Mister O(48)

“Why?”

“I love fall clothes and scarves,” she says, her boots clicking against the sidewalk. “Fall colors, too—all the orange, and red, and gold. And the air is crisp, but not cold. And mostly, it just seems like the season Manhattan was designed for.”

“How so?”

“It’s romantic. It’s as if . . .” She pauses as if she’s taking time with her thoughts. She slows her pace and looks at me. “It’s as if Manhattan and fall have chemistry. Know what I mean?”

“Like they’re meant to be?”

“Yes. Exactly. New York was made for autumn,” she says, as a tall brunette and an even taller blond dude walk toward us, his arm draped around her shoulder. Harper and I move slightly to the right, and her eyes linger on them for a moment.

“And autumn was made for New York,” I add, then I go for it. I wrap my arm around her shoulder. “Are you cold?”

She shakes her head. “Not anymore.”

Silence falls between us for the next block. It’s weird, because we’re usually so chatty. But it’s nice like this, walking through the city, New York unfolding before us in all its autumn splendor, elegant buildings on our left, a jewel of a park on our right.

“Now it feels like a date,” she says under her breath, and my heart speeds up, pounding against my chest. Because I really like dating her. More than I should.

But as I flip her words in my mind, I wonder if I’ve overstepped with her, and crossed a line she doesn’t want crossed. “Is that okay?”

“Of course,” she says, as if she’s saying duh. “This is still lessons in dating, right? I mean, just because we added sex to the mix doesn’t mean we’re leaving the dating lessons in the dust, right?”

My heart skids, slamming cruelly against my rib cage. I tell it to shut the f*ck up, because I can’t keep letting it get out of line and wanting more. “Sure,” I say gruffly, but now I wonder if that dinner was a mock date. Is she practicing dating with me now, too? Sex is one thing, but trial dates gnaw at me. I don’t know why. They just do.

“I thought I was pretty impressive at dinner with you tonight. I didn’t spill any red sauce on myself. I didn’t tell any embarrassing stories, and I spoke in complete and intelligible sentences the entire time,” she says, poking fun at herself.

I manage a small laugh, trying to let go of whatever weirdness is ping-ponging inside my head. “You were pretty damn impressive.”

“You know what this means, then?” she asks, a knowing grin on her face.

“Nope.”

“C’mon. Try,” she says, elbowing my ribs.

I draw a blank. “No clue. Coming up empty.”

“But I thought you liked puzzles,” she says, with a quirk in her lips.

“I do, but I can’t solve this,” I admit, my tone clipped. I don’t know how to play her game.

She tsks me. “It means,” she says, stopping, stepping closer, and grabbing the neck of my shirt, “that last night in your hotel was our first date, and this is our second date. And you know what third date protocol is.”

Schwing!

The decoder ring worked! I get it. She’s donned her Princess of Innuendo cape tonight, and she wants to f*ck tomorrow. And that’s what I’m going to focus on. Not this dating shit that’s vexing me. Besides, there’s no need to be pissy when I’m going to have her coming all over my cock in less than twenty-four hours.

Ah, there. I feel so much better with that image front and center in my head. Thank you very much, brain.

I loop an arm around her waist. “I do, indeed, know what third date protocol is, and I intend to give you the full and proper treatment.”

Then, because I want to give her a taste of what tomorrow will be like, and maybe, too, because I want to remind her that I can wind her up in a second, I kiss the hell out of her on the streets of Manhattan, yanking her close to me. She grinds her pelvis against my growing hard-on, and I’m about to whisper dirty things in her ear about how wet she’s getting. But I don’t want to end the kiss yet. I don’t want to stop at all, and she doesn’t seem to either.

Until a bus rumbles by, spewing out a thick plume of exhaust that ruins the moment.

Her phone buzzes as we separate, and she grabs it from her purse.

Her mouth forms a surprised O as she scans her screen. “It’s Simon.”

I clench my fists and look away. My jaw is set hard, and I hate the reminder right now. He’s the guy she’s really into. Fuck, he’s the one I’m training her for, right? For a moment, I wish that he doesn’t really like her, that he’ll let her down, that he’ll hurt her and she’ll run back to me. But I feel awful wanting that for her.

“How is Mr. Hemsworth?” I ask, barely masking the bitterness in my tone.

“It’s just a confirmation of the party info,” she says gently. “It’s later this week. Saturday morning, actually.” She shows me the text, and it’s not as if I need to see it. It really is only a work message, and I feel like a schmuck for letting my misplaced jealously shine through.

But another note pops up on her screen.



Would you like to get a coffee sometime soon? :)



He used a f*cking emoticon. I can’t believe it. I want to punch the air in victory, because that is complete and absolute grounds for a revocation of his man-card. “What’s with the smiley face?”