Mister O

And I really fucking want to.

I open the message, and write back.



Hard to see. I think I’d have a better idea if you turned on the water.



Well, she does have a white T-shirt on. I mean, c’mon. A man has to try.

A note from her pops up.

Princess: Seriously, though. I just told Charlotte you and I have been hanging out. Did she say anything to Spencer?





And I deflate.



Yes, but there’s nothing to worry about, and pretty soon he moved to the next topic—he wants to set me up with someone at the wedding.



My phone goes quiet, and I hear nothing from her. Not a peep for several hours. Maybe she’s jealous. That would be kind of cool if she was. I work my way through the puzzle, taking breaks to talk to my attorney, Tyler, work out at the gym, and make dinner. As I eat, I draw, returning to the naughty puppet cartoons I sketched out yesterday, and the story of their crazy-hot, redhead mechanic who’s flirting with a guy who just dropped off his car for a lube job.





“Wait. I meant brake job,” he says, embarrassed.

She juts out a hip, her perky breasts making his eyes pop out. “But the lube job will feel so much better on the drive shaft.”





What can I say? I like crude humor. I close my sketchbook and return to the puzzle. About the time evening slides into Manhattan, my phone buzzes once more as I’m filling in the squares for a twelve-letter word for “special liking” with “predilection.”

Princess: Hi . . . so . . . I want to ask you a question . . . about dating. Since you’re the love doctor.





Go for it. I’m an open book.

Princess: It’s about the first, second, third date protocol you talked about.





Yup. I’m well versed. Ready to answer. Fire away.

Princess: Did you kiss the romance novelist on your second date?





This is the second time she’s asked, and she really seems to want to know what I’ve done. From my spot on the couch, I contemplate how to answer. The phone bleats again.

Princess: BTW, I was at a party all day. Incidentally, I KILLED it with the six-year-old crowd.





Which means she’s not pissed that Spencer wants to set me up with someone. She was just busy. Dammit. I drag a hand through my hair, wishing she was jealous. Then I scold myself, because my mission is to be her coach.



Yes. And the first date, too.



I move to another clue, and in seconds she responds.

Princess: That’s so unfair! You’re applying different rules to me. Anyway, what else did you do on your dates with her?





Um . . . we didn’t really date that much. We met, we kissed, we screwed. We screwed again, and again. She asked me to tie her to the handle of the refrigerator and do it standing up, so she could test that bit of mild bondage for a scene in her book. I obliged. She wanted me to fuck her on her desk to make sure she knew how all the parts would align. I did my service. She insisted we get it on by the window, too, so she could press her hands on the glass of her Park Avenue penthouse and have me fuck her hard from behind.

I suspect that chapter in her novel was quite accurate as well. The relationship was great and completely absurd at the same time.

As I begin to respond, another note arrives.

Princess: I’m just trying to figure all this out. That’s why I’m asking.





Quickly, Harper and I fall into a rhythm, and the texts fly fast and furious.



They weren’t entirely traditional dates in the drinks, dinner, and a movie sense.

Princess: Gee. I wonder what that means. You spent a lot of time in your birthday suit?





That’s one way of putting it.

Princess: What sort of things did you two do? Is that too forward to ask? I’m curious. I’m honestly curious. Okay, maybe I’m nosey too. :)





I stare at the screen, contemplating the depths of Harper’s curiosity. I wish I could grasp why she’s asking—if this is part of her effort to understand the modern man, or if there is any undercurrent. But I’ve got to accept that I just don’t know. And fuck, if sex is on her mind, then at least we have that in common right now. Welcome to my wavelength. Let’s spend some time together.



You really want to know? You want to go there?

Princess: Yeah, I think I do. You said you’re an open book. I kind of want to know.





Kind of? Just kind of?

Princess: Fine. I REALLY want to know. I really, really, really want to know. Believe me now?





Almost . . .

Princess: I want to understand the protocol. The dirty details . . .