Mister O

I decide she’d love it because I’d kiss her so damn well, she’d melt into me. She’d want so much more, and I’d give it to her, making her feel good in every fucking way, driving her wild. I’d lick a path between her tits, down her belly to the button on those jeans. One fast flick, and they’d be undone. I’d have them off her in less than two seconds, my nimble fingers tugging her panties down . . .

She turns and snaps in an aw shucks gesture, and I shut down the very vivid, very arousing, very promising fantasy faster than you can clear the history on your Internet browser. She wanders back to me, looking appropriately forlorn. Gino smiles, a slick grin that continues as his team goes on to win, thanks to Harper blowing the final few frames. The photographer he hired snaps a shot of Gino, with his curly hair, dark eyes, and broad frame as he ambles toward me.

“Nice game, Nick,” he says, all slick and faux-friendly. “Better luck next time.” He punches my shoulder in an old buddy, old pal move. “But hey, at least you’re good at writing the shows.”

“Let’s just hope I write better than I bowl,” I say, serving it right up to him the way he likes it, with a side dish of suck-up.

He laughs loudly, like a gorilla. Then Gino notices Harper a few feet away, checking her phone in her purse. “Ah, redheads,” he says, as if he’s sucking a piece of meat off the bone. “They’re fiery and feisty.”

Involuntarily, I clench my fists. But before I can say, “Shut up, you ape,” Harper spins around and flashes us both her gorgeous smile. It’s pure magic. It’s what woos the kids and wins the hearts of the parents who book her months out for the parties. It’s wide, charismatic, and totally stunning.

“Well, hello there. You played a very good game,” Gino says, extending his hand. She shakes it, and I make a mental note to remind her to wash her hands thoroughly when we leave. Maybe even use hand sanitizer a few times. Fuck, the way he grips her hand, we’re going to need a full decontamination chamber here.

“Thank you so much. But honestly, you’re just so fantastic,” she says to him, an adoring look in her eyes. “Quite a tenacious competitor.”

I could kiss her for this.

“Oh, you flatter me,” he says, waving a hand.

“I assure you, it’s not flattery when someone rocks the lanes like you do,” she says, then gives a sexy little jut of her shoulder.

And that’s the money shot, folks. Gino is eating out of the palm of her hand. He turns to me and hooks his thumb at Harper. “I like her, Hammer. She’s a keeper.”

“She definitely is,” I second.

When we leave, she grabs my arm and squeezes my bicep.

My arms are strong. That’s not me being conceited. They really are, courtesy of my devotion to exercise and perhaps my addiction to the benefits it reaps. Her hand curls over my left arm, and yup, the hours at the gym are worth it right now. “Was I obsequious enough?”

“Like you have a master’s degree in it.”

She wiggles her eyebrows as we pass the vending machine on the way to the shoe counter. She gives another squeeze. “By the way, nice arms.”

Then she lets go, and I’m tempted to stop at the machine, buy a crackerjack box, and hunt for a decoder ring at the bottom. Something to decipher what the hell she means with these half-flirting, half-not remarks. Was “nice arms” a compliment, or just a general observation? Did it mean she wanted to run her fingernails along them as I braced myself above her, or that she thought I could be useful for, say, lifting a heavy coffee table in her apartment?

She practically skips ahead of me to the counter. “Don’t forget, you owe me a game now, too, Nick Hammer. I want a rematch with you.”

“You’re on,” I say, because at least rematch means more, and that’s what I want most.

She bends to unlace her shoes, and when she stands, she slaps them on the counter. “Oh hey,” she says, and her face lights up.

“Harper Holiday!” The guy behind the counter clearly knows her. He’s got dark hair, straight teeth, and brown eyes that he can’t take off Harper. Christ, is there any man in Manhattan who doesn’t want her?

“Hey, Jason, how are you? I haven’t seen you since—”

“Senior year,” he supplies with a smile, as he takes the shoes.

“This is my friend, Nick,” she says and squeezes my arm again. “He went to Carlton Prep, too. But he was a senior when we were freshman.”

“Hey, man. I remember you. You were always drawing comics, hunched over a notebook,” he says with a grin as he hands me my Chucks.

“That’s me,” I say, and I hope he leaves it at that. Not that I hated high school. Not by any stretch, ’cause I’m just not a hater. And honestly, being the quiet guy was not the worst fate. I had plenty of friends. But I was completely a cipher when it came to girls.

“Your shit was good,” he adds, and I straighten my shoulders and tell him thanks. This guy isn’t so bad after all.

“I had no idea you worked here,” Harper says.

He holds out his hands and gestures around. “All the time. This is my place. My little patch of land.”