Mister O

Her phone buzzes as we separate, and she grabs it from her purse.

Her mouth forms a surprised O as she scans her screen. “It’s Simon.”

I clench my fists and look away. My jaw is set hard, and I hate the reminder right now. He’s the guy she’s really into. Fuck, he’s the one I’m training her for, right? For a moment, I wish that he doesn’t really like her, that he’ll let her down, that he’ll hurt her and she’ll run back to me. But I feel awful wanting that for her.

“How is Mr. Hemsworth?” I ask, barely masking the bitterness in my tone.

“It’s just a confirmation of the party info,” she says gently. “It’s later this week. Saturday morning, actually.” She shows me the text, and it’s not as if I need to see it. It really is only a work message, and I feel like a schmuck for letting my misplaced jealously shine through.

But another note pops up on her screen.



Would you like to get a coffee sometime soon? :)



He used a fucking emoticon. I can’t believe it. I want to punch the air in victory, because that is complete and absolute grounds for a revocation of his man-card. “What’s with the smiley face?”

“It’s cute,” she says, and she sounds a little dreamy, like she likes him.

That’s it. I snap. “Don’t go. Don’t fuck him.”

She wrenches back and looks at me as if I’ve sprouted two heads. Snake heads, based on the vitriol in my tone. She parks her hands on her hips. “What the hell does that mean, Nick?”

I scrub a hand over my jaw. I try to let go of the jealousy, but it’s not a green-eyed monster for nothing. “Just not yet, okay? Don’t fuck him while we’re fucking,” I say, keeping my words as crass as can be. I can’t let her see that the thought of anyone else touching her eats me alive.

“I would never do that.” Her tone is full of hurt.

“Well, how do I know?”

She pushes my chest, shoves me hard. “Get real. Seriously. I told you I haven’t slept with anyone in a few years. I told you I barely know what I’m doing in bed. I’m not going to sleep with you and someone else at the same time. I’m not even going to date him right now.” She slices a hand through the air. “I would never be with you and someone else. Never.”

And I’m an asshole.

“I wouldn’t, either,” I say softly. “I don’t want to be with anyone else right now, either, and I didn’t mean to suggest you would.”

She stares at me and exhales. Her eyes seem to soften, but she crosses her arms over her chest. I’m not forgiven yet.

I reach out and wrap my arms around her. She lets me hold her, but doesn’t reciprocate. “It’s just we never said we wouldn’t while we do this.” Whatever this is.

“I didn’t think we had to. Isn’t it obvious we won’t? I won’t. You won’t. It’s that simple. It’s not even a rule we need to establish. It’s just an is.”

And fuck, the way she says that, so certain and determined, so clear on who she is, hooks into my chest.

I am so utterly fucked with this girl. And I don’t just mean fucked in that way. I mean it in every way.



After I return to my home, I text her.



I’m sorry. I acted like a dick



I shower, slide under the sheets, and grab my phone. There’s no reply, and all I can think is I screwed up badly.





22





I wake up far too early for my taste. As I grab my phone from the nightstand, a twinge of hope rises in my chest. It’s then dashed by the absence of a reply.

Shit.

I pull on shorts and a pullover, lace up my sneakers, and jam in my earbuds. I run hard in Central Park, my phone in my hand the whole time as the sun rises, waking up Manhattan.

Still nothing.

I hit the gym for a quick round of weights, then return to my apartment and down a glass of water. I’m wiping the sweat from my brow when my phone dings. I take a deep breath. I really hope she’s not pissed anymore.

I unlock the screen, see her name, and click open her text.

Princess: Good morning :) :) :) :) :) :) :)





I laugh at the way she needles me with her flurry of emoticons.

I try to respond in kind, tapping out a hi and adding a smiley face. But. I. Can’t. Do. It. And evidently, I don’t have to. Another text arrives seconds later.

Princess: I crashed as soon as I walked in the door last night. Apparently multiple Os are the best recipe for a solid night’s sleep. By the way, why is dick an insult?





I laugh as I lean against the fridge and write back.



That’s a good question.

Princess: I think dicks should be used for good, and referred to positively.





Does that make you a dick ambassador? Spreading the word about the unfair use of the male appendage as a put-down?

Princess: Yes. It does. I’m going to start using dick as a compliment. Here goes. Nick, you’re a dick. Also, I like your dick.





And she’s come roaring back with her sharp-tongued, dirty wit. My texting Harper. My naughty magician. I tap out a reply, suggesting a new insult.