Mister O

“It’s started already?”


I straighten at the sound of Harper’s voice. She’s here finally, pulling out the chair next to me. This is the first time I’ve seen her in days, and she looks . . . edible. She’s wearing a red sweater with tiny black buttons down the front, and some kind of lacy black camisole thing under it. Her hair is down, long and silky, falling over her shoulders.

I haven’t talked to her since I sent my response to those photos yesterday. I told her my phone had exploded from the hotness, and that was the last I’d heard from her. I’d forced myself to go cold turkey after that.

I can’t keep rappelling down the cliff face of this untamed desire for her. I’ve got to reel it back in, stuff it into a trunk, lock it up, and then toss the motherfucker to the bottom of the ocean. That’s the only way I can make it through this dinner and the wedding events this weekend, let alone help her learn the ways of being single in the city without wanting to simultaneously jump on her and throttle every guy she likes.

I swallow and shrug casually. “Yeah, by all accounts it’ll be this way for the next”—I pause to stare at the ceiling—“five to ten years.”

She smiles back at me, and at last her brother and his fiancée break their lip-lock.

“Please, don’t stop on account of us,” Harper says. “I’ve got a lot of catching up to do with Nick, so you two should continue competing for the Newlywed Smooch of the Year award.”

“Hey! We’ve got two more nights ’til we’re newlyweds,” Spencer points out, then he stands up and hugs his sister and in a softer voice says, “So good to see you.”

In the span of those five words, my chest pinches, and a knot of guilt burrows inside of me. Sure, technically I have the moral high ground, since I’ve never officially touched his sister. I’ve never crossed a real line. But the guy loves her like crazy, and I can’t be encouraging her to send me photos of stockings, and bows begging to be untied, and . . . stop. I just have to stop. Even if those bows can bring a grown man to his knees.

After Harper hugs Charlotte, she gives me the briefest friendly embrace. I catch the faint whiff of oranges in her hair, and the scent of citrus is a new form of torture because it stirs up the memory of that fifteen-second kiss outside her apartment. I’ve got to stay strong. Must fight off this lust. It’s pinning me to the ground, wrestling me, trying to make me succumb. I hate to do this, I truly fucking do, but I call up the image of Gino tracking me down in the hall, and yep, that solves the problem.

It’s like Lust Be Gone spray.

Harper settles back in the chair next to me. “Sorry I’m late,” she says to everyone. “I had a dinner tomorrow night that I rescheduled to drinks tonight, so I had to squeeze it in before this.”

I grit my teeth.

Fucking Jason.

But wait. I remind myself that I don’t care about Jason. He’s in the trunk at the bottom of the ocean.

I don’t ask why she moved the dinner to drinks. I don’t ask how it went. I’m not going to ask at all if she kissed him.

Because I. Don’t. Care.

“How was it?” Charlotte asks sweetly.

I want to reach across the table and stuff the question back into her mouth. She doesn’t care, either. No one cares.

“It was fine,” Harper answers with a sweet smile, and the waitress arrives, inquiring if she wants a drink.

After Harper orders a glass of wine, the women return to discussing wedding flowers, and Spencer and I get caught up in a debate about beer. Misplaced desire, the trunk in the ocean, and bows on panties have all vacated the premises.

Sometime after dinner arrives, Charlotte gets that excited look in her eyes, waves her hands, and points at me. “Oh my God, I saw that J’s book just came out this week. I have it on my Kindle.”

Harper’s eyes widen, and she looks at me. “J?”

Shit. I had no clue that book was coming out now. How the hell do women know these things?

Charlotte nods at Harper and explains helpfully. “J. Cameron. She writes these crazy-hot romance novels. She and Nick used to be together.”

“I would hardly say we were together.” I try to downplay it.

Spencer fake-coughs. “If by hardly together, you mean you were her muse and inspiration, then sure.” He stops to draw air quotes. “‘Hardly together’ works.”

“You were J. Cameron’s muse?” Harper asks, latching onto the name I’ve never revealed to her before. Her books are wildly popular.

I shake my head. “No. I was not her muse.”

Spencer guffaws under his breath. “Yeah right.”

Charlotte takes over the reins. “She’s so talented and so gorgeous. But you’re definitely not still with her, right?”