Mister O(3)

No, no, no.

Abort.

Cannot go there. Will not play the Dirty Synonym game featuring my last name with Samantha, who’s about to run those sharp nails down my arm.

“Oh, excuse me. Did you drop something?”

I straighten my shoulders when I hear a familiar voice—deadpan humor and pure innocence at the same time.

The blonde startles. “No,” she says with a snarl, snapping at the questioner. “I didn’t drop anything.”

“Are you sure?” The tone is of complete and utter concern.

I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face, because I know the woman behind the voice is up to something sneaky.

Harper Holiday.

Red hair. Blue eyes. Face of a sweet, sexy angel, body of a badass, ninja-warrior princess, and a mouth adept at pitch-perfect delivery of sarcasm. I’d play Dirty Synonyms, Dirty Antonyms . . . Dirty Anything with her.

Harper steps from behind the blonde in line and opens her palm. “Because I’m pretty sure this is your wedding ring,” she says, a worried look in those bright blue eyes as she plucks a gold wedding band from her hand and offers it to the hungry blonde.

“That’s not mine,” the woman says defensively, all that flirty sweetness swiped clean from her voice.

Harper smacks her other hand against her forehead. “Oh, my bad. You put yours in your pocket a few minutes ago. Right there.”

She points to the woman’s right pocket, and sure enough, there’s the outline of what looks to be a wedding band. That’s exactly what I’d suspected she’d done in line. Stuffed it away. Probably had forgotten she was wearing it and then tried to hide it at the last minute.

The married woman’s face goes pale.

Busted.

“This one,” Harper continues, holding up the ring and letting it catch the light from the ceiling, “this is the one I keep handy for situations like this.”

Samantha mutters bitch under her breath, turns on her heel, and marches away.

“Enjoy the book,” Harper calls out, then looks to me, cocks her head, and shoots me an I-just-saved-your-ass grin. In her own imitation of the Mister Orgasm groupies, she says, “Nick Hammer. Is that your real name?”

Just like that, I hope Serena stays in the restroom for a lot longer.





2





My real last name is Hammer.

I get asked that question all the time. Everyone thinks it’s fake. Like it’s a stage name, or pen name, or my stripper name from back in the days when I worked hard for the money.

Just kidding. I was never a stripper.

But I was lucky enough to land a kick-ass last name, and I’m doubly lucky because if I’d been a girl, my parents were going to name me Sunshine. Instead, my mom named her bakery Sunshine and her sons Wyatt and Nick. Our little sister came a few years after the bakery was born, so she dodged the hippy name too, but Josie definitely got the vibe. She’s a free spirit.

I point at the ring Harper has in her hand. “Did you jet off to Vegas this weekend and marry Penn? Or wait. Was it Teller?”

“No. Criss Angel,” she says, as she stuffs the ring inside a red purse so big it could provide safe harbor for refugees.

“Seriously, though. Why do you carry a wedding band around?”

“I could tell you, but then I’d be breaking Code 563 in the Magician’s Handbook of Secrecy, which was written to keep mere mortals such as yourself in the dark.”

I tap my chest and shake my head. “I beg your pardon. I’m not a mere mortal. ’Fess up.”

She cups the side of her mouth and stage whispers, “It’s fake. I picked it up so I could do a little sleight-of-hand trick at a party last weekend.”

“Did the trick work?”

She nods, her lips curving in a grin. “Like a charm. Turned this into the Green Lantern’s ring. The kid was in awe.”

“As well he should be. By the way,” I say, tipping my chin in the direction of the long-gone lady, “thank you. For a second there I was thinking maybe she had a magic bullet in her pocket.”

Her eyes widened. “Has that happened?”

I nod, rolling my eyes. “Once. At a fan meet-and-greet.”

“A fan rubbed one out in line?”

“Either that or was just priming the pump for later. But don’t worry. I’m pretty psyched that you saved me from the sneak-off-the-wedding-band tactic, too. I think you might be a superhero.”

“That’s me. I swoop in out of nowhere and rescue unsuspecting men from married women with dangerous husbands who would want to crush the life-force out of wildly popular cartoonists. You’ll probably want to take me out for a coffee when I tell you her husband is about ten feet tall, has arms the size of cannons, and wears brass knuckles. Saw him outside the bookstore before I came in.”

“Does he lead an underground fight ring, too?”

She nods in mock seriousness. “Yes. He’s Vicious. That’s his fight name.”

“I clearly owe you the coffee. Maybe even a slice of cake, just so you know how much I appreciate you saving me from Vicious.”

“Don’t tease me. Cake is my religion.” She lowers her voice. “I was debating for the longest time whether to use the ring trick or to give her these,” she says, dipping her hand into her bag and producing a pair of purple eyeglasses, “and suggesting she wear them to help her eye-f*ck you better.”