Mister O(36)

I laugh and shake my head. “We’ve never fought over girls. Everything else, though.”

She shrugs, and as her shoulder juts up, I wrap my fingers more tightly over her hip, brushing against the bone. Her breath catches, and these are the moments that turn my world with her into a bumper-car ride. I don’t ever know if we’re coming or going. We smash into each other, then we bounce apart, and then we’re right back like this. Bows, skipped breaths, and glossy eyes. That’s how hers look right now. This very second they shine with desire, as if she’s showing me how she pulls off a trick. As if she’s revealing her truth.

“Besides,” she says, low and soft, “maybe I felt territorial.”

My lips curve up in a grin, and my heart pounds wildly. Territorial is my new favorite word.

“Did you?” I ask as we turn in a lazy circle. Somewhere nearby is my best friend, and I don’t care. Because this woman is in my arms. She is all I see, all I hear, all I smell. The need to be closer to her consumes me, blotting out everything else—most of all, the reason to stay away.

Her hand moves closer to my neck, and she fiddles with the collar on my shirt. “Your tux looks good,” she says, breathless, and as much as I like that, I also hear what she doesn’t say. You look good.

There’s a difference between the two. A big difference.

Spots of light play over the hardwood floor as the song slides to the end. “So does your dress,” I say, as I roam my eyes over her clothes then back up to her face. Then I show her how it’s done. She asked me to teach her. This I can do honestly—compliment her the way she should be complimented. With my eyes locked on hers, I say, “And you look gorgeous, Harper.”

Her chest rises and falls against my own, and I stare at her mouth as her lips part, as if she’s taking her time to say something. Then she does, and the words topple out in a nervous mess, but still they’re f*cking perfect, as she says, “You look so hot.”

That’s all I can take. The sliver of space between us is thick with lust. It’s strung tight with desire, and I’m confident for the first time it’s not a one-way street. Her eyes are clear and focused on me, only me, and even if she’s not good at reading men, she has to know what’s happening with us. I’m done fighting this.

This is all I can take.

I burn for her. Everywhere. My hands, my chest, my skin. I want this girl so much. My fingers inch across her collarbone, and I run them over a loose curl of her hair. I move closer, dip my head toward her ear. “Do you want to get out of here?”

A fork clinks on a glass. Spencer’s father clears his throat. “Thank you all for coming.”

As if we’ve been electrocuted, we wrench apart, and it’s painful. Completely, utterly painful, especially since I’m not sure this erection is ever going away. But as I zero in on the face of the father of the woman I want underneath me . . . yep . . . done . . . gone.

Instant boner killer.

Whew.

He toasts, and then I toast, and then the bride and groom share the cake my mom made, and at some point, my phone buzzes lightly in my pocket.

I slip away from the crowd to look at her one-word reply, zoning in only on three beautiful letters.

Yes.





16





I pace in the brightly lit hall outside the reception, waiting for her to slip out, too. But two, three, four minutes after her text, and there’s still no sign of the girl in the blue dress.

I weigh my options. Head back into the reception to look for her like Captain Obvious. Send her a text asking what’s up like a Pushy Dick. Or make my way to the bar like Cool and Casual Guy.

Before I settle on the no-brainer of Scotch, the text message light blinks.

Princess: Trapped by a very tipsy Jen. Give me a few minutes. Meet me in a dark stairwell? Vending machine on second floor? Library? Underneath a tree on the grounds?





I smile. So very Harper.

And I’m going to be so very me, now.



Room 302.



Once I’m inside my room, my bow tie is undone, along with the top two buttons on my shirt. I toss my jacket on the bed, kick off my shoes, and flop down on the mattress.

I grab the remote.

No time like the present to find out what’s on the tube on a Saturday night.

Clicking through the hotel menu, I learn that not only can I watch a ton of reruns, a plethora of cooking shows, and a host of filthy movies, I can also order my continental breakfast for tomorrow, plan a spa day, or take a tour of the hotel grounds on the interactive map.

Wow. That sounds immensely fascinating. Not sure I can contain my excitement at the mere suggestion of a TV-screen tour of the hotel.

I manage, though, stabbing the off button then checking my phone.

That killed ten minutes, but there’s still no text from Harper.

Flicking through some apps, I manage to carve another five minutes out of my night before I peek again at the texts.

That’s when I see the unsent status on my last note. Oh shit. I sit up, scrambling to resend the note that didn’t go through for whatever reason.

But before I can even click, there’s a knock on my door. When I cross the few feet to open it, I find Harper in her blue dress, her hair half-down, and one hand behind her back.

She wastes no time.