Mister O(34)

Harper’s eyes widen, and she looks at me. “J?”

Shit. I had no clue that book was coming out now. How the hell do women know these things?

Charlotte nods at Harper and explains helpfully. “J. Cameron. She writes these crazy-hot romance novels. She and Nick used to be together.”

“I would hardly say we were together.” I try to downplay it.

Spencer fake-coughs. “If by hardly together, you mean you were her muse and inspiration, then sure.” He stops to draw air quotes. “‘Hardly together’ works.”

“You were J. Cameron’s muse?” Harper asks, latching onto the name I’ve never revealed to her before. Her books are wildly popular.

I shake my head. “No. I was not her muse.”

Spencer guffaws under his breath. “Yeah right.”

Charlotte takes over the reins. “She’s so talented and so gorgeous. But you’re definitely not still with her, right?”

“No. It’s over. It’s been over for months,” I say, suddenly feeling backed into a corner.

“Good,” Charlotte says, smiling conspiratorially. “Because I can’t wait to introduce you officially to my sister this weekend. She’s going to adore you. How could she not? You’re so handsome, Nick. Isn’t he handsome, Spencer?” she asks, nudging Spencer.

He gags. “If by handsome you mean—”

Charlotte darts out her arm and covers his mouth with her hand. “Natalie will like Nick, don’t you think, Harper?”

Spencer pretends to chew on Charlotte’s palm.

“Sure,” Harper says, nonchalant.

“How could she not? He’s kind of insanely hot, isn’t he?” Charlotte asks, staring at Harper and waiting for an answer.

Harper parts her lips to speak, when Spencer bites down on Charlotte’s hand.

“Ouch!” She swats his shoulder and giggles, and the two of them kiss once more.

Harper never answers.

I don’t hear from her after dinner, either. Nor do I write to her.





15





On Friday afternoon I pack a bag and head to Grand Central to meet my parents, as well as Wyatt and Josie and Harper, so we can all catch a train to New Haven for the wedding. A new strain of guilt rushes through me as I walk through the terminal—guilt over ignoring Harper’s efforts to figure out men, because of my own jealousy. I’ve dropped the ball on her project, and I feel like a complete jerk for doing so. After I drew on her arm, everything became all about me, and my ravenous appetite to learn all her likes and dislikes.

I’m not sure I’ll be able to chat with her on the train, so I tap out a quick text as I near the big gold clock inside the station.



How was the date with Jason? Any questions? Anything I can help you with?



Her reply is immediate.

Princess: You were wrong about the second date.





My jaw clenches as I head onto the platform, and I’m tempted to ask how wrong? I push my bag higher on my shoulder, and step onto the silver train bound for the next state, scanning the crowd for my family. My phone dings, and I dread whatever’s coming next. She’s going to tell me her second date was amazing, and that she’s got it bad for him now.

Princess: He didn’t even try to kiss me.





A weight lifts from my shoulders. I’m pretty sure I might even be able to fly right now. I look up from my phone as a skinny man pushes past me, and I spot my parents. My mom waves from a pair of seats. My dad is next to her, with Wyatt a few rows away since it’s hard to grab seats together on a Friday. Josie is here, too, her pink-streaked hair twisted on top of her head and held in place with what looks like a chopstick. She beams when she sees me. I give my mom and sister each a kiss on the cheek and say hi to my dad then turn abruptly when Harper says hey. She’s across from them, and she pats the seat next to her. I toss my bag in the overhead and take the seat. “He didn’t even try?” I repeat in a low whisper, so only she can hear.

She shakes her head, a bright smile on her face. “Nope. He’s very sweet. But I’m glad he didn’t. I didn’t want to kiss him.”

I can’t help it. That just makes me . . . happy. Then I’m ridiculously happy when she adds, “And I told him that while I enjoyed chatting with him, I didn’t see it going further.”

“You said that?” I ask, fighting back a grin, even though I like that she was direct and honest with him, and I love that he’s out of the picture.

“I did,” she says. “I still don’t get that crazy fluttering feeling in my chest with him, and I don’t think I will. Best not to lead him on, right?”

I nod as my thoughts slip-slide in a thousand directions. I want to say so much, but I narrow in on my role with her. “So how am I supposed to help you figure out how to date?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about other guys right now.”

“What do you want to talk about?” I ask in a low voice, my heart racing, my skin heating up just from being near her.

She holds up her phone and taps on the screen. “This,” she says, pointing to our thread of messages.

“What about that?”