Mister O

Or so it seems.

Equally quickly, the writing implement emerges in her other hand, as if she pulled it out her ear. Even though I know she didn’t put the pencil in her head, and even though I’m sure she hid it behind her hand, it’s still a cool trick. Because it looks real. Her sleight of hand is that smooth.

“Want me to do it again?”

I shrug. “Sure.”

This time she’s just as fast, but she swings her leg over my waist as she does the trick, which rolls her an inch closer, giving me the slightest peek at her curved left hand, where she hides the pencil.

I smile, awareness hitting me of what she just did. It’s a small thing, and a small trick, but it’s pure Harper. Revealing, without exactly revealing. Letting me into her world.

“Now teach me the secret to drawing a great cartoon,” she says, playfully demanding.

I raise my hand and brush her red strands over her ear. “Here’s the trick. You have to like what you’re drawing,” I say, my eyes on her the whole time.

She has no clue what I’ve just told her. She can’t have any idea that I’ve drawn her, and how much I like her. So much that it’s way beyond “like” right now. She just smiles and says, “Good thing you like drawing a caped crusader who can make a woman arch her back and curl her toes in pleasure. Especially since you’re so good at that, too.”

Screw Fido. Screw that stupid jealousy. Fuck any jealousy. Right now all I feel is one hundred percent satisfaction over a job well done.

Speaking of jobs . . .

“Would you want to come to a work party with me?” I ask, then I explain about the cocktail party that Serena asked me to attend this Friday.

“Do I have to throw a bowling match this time?” She taps my chest. “Speaking of that, you still owe me a rematch.”

“I promise you’ll get one. But will you come with me? Gino is such a capricious ass,” I say then hold up my palm. “Wait. Ass is good, we decided. He’s a capricious weasel, and he’s just jerking me around. But even so, I need to play the game and go. And I’d really like for you to be there.”

“Of course I’ll go. And as for Gino, fuck him.”

I point at her, my eyes lighting up. “Hey. That’s another one. Why is fuck an insult?”

“Hmmm. That’s an excellent point.”

“Right? Everyone says fuck him, fuck this, fuck off. But fucking is pretty much the greatest thing on earth.”

“We’ll start a new dictionary. We’ll take back the word fuck, and we’ll turn it into—”

“I know! We’ll say it like a blessing.” I soften my voice, and make it sound reverent and adoring. “Fuck you, my child. Go in peace.”

“Or,” she says, her voice rising in excitement, “we can use it when we like something. Fuck can go into our dictionary as like.”

I curl my hand over her hip. “Hey, you know what, Harper? Fuck showers.”

I take her to the shower and introduce her to the tiled wall, as well as my bottomless appetite for her. She’s pretty ravenous, too, and it’s fantastic to have her again as the water slides down my back, and her legs wrap around me, and she falls apart once more in my arms.

When she comes down from her high, she whispers in my ear, softly, sweetly, “Fuck you.”

I laugh lightly. “Fuck you, too.”





26





“I don’t know how I’m going to resist her,” Wyatt says with lustful longing in his voice the next morning in Central Park.

“Natalie?”

He shakes his head. “Little Cocoa Puff. Look at her. How am I not supposed to take her home? She can fit in my tool belt,” he says, practically cooing as he gestures to the chocolate Min Pin he’s walking. By my side is a dachshund mix.

“You don’t even wear a tool belt,” I say, as we turn down a path. “You just love to hold on to the handyman image, even though you’re behind a desk half the time.”

“What can I say? I’m good with tools, as well as juggling my growing empire.”

“Then you should take Cocoa Puff home with you,” I say, goading him on as I point to the pooch. “Think about how much help she can give you when it comes to women. She’s a chick magnet, and let’s be honest.” I drape an arm over his shoulder sympathetically. “You need all the help you can get, Woody.”

“Randy,” he retaliates with a huff. “Our parents gave us the worst middle names.”

I laugh. “Pretty sure they wanted to torture us, starting at birth.”

He stops in the middle of the path and gives me some sort of knowing eye inspection. “But let’s not talk about middle names. Let’s talk about . . . hey, how about girls with alliterative names? HH, ahem.”

“You know what alliteration is?” I ask, deflecting, as I wind the dog leash tighter around my wrist.