Mister O(69)

She breaks the kiss and turns to go, then she swivels around once more and slides her arm around my waist, tipping up her chin to meet my eyes. “There’s one thing I want in bed that we haven’t done yet.”

“Name it.”

“I’m on the pill,” she says and knocks the wind out of me. I nearly sway on the busy street outside the train station.

“I’m clean. I’ve been tested,” I add, my throat dry. The possibility of feeling her bare is almost too much. I’m not sure how I can function on any level between now and tomorrow night.

“Can we sleep together without a condom when I see you tomorrow?”

I nod. “I’ve never done it without one.”

“I’ll be your first?” Her voice rises with excitement.

“Yes.” I’m dying to tell her that she’s the first in so many things. First woman I’ve ever felt this way about. First woman I’ve ever cared about more than my work. First woman who’s inspired a cartoon just for fun.

She presses one last kiss to my lips, murmuring, “I can’t wait.”

She leaves, and I’m pretty sure the next thirty-six hours will be the longest of my life.

Because . . . bare.





32





I go to the movies with Wyatt that night, checking out a spy flick that numbs my brain with two hours of explosions, knife fights, and one badass motorcycle chase down a never-ending set of stairs.

He doesn’t once ask about Harper or Spencer when we grab beers and burgers after the credits roll. I’m thankful for that, even though I don’t know what to do about my buddy. I’ve got to hope Spencer will understand that the way I feel for his sister isn’t cause for eyebrow-dyeing or hair-shaving.

Even if I haven’t been upfront with him.

I push those thoughts away for tonight. Always the chatterbox, Wyatt tells me about his business expansion plans and how he needs to hire a new assistant. It’s one of the rare occasions when we don’t give each other crap the whole time.

I’m grateful, too, that I’ve survived the first day in the countdown to bare. When I return home that night, I head straight to my standing desk and draw a puppet with a stopwatch. He stares slack-jawed at the hot mechanic, who fixes brake pads in nothing but a cape.

I title it Countdown to Bare.

I know, I know. I’m pretty f*cking brilliant. But as they say, a dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste. I turn off the screen, and when I slide under the sheets that night the last thing I do is check my phone. Again, karma loves me, because there’s a photo from her. A close-up shot of her fingers, sliding under the waistband of her cranberry-red lace panties.

I swear, this woman will be my undoing. She’s so goddamn perfect for me.



On Sunday morning I wake to my phone rattling on the nightstand. Must be another message from Harper. I grin in anticipation as I grab the phone.

A note from Serena pops up on the screen instead, with a picture of a baby sleeping.



Seven pounds of torture and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Meet my baby boy!



An even bigger grin spreads on my face over the good news, and because I know Harper will like this picture, I forward her the note.

I freeze.

I just sent her a photo of a baby. To make her happy. What the hell has my world become? Who is this dude inside my skin texting pictures of a newborn? To a chick who sent me a dirty photo last night?

That’s when the Road Runner drops the anvil, and Wile E. Coyote gets smacked with ten tons of obvious, and his head rings, and stars spin, but then everything becomes crystal clear. I want Harper to be happy in every way—in bed and out of bed. I don’t just want to give this woman ten thousand orgasms. I want to see her smile more times than I can count.

Because . . . I’ve fallen in love with her.

I groan and flop back against the mattress.

This woman has upended my world. Once I only wanted to send her soaring, to bring her pleasure, to screw her out of my system. Now I want to make her feel joy in every way. I, Nick Hammer, self-avowed serial monogamist and Magellan of the female orgasm, have become a love-struck fool.

I wish there was a clue in the Sunday puzzle as to how to give voice to this madness taking over my heart. Knowing how to touch Harper, how to kiss her, and how to deliver ecstasy to every square inch of her body seems easy compared to reckoning with this strange, new foreign object occupying space in my chest. What do you even say to a woman you’ve fallen ass over elbow for? I scratch my head, coming up empty. Sex is my classroom, but love is a language I barely understand.

I close my eyes, letting my mind wander to all the things I know about Harper. She loves to entertain, to tell jokes, to spend time with her friends and family, to help people she cares about. She loves autumn, and cake, and bowling, and beating me in competitions. She likes taking care of Fido, and learning new magic tricks, and she loves to give gifts.

Most of all, she likes being understood.

I flash back to one of the texts she sent me. A non-dirty one.

I want to look into someone’s eyes and feel like he knows me, gets me, understands me. I want him to see my quirks and accept them, not try to change them. I want to know what that’s like.

This is a girl who has definite quirks. I latch on to something. Bits and pieces of our conversation back at Peace of Cake. Something she said about cheesy moments. What was it?