Mister O

“Sounds perfect. I’d like that kind of mutt, too.”


She clears her throat and holds up the canvas grocery bag. “You might be wondering why I’m here.”

“The thought did cross my mind. But then I figured you were bringing me groceries. Please tell me there’s a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream and two spoons in there.”

A too-big pout forms on her face. “Damn it. I really fucked up. But I know what to get you next time. For now, I have this offering of detergent. I was just going to leave it with the doorman,” she says, glancing in the direction of my building.

But she didn’t leave it with the doorman. She’s still carrying it, and she was hunting for her phone a minute ago, like she was trying to call me. Maybe to tell me she was here? Hell, maybe she wanted an excuse to see me.

Before my thoughts careen out of control, I give myself a mental eye-roll.

Yeah, right. If the chick were into you, she’d be speaking in tongues and babbling.

She’s not. In fact, she’s cool, confident Harper. Ergo, I’m reading something into nothing.

I take the bag and thank her. “You really didn’t have to. I was going to pick some up today after work.”

“But this way I can convert you to my brand. It’s cruelty-free. No animal testing.”

“Ah, that’s awesome.”

“Want to know what else is awesome? It smells really good.”

I groan. “Am I going to smell like lavender or something girly?”

“I don’t think so. I use it. Want to sniff me?”

I freeze. A million dirty thoughts dance in my head. I would fucking love to sniff her, to inhale her scent, to run my nose along her neck, down her breasts, across her belly. Then I decide, fuck it. This chick asked me to teach her about dating. She needs to know that the things that come out of her mouth are sometimes insanely naughty. I park a hand on her shoulder. “You are aware that sounded ridiculously filthy? Tell me you know that. I need to understand how far back your training must go.”

She rolls her eyes. “C’mon, I wasn’t trying to be dirty. Just sniff. It’s like springtime. It smells really good,” she says, and tugs at her own shirt, a turquoise V-neck underneath a light jacket.

Like I’m saying no to that. I lean forward and bring my nose to the fabric. She smells amazingly good, and I’m temptingly close to her breasts. Closer than I’ve ever been. So close that if, say, the person walking behind me conveniently bumped me, I could have my face in Harper’s chest. My mouth waters, and my pulse thunders, and I’ve never prayed so hard to be bumped into in my life.

But it doesn’t happen, and obviously I can’t spend the entire day hanging out here sniffing her clothes. It’s probably grounds for insanity, so I raise my face.

“Doesn’t it smell nice?”

I meet her gaze. I have no witty comeback. No snappy retort. “Yes.”

For some reason that earns me a smile. Only this one seems different than the one she flashed Gino last night or the one she gave my brother. One that seems to last longer than a friendly smile should. It appears to linger, and it reminds me of last night and how our kiss seemed more than friendly, too.

“But I already knew you smelled nice,” I add, my lips twitching up. Maybe I’m letting her know I’m cool with everything. Maybe I’m flirting.

Her eyes widen, and she nibbles on the corner of her lips. “And now your clothes can smell that good, and you should do your laundry today so I can sniff you when I see you tomorrow.”

Once she leaves I find a missed call from her marked five minutes ago. Like I had hoped. I fight like hell not to read anything into it, reminding myself that tomorrow she has her starter date with another guy.

And that guy isn’t me.

Hopefully she won’t be sniffing Jason. I really hope he doesn’t smell her either, because I don’t want anyone else to know that her detergent is a massive turn-on.





9





After an all-day brainstorm meeting with the show’s writers, I return home, gather my laundry, and grab my new detergent from the canvas bag. My hand scrapes across cardboard at the bottom. I peer into the bag and find a stowaway. The detergent isn’t riding solo. It has company.

I pull out a slim box of Blackwing pencils.

A black satiny bow with pink polka dots hugs the middle of the box. This is the girliest bow I’ve ever seen, but it’s completely adorable because it’s from her. Tucked under the ribbon is a white piece of paper, folded in quarters. I open it.



Nick,

Did you know the slogan for these pencils is “Half the Pressure, Twice the Speed”? I suspect there’s a great dirty joke in there, but I think we’d need more pressure, right? In any case, I wanted to say thank you in advance for all your help. And nothing says thank you like a box of pencils. Just don’t put any in your nose. Well, until you learn how to do so properly. Then, by all means, go crazy.

xoxo

Harper