Mister O

On Sunday morning I wake to my phone rattling on the nightstand. Must be another message from Harper. I grin in anticipation as I grab the phone.

A note from Serena pops up on the screen instead, with a picture of a baby sleeping.



Seven pounds of torture and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Meet my baby boy!



An even bigger grin spreads on my face over the good news, and because I know Harper will like this picture, I forward her the note.

I freeze.

I just sent her a photo of a baby. To make her happy. What the hell has my world become? Who is this dude inside my skin texting pictures of a newborn? To a chick who sent me a dirty photo last night?

That’s when the Road Runner drops the anvil, and Wile E. Coyote gets smacked with ten tons of obvious, and his head rings, and stars spin, but then everything becomes crystal clear. I want Harper to be happy in every way—in bed and out of bed. I don’t just want to give this woman ten thousand orgasms. I want to see her smile more times than I can count.

Because . . . I’ve fallen in love with her.

I groan and flop back against the mattress.

This woman has upended my world. Once I only wanted to send her soaring, to bring her pleasure, to screw her out of my system. Now I want to make her feel joy in every way. I, Nick Hammer, self-avowed serial monogamist and Magellan of the female orgasm, have become a love-struck fool.

I wish there was a clue in the Sunday puzzle as to how to give voice to this madness taking over my heart. Knowing how to touch Harper, how to kiss her, and how to deliver ecstasy to every square inch of her body seems easy compared to reckoning with this strange, new foreign object occupying space in my chest. What do you even say to a woman you’ve fallen ass over elbow for? I scratch my head, coming up empty. Sex is my classroom, but love is a language I barely understand.

I close my eyes, letting my mind wander to all the things I know about Harper. She loves to entertain, to tell jokes, to spend time with her friends and family, to help people she cares about. She loves autumn, and cake, and bowling, and beating me in competitions. She likes taking care of Fido, and learning new magic tricks, and she loves to give gifts.

Most of all, she likes being understood.

I flash back to one of the texts she sent me. A non-dirty one.

I want to look into someone’s eyes and feel like he knows me, gets me, understands me. I want him to see my quirks and accept them, not try to change them. I want to know what that’s like.

This is a girl who has definite quirks. I latch on to something. Bits and pieces of our conversation back at Peace of Cake. Something she said about cheesy moments. What was it?

I rub my thumb and forefinger together, as if that can stir the memory to the surface. It works, and I smile inside as I remember her offhand remark.

Does she write those cheesy sex scenes where the guy tells the girl he loves her while he’s inside her or right after?

I might not know what to say, but I definitely know when not to say it. I get out of bed, brush my teeth, pull on my workout shorts and a fleece, and go burn off some of this energy, running all the way downtown to Spencer’s house, where I feed Fido, trusting that this cat and his master will have to be okay with this turn of events, because I’m going to be so damn good to Harper. I’m going to treat her like the royalty she is to me. All I have to do is tell her.

I don’t have a plan, a skywriter, or a bouquet of flowers, and frankly, I don’t think she’d be impressed with any of those. That’s not the kind of person she is.

But I know the most important part of my plan—there’s no way I can let these lessons with Harper end. Not until I tell her I want to be so much more than friends with her, more than her teacher, more than her love coach. I want to be hers.

Too bad her train is really late that night. She texts me at ten to tell me it’s stuck in Bridgeport for some sort of engine repair.

I write back immediately with the only possible solution.



I’ll come pick you up.

Princess: Seriously?





You have no idea how much I want to see you.

Princess: As much as I want to see you?





Yes. THAT MUCH.

Princess: You won’t use emoticons, but you’ll use shouty caps?





SHOUTY CAPS ARE MANLY. Get over here, woman. I need your naked body under me.

Princess: WHAT IF I WANT TO BE ON TOP?





I DON’T CARE. JUST GET HERE. How’s this? I’ll order a car service. I’ll send one to you. Whatever you want.

Princess: This is where apparating would come in really handy.





Now you’re really turning me on, talking Harry Potter and magic spells. But seriously, princess—can I send a car for you?

Princess: They say the train is going to start again in twenty minutes. I’ll be there soon. If not, I might chew my leg off with waiting.





Um, I like your legs. Please refrain from all chewing of limbs.

Princess: Ooh! We’re moving again!