Seriously, though. I just told Charlotte you and I have been hanging out. Did she say anything to Spencer?





And I deflate.



Yes, but there’s nothing to worry about, and pretty soon he moved to the next topic—he wants to set me up with someone at the wedding.



My phone goes quiet, and I hear nothing from her. Not a peep for several hours. Maybe she’s jealous. That would be kind of cool if she was. I work my way through the puzzle, taking breaks to talk to my attorney, Tyler, work out at the gym, and make dinner. As I eat, I draw, returning to the naughty puppet cartoons I sketched out yesterday, and the story of their crazy-hot, redhead mechanic who’s flirting with a guy who just dropped off his car for a lube job.





“Wait. I meant brake job,” he says, embarrassed.

She juts out a hip, her perky breasts making his eyes pop out. “But the lube job will feel so much better on the drive shaft.”





What can I say? I like crude humor. I close my sketchbook and return to the puzzle. About the time evening slides into Manhattan, my phone buzzes once more as I’m filling in the squares for a twelve-letter word for “special liking” with “predilection.”

Princess: Hi . . . so . . . I want to ask you a question . . . about dating. Since you’re the love doctor.





Go for it. I’m an open book.

Princess: It’s about the first, second, third date protocol you talked about.





Yup. I’m well versed. Ready to answer. Fire away.

Princess: Did you kiss the romance novelist on your second date?