Mister O(6)

Too late. I’m picturing it now, seeing in my mind how the lace hugs her flesh, and that is one fine image. Thank you, brain, for never being afraid to go there. But now I need to zone in on the conversation.

I point at the cake we’re working on. “Scale of one to ten. What would you give this cake?”

With her fork poised midair, she stares at the ceiling. “Rapture.”

“I don’t believe that’s on the scale.”

“I did say cake was a religion.”

“Then I would think second coming would be fitting.”

“Coming. You said coming,” she says with a straight face.

“I say that a lot, actually.” I lean back in the chair, keeping it casual.

“I know.” She wiggles her eyebrows then whispers, “I was enjoying your book before you arrived. It’s so dirty.” She says it like this is a secret. Like she just learned for the very first time that my cartoon is a fiesta of naughtiness. “What I really want to know, Nick Hammer,” she says, owning my name in a way that the blonde from the bookstore could never even come close to, “is where your inspiration comes from.”

You don’t even want to know, Harper.

I pretend to study the cake. “I think this cake might be laced with something.”

She takes a bite and winks. “Yeah, deliciousness. That’s what it’s spiked with.”

Fuck, see what I mean? She’s too much. She makes it really hard not to think about what she’d be like in bed. She operates at this constant state of verbal banter that’s flirting, but not quite flirting. The net effect? I’m a cat, and she’s working the laser pointer. I’m chasing the red light, but I can’t ever catch it. The fact that I’m single doesn’t help. I have nothing whatsoever against one-night stands, but I’m less of a hookup guy and more of a serial monogamist, even though I’ve never fallen in love with anyone I’ve monogamied serially with, including the last woman, who’s in Italy now, working on a book.

Ergo, I’m one hundred percent available, I’m absolutely interested in the woman sitting across from me, but no way can I have her.

I take a drink of my coffee, and she reaches for her hot chocolate. Since I can’t spend the entire time staring at her lips on the mug, I look around. The shelves at the counter are full of fantastic-looking cakes, and a chalkboard menu lists mouth-watering flavors alongside the standard coffee options. Peace of Cake is packed. The wooden tables are nearly overflowing with your Upper West Side potpourri of people—moms, dads, and young kids, along with twenty-somethings and couples.

“So how many was it?” Harper nods in the direction of the bookstore.

“How many what? Books sold?”

She shakes her head. “How many times did you get hit on in there?”

I laugh, but don’t answer her.

“C’mon,” she presses, tapping the table. “A good-looking guy like you. The center of attention. It must have been, what . . . every other fan?”

My ears perk up at her description. Other parts do, too. But see, it’s not like she says good-looking guy in this come-on way. She says it like it’s some known fact. Which is why I can’t figure her out. I have no clue if her mind swerved out of Friendshipville and into Naughty Thought Town that day in the park, too. “No, not every other fan,” I say.

“But every other other fan?” she asks, and I laugh again at her word choice, as if every other other is now a thing.

“All I’m going to say is you were an excellent shield when I needed you.” I snap my fingers. “Hey, I have an idea. I have this event in a couple days.” I give her the details that Serena shared with me and fill her in on my boss’s weird jealousy issues. “But Gino still wants me to go, so you should come with me.”

“As a shield? So women won’t hit on you?” she asks, taking another bite of the cake.

“They generally don’t if you’re there with a friend.”

She gestures with her fork from her to me and back. “Am I supposed to pretend it’s a date?” She says this like it’s the craziest notion in the world, which tells me I need to stop entertaining any thoughts of Harper Holiday running her hands down my chest ever again. It’s not like she needs to know I drew a picture of her O face a few weeks ago. What? Was that so wrong? It’s what I do for a living. It’s not that weird. Besides, I deleted the file. I was just messing around on the computer, I swear.

“Like Spencer and Charlotte pretended?” she adds, as if I could forget their ruse, especially since it worked out in its own way—their wedding is in two weeks.

“No, that’d be lame if we did the same thing,” I say, digging into the chocolate for another bite. “That would be like if a romance writer used the same trope in the very next novel.”

That skeptical eyebrow of hers pops back up. “How do you know about tropes?”

“I write a show.” Draw and write, but you get the idea.

“Yours is an animated spoof of a dirty superhero. And yet you’re that familiar with tropes in romance novels?”

“I dated a romance writer a few months ago.”

“What was that like?”

“Um, it was like dating,” I deadpan.

She rolls her eyes. “No. Did she want to practice with you?”