Mister O

Lest I loll around in the shower zone too long, I school my thoughts, return to the design, and force myself to be her tutor. “How was it? Your date.”


“It was fine. He was nice, and we talked.”

“What did you talk about? As your coach, it’s important for me to know these details,” I say.

“Bowling. College. Work.”

“Sounds like what we just talked about. Minus the bowling.”

“No,” she says, her tone firm. “We talk about stuff that’s deeper, don’t you think?”

I meet her eyes, try to read her expression. But this is a woman who’s had to perfect the art of not revealing. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, feeling, or wanting, and it’s starting to drive me crazy because her words seem weightier than usual. “Do we?”

She doesn’t look away. Her blue eyes stay fixed on me, and she answers simply. “Yes. Didn’t we just do that?”

And she’s right. We did. I nod. “Do you like him?”

“He asked me to go out next week. For dinner.”

My muscles tighten, and I grip her arm harder. “What did you say?”

“I said yes. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say? You told me to try with him, coach. So I can learn how to date and not be a complete buffoon.”

I laugh at her choice of words. “I’d hardly call you a buffoon.”

She squares her shoulders, taking a beat. “What were your dates like with the romance novelist? Can you tell me so I know I’m not totally flailing around?”

I shake my head. “We’re not talking about me right now, Princess Not-a-Buffoon. We’re talking about you. Are you starting to like him? You didn’t answer the question, and it would help me prep you for your dinner if I knew the answer,” I ask again.

She quirks her lips, considering. “I don’t get that crazy fluttery feeling in my chest when I look at him or talk to him. I suppose I probably should if I like him?” She makes it a question, her gaze locking on mine.

My own crazy, fluttering chest gives me the answer. “It’s not a bad start.” Then, because apparently I’m a glutton for punishment, I press on. “Do you feel that way when you’re with Simon?”

Her eyes widen, and she shrugs.

“That’s not an answer,” I say gruffly. Evidently, I really like abuse.

“I haven’t spent any more time with him. You gave me orders not to see him,” she says, tossing the ball back in my court. “Though, I did talk to him on the phone earlier this week.”

My pen stops. A bolt of red-hot jealousy slams into me. I’m so damn glad I’m looking down, because I don’t want her to see my face, or that it drives me crazy that she’s into him. “Yeah?” I ask, in my best cool and casual tone as I return to the blue lines on her skin. “How was that?”

“Fine. We just talked about Hayden’s party in a couple weeks.”

“And you were able to speak?”

“Ha ha ha. Yes, I retained the power of oral communication,” she says, and I groan at the innuendo she served up. “Besides, the phone is easy for me. Especially texting.”

“Good to know,” I say, as I finish the ink on her arm.

I move my palm a few inches up her skin, raising her forearm to show her my work. As my fingers skim across her flesh, I swear for a second that her breath catches. The smallest sound floats to my ears, almost like a little gasp, and it sounds fantastic. It trips me back in time to our kiss. To the faint murmur that escaped her lips when I brushed them with mine. I want to press the button on her that controls that noise, that turns it up, that makes it music in my ears. Our eyes meet, and I’m not awash in crazy, dirty thoughts. I’m thinking about how pretty she is, how much more I want to know her, and how I don’t want this time with her to end. I can listen to her talk about cartoons and dreams, work and passion—all these deeper things, and all the simpler things, too—for as long as she wants to share them with me.

Talking to her is so easy. So enjoyable. It’s like breathing. My heart pounds as I try to memorize the expression in her eyes, the tiny spark dancing across all that sapphire blue, that makes me believe she has to feel the same way.

Her lips part the slightest bit, and that small shift is the very detail I’d draw in the picture of a girl who was starting to like a guy.

My pulse races as she holds my gaze captive. There are no fans egging us on. There’s no trick we’re trying to pull off. We might be surrounded by people, but this is a coffee shop full of white noise. Right now, it’s only Harper and me, and her shoulders dip forward, as if there’s a magnetic pull between us.