Mister O(50)

I’m taking you out tonight. What do you want to do? Dinner? Movie? Trapeze lesson? Art show? Museum? Horse-drawn carriage?

Princess: None of the above. But I have an idea. I’d love to plan our date.





She texts me a time and tells me she’ll send more details later. As I get ready for work I send her a text. Something I’ve always wanted to say to her.



By the way, I can still taste you . . .



Within a minute, a response lands on my phone. I groan as lust thrums through me. This picture couldn’t be more perfect—a shot of her legs, with her fingers on the waistband of a pair of light blue panties that dangle on her ankles. I don’t know if the lacy garment is going on, or going off, but I know this much—I’m going to need a few more minutes alone with this photo before I leave for work, and in my mind the clothes are definitely coming off.

Ten minutes later, I catch the subway to Comedy Nation, feeling pretty damn good that not only do I have a date, not only are we going to engage in proper protocol, but she also felt butterflies.

I might not be as skilled at deciphering Harper’s cues outside of the bedroom, but I know one thing for sure—butterflies are better than dicks.

And I mean dick as a compliment.



That easy breezy feeling carries me through the day. After a long session with the show’s writers, then a meeting with marketing, Serena pulls me aside in the conference room. “I almost forgot to tell you.”

Even her standard preface to a Gino request can’t get me down. “There’s a cocktail party at the end of the week. Friday night,” she says, then gives me the details. Friday is just a few days before the contract talks Gino has scheduled with Tyler.

“I’ll be there. Any rules?”

“Just be your usual charming self. But not too charming. You know how it goes.”

“Can I bring a date?”

Her eyes widen. “Ooh, tell me more. Who’s the lucky lady?”

I shake my head. “It’s not serious. But she’s the one who came with me to bowling a few weeks ago.”

“Ooh. The one,” she teases, with a big wink.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sure you didn’t,” she says, shooting me a knowing look.

“It’s only temporary.”

She rubs her hand over her basketball belly. “That’s what I once claimed about Jared,” she says, mentioning her husband. “Now look how permanent we are.”

“Powerhouse couple, and you’re ready to pop,” I say, since her husband works in the TV business, too, at a broadcast network.

“So you never know about these temporary flings.”

But I can’t let myself entertain those thoughts. If I do, then butterflies will get in my head and mess with it. Before I know it, Mister Orgasm will have turned into a love-struck fool by the end of the TV season.

A little after six, just as I’m stepping into the elevator, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

“Hold the elevator,” Gino shouts from down the hall.

I swear the dude has a homing device installed to track me down, which is all kinds of creepy. He flashes a massive grin when he joins me, clapping me on the back.

“Nick Hammer. Just the man I was thinking of.”

Words I never want to hear coming out of his mouth.

“That so?”

He nods vigorously and rubs his hands together as the elevator begins its downward trek. “I’ve been giving a lot of thought to our chat last week about the show. And I think I’ve got just the recipe to tone it down a notch.”

Tension coils in me. “Okay.” I wait for him to say more.

He rocks back on his heels. “But you know what? I’ll just wait until I see Tyler Nichols next Monday, and I’ll give him the down and dirty. Make it a surprise for him, and for you, too.” He raises his eyebrows in an evil glint. “I do love surprises, don’t you?”

“Like when a woman wears a red teddy under a trench coat? That kind of surprise?” I deadpan.

He clasps a hand to his belly and laughs as the car slows at his floor. “And that’s what we pay you the big bucks for.” He steps out, wraps his hand over the door, and pokes his head in. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yeah. For red teddy jokes,” I mutter as he walks off.

As soon as I reach the lobby, I dial Tyler and give him the down low. “What surprise is he talking about?”

“I’m meeting him a week from today,” my lawyer says in a reassuring tone. “I have no doubt he’s just posturing as we head to negotiations. This is his style. He’s like a cat who likes to play with his food before he eats it.”

I cringe. “Did you just compare me to cat food?”

Tyler laughs. “That came out wrong. But listen, man, we’ve got your back. Just go to the cocktail party in a few days, keep smiling, and we’ll take care of the show when I see him in a week.”

Easier said than done.

Because the show takes care of me. The show has given me this life in New York, the home that I own, even the shirt I’m wearing. It’s given me everything, and I don’t want to f*ck it up.

It’s who I am. It’s a part of me.