Mister O

She leans into me, swaying closer, like she’s keen to finish what we started on the street. If she is, I want it all, but it has to come from her so I know this isn’t just another illusion. Every inch, every bend, every second until our lips meet has to start with her. I need to know whether this is all in my mind, or if this crackling electricity between us truly is as two-way as I want it to be.

A cup clangs from somewhere behind the counter, and the sound of it hitting the floor breaks the spell. I straighten, she flinches, and we both look away. When I dare to return my focus to her, she’s staring down at her arm, so there’s no chance I can find an answer. It slips through my fingers like smoke.

“I love it,” she says in a soft voice. “How long will it last?”

“’Til you shower.”

“But I love showers.”

“It won’t last long then. So unless you plan on letting yourself get pretty dirty tonight, it’ll be gone tomorrow.”

“Now who’s the one saying ridiculously filthy things?”

I smirk. “Touché.”

“Can I ask you a serious question?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think Jason is going to want to, you know”—she raises her eyebrows and croons like Marvin Gaye—“get it on?”

“Maybe. Second date protocol suggests he might try to kiss you,” I say, trying to stay focused on the question and not my own reaction to it, which is that Jason is a lucky fucking bastard. “First date is to see if you actually want a second date. So you passed that test. Second date is to see if there’s any real chemistry, and so you graduate to dinner and probably a test kiss. And third date is . . .” I let my voice fade, and she raises an eyebrow.

She whispers, all conspiratorial, “Wait. Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Third date is for . . .” She slows, licks her lips, then inches the slightest bit closer so it’s like she’s imprinting her words on the air as she holds my gaze captive and purrs, “Hot, dirty sex.”

All the blood rushes to my dick.

There’s no space between us for other people. Her words are between her and me. My brain stops working, lust spins wildly through me, and I say the first thing that comes to mind. “No,” I say, taking my time, too, because this is my territory. I know dirty words and deeds inside and out, and if Harper wants to go toe-to-toe, I’m in it to heat her up. “It’s for hot, dirty sex that lasts all night long.”

Now she’s caught off-guard. She blinks, swallows, and exhales hard.

I’m tense, wishing she’d start speaking in tongues like she did with Simon. Something to give me the confirmation that she’s into me, too. Instead, she bites her lip, then says, “I bet that’s the best kind to have.”

“It absolutely is, princess.” Her eyes darken when I say that last word, my voice sliding into the tone I’d use with her in bed.

Dirty. Rough. Hungry.

That’s the problem.

If I keep lingering in this zone, I’ll be participating in way more one-man shows than are good for my ego.

And I really need to get her out of my head, especially since I’m seeing her brother tomorrow.





11





“Bond. James Bond.”

Spencer adjusts his cuffs, then eyes himself approvingly. He glances over at me as I finish off my bow tie.

“Can’t help myself,” he adds. “It’s a requirement. You can’t wear a tux and not say it. Because I do look like Bond.”

I laugh and shake my head. “You and every guy in the world thinks that about himself.”

We’re at the tuxedo shop the next day for the last fitting for his wedding, making sure the measurements are right. The petite black-haired woman, who runs the shop that’s open even on a Sunday, fiddles with the lapels on my jacket and says, “You look good. You’re all set.”

I tip my head to Spencer as I begin to undo the bow tie. “Got anything that’ll improve his situation? A paper bag, maybe?”

She smiles then turns to the groom to work on final adjustments. I change back into my own clothes, and when I rejoin them, Spencer tilts his head toward me and sniffs the air. “Why do you smell like my sister’s laundry detergent?”

It’s like a car slamming on the brakes. Everything in my head screeches, and I’m caught red-fucking-handed. My brain sputters, and tons of excuses scurry toward my tongue. Then I tell myself to chill. Tons of people use the same soap, and just because she gave me detergent doesn’t mean I’m wearing a billboard that says I want to bang your sister.

I just feel like I am. As if every little thing—even the most innocuous—reveals my hand. I’ve got to get my shit together especially since I have a dinner with Spencer, Charlotte, and Harper in a few days.

I slide on a poker face. “What are you talking about?” I ask, giving him a look as if he’s the crazy one.

He leans closer, arches an eyebrow, and sniffs again. “Hmm.”

“Dude,” I say, stepping away. That one word conveys everything: this is a no-fly zone. But inside, I panic because how good is this guy’s nose that he can tell I’m using the same laundry detergent as his sister?

“Also, nice cat,” Spencer tosses out.

My pulse pounds in my neck. “What cat?”

“On Harper’s arm,” he adds. “She was with Charlotte this morning, picking up the bridesmaid dresses.”

Oh. Right.