Mister O

The evidence in ink. On Harper’s arm.

Note to self: Find out why the hell Harper didn’t shower today.

“Yeah? Charlotte liked my Bucky the cat?”

Spencer cracks up. “Absolutely. If the TV business doesn’t work out, you should start aping other cartoonist’s work for a living.”

I roll my eyes.

His expression shifts to serious. “What’s the deal though? Harper told Charlotte you were hanging out more. That you had coffee yesterday, and she gave you detergent since she spilled something on you?”

“Hot chocolate. Everywhere. Like it was a new design,” I say quickly, since that’s the truth. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with us getting a drink now and then. And then, like a frying pan to Woody Woodpecker’s head, it hits me why Harper told Charlotte the simple truth. The fact that we’re hanging out isn’t something Harper has to hide.

I’m the one with the big secret—that I’m completely fucking tempted by my best friend’s sister in every way.

Unrequited lust sucks balls. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

The tux lady pats Spencer’s shoulder. “You’re all set now,” she says to him.

He thanks her then eyes me in the mirror. “You’re just hanging out with her, right?”

My chest pinches even as I answer honestly with a nonchalant, “Yeah.”

“Good.” He sounds relieved, and part of me wants to ask why the hell I’m not good enough for her. He claps me on the back. “Because Charlotte wants you to meet her sister at the wedding. Natalie’s single, and a babe.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised, because that was not the answer I’d expected at all. I try to play it cool. “I never pegged you as a matchmaker.”

He shakes his head. “Not my idea. My bride’s. And what she wants, I want.”

“Sure. Happy to meet her.” Maybe Natalie and I will hit it off, and she’ll get my mind off the one person I need to stop thinking about.

“Wedding hookups are awesome, right?”

“They’re the best,” I say.

“And if there were anything more than hanging out going on with you and my sister, you know what I’d do to you.”

I run a hand through my hair. “You do realize neither I, nor my hair, are the least bit afraid of you. You’re like the definition of not scary, right?”

Spencer laughs. “I can be terrifying. Just ask my sister.”

But I don’t really want to talk to Harper about her brother. When I take out my phone later that day to text her, I find she’s already sent me a note.





12





I must have missed her text when it came through earlier.

Princess: Hey. Charlotte knows you smell like springtime, and it’s my doing. She saw my Bucky tattoo. I could have passed it off as my initiation to a new badass feline aficionado gang, but instead I fessed up. But I didn’t let on that you’re like my love doctor or something. And that you’re writing me prescriptions for the good stuff.





I laugh at her ability to poke fun at herself. As I kick back on my couch, I respond.



That’s not the important issue. What I want to know is—have you now given up showers in protest of something?



Her reply arrives quickly.

Princess: So . . . don’t laugh. But I really liked the drawing, so I didn’t wash my left forearm this morning. Picture that. I had my arm poking out the shower door so I wouldn’t erase it.





I push my head back into the couch pillow. Yeah, I’m picturing that perfectly. Almost like I’ve imagined it a million times before. Hot water streaming down her hair, droplets slipping over her tits then sliding down her belly and between her legs.



Yup. Got that image one hundred percent clear. But a picture always helps.



I can’t resist, even though I know there’s no chance she’ll ever send me a naughty photo. In fact, I’m not even sure she’s going to reply, since my phone is silent for several minutes, long enough for me to grab the paper and hunt for the Sunday crossword puzzle. This is the only reason I get the paper. The puzzle will take me all week, but I can almost always finish it.

As I find the section, my phone buzzes.

With an image.

Oh shit. There is a god. Wait. Make that a goddess.

Harper stands in her bathtub fully clothed, lifting her face to the showerhead that’s not on, snapping an image of herself reenacting her shower from this morning. This is hot, and my dick is going to thank me later for this photo when I can really spend time with it. She’s not even undressed, but she’s wearing a V-neck shirt that gives me a fantastic glimpse of cleavage. I want to bite that swell of her breast, draw her nipple between my teeth, then suck hard—make her moan, and writhe, and whisper my name. As I drink in the rest of the picture and how her neck is stretched long and inviting, I know I want to spend a lot of time there, too. I bet she’d like neck kisses. I’m certain she’d like my mouth all over her skin. I could do things to this girl to drive her out of her mind with pleasure.