Mister O(33)

On that note, my fingers curl around the screen, and I nearly crush it.





14





Harper is late, and I’m not pissed.

I’m not irritated.

I’m not annoyed.

I’m just enjoying this India Pale Ale at Spencer and Charlotte’s favorite pub in the Village, not far from their home, and listening to Charlotte chatter about their wedding.

“And the florist, get this, his name is Bud Rose,” she says, her eyes all lit up and lively.

“And do his roses bud?” I ask, since I can’t resist.

“I’m not even having roses. I was going to have cornflower bouquets,” she says, then places a hand on Spencer’s arm. She tilts her head to look at him. “Did I ever tell you that, Snuffaluffagus?”

Every now and then they call each other that, and I’ve never asked why, nor do I want to know.

“No, you didn’t tell me. Tell me now,” Spencer says, his eyes totally fixed on her. Damn, he is hooked, lined, and sinkered with Charlotte. But then, he’s marrying her, so that’s how it should be.

“In medieval days, it was believed that a girl who placed a cornflower beneath her skirt could have any bachelor she desired,” she says, with a glint in her eyes just for Spencer. “And I got the one I desired.”

“Yes, you did,” he says, then moves in to kiss her.

The kiss goes on much longer than it should. I look at my watch; I check out the black-and-white photographs of old trucks on country roads on the walls; I study the menu. When I’m done their lips are still fused, and show no signs of separating.

“It’s started already?”

I straighten at the sound of Harper’s voice. She’s here finally, pulling out the chair next to me. This is the first time I’ve seen her in days, and she looks . . . edible. She’s wearing a red sweater with tiny black buttons down the front, and some kind of lacy black camisole thing under it. Her hair is down, long and silky, falling over her shoulders.

I haven’t talked to her since I sent my response to those photos yesterday. I told her my phone had exploded from the hotness, and that was the last I’d heard from her. I’d forced myself to go cold turkey after that.

I can’t keep rappelling down the cliff face of this untamed desire for her. I’ve got to reel it back in, stuff it into a trunk, lock it up, and then toss the motherf*cker to the bottom of the ocean. That’s the only way I can make it through this dinner and the wedding events this weekend, let alone help her learn the ways of being single in the city without wanting to simultaneously jump on her and throttle every guy she likes.

I swallow and shrug casually. “Yeah, by all accounts it’ll be this way for the next”—I pause to stare at the ceiling—“five to ten years.”

She smiles back at me, and at last her brother and his fiancée break their lip-lock.

“Please, don’t stop on account of us,” Harper says. “I’ve got a lot of catching up to do with Nick, so you two should continue competing for the Newlywed Smooch of the Year award.”

“Hey! We’ve got two more nights ’til we’re newlyweds,” Spencer points out, then he stands up and hugs his sister and in a softer voice says, “So good to see you.”

In the span of those five words, my chest pinches, and a knot of guilt burrows inside of me. Sure, technically I have the moral high ground, since I’ve never officially touched his sister. I’ve never crossed a real line. But the guy loves her like crazy, and I can’t be encouraging her to send me photos of stockings, and bows begging to be untied, and . . . stop. I just have to stop. Even if those bows can bring a grown man to his knees.

After Harper hugs Charlotte, she gives me the briefest friendly embrace. I catch the faint whiff of oranges in her hair, and the scent of citrus is a new form of torture because it stirs up the memory of that fifteen-second kiss outside her apartment. I’ve got to stay strong. Must fight off this lust. It’s pinning me to the ground, wrestling me, trying to make me succumb. I hate to do this, I truly f*cking do, but I call up the image of Gino tracking me down in the hall, and yep, that solves the problem.

It’s like Lust Be Gone spray.

Harper settles back in the chair next to me. “Sorry I’m late,” she says to everyone. “I had a dinner tomorrow night that I rescheduled to drinks tonight, so I had to squeeze it in before this.”

I grit my teeth.

Fucking Jason.

But wait. I remind myself that I don’t care about Jason. He’s in the trunk at the bottom of the ocean.

I don’t ask why she moved the dinner to drinks. I don’t ask how it went. I’m not going to ask at all if she kissed him.

Because I. Don’t. Care.

“How was it?” Charlotte asks sweetly.

I want to reach across the table and stuff the question back into her mouth. She doesn’t care, either. No one cares.

“It was fine,” Harper answers with a sweet smile, and the waitress arrives, inquiring if she wants a drink.

After Harper orders a glass of wine, the women return to discussing wedding flowers, and Spencer and I get caught up in a debate about beer. Misplaced desire, the trunk in the ocean, and bows on panties have all vacated the premises.

Sometime after dinner arrives, Charlotte gets that excited look in her eyes, waves her hands, and points at me. “Oh my God, I saw that J’s book just came out this week. I have it on my Kindle.”