The Hot One

I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to worry about that, Edgecombe.”


After he leaves I settle in at my desk and track down the salad bar next to Delaney’s spa.

An hour later, her lunch is delivered to Nirvana, courtesy of me, and her meal is full of all her favorite things.

Two hours later, I’m rewarded with a Facebook ding and a message. When I open it, I grin proudly. She sent me a GIF of a dancing carrot.

I take that as a cue to call her. “So, is it safe to assume you don’t have a boyfriend?” I say as I kick my feet up on my desk and lean back in the leather chair. Might as well get the possible hurdles out of the way.

She laughs. “I wouldn’t have accepted the lilacs or the salad if I did.”

“Didn’t think you would, but I do like to confirm important details like that. Oh, and while we’re on the topic, I’m one hundred percent single, too, so feel free to say yes to drinks.”

Another laugh lands softly on my ears. “Yes, Tyler. The salad was delicious. Thank you so much for sending it to me.”

I smile. “Fine. Tell me all about that salad before you say yes to the drinks,” I say, with a hint of a dirty tone of voice. “Was it crunchy? Was it healthy?”

She answers in an equally flirty tone. “You know little excites me more than a crisp green salad. It was all of the above, and it had the best Green Goddess dressing in all of a ten-block radius.”

“What more can you ask for when it comes to lunch?”

“Only that it turn into a bowl of cereal,” she says wistfully. “Hey, speaking of cereal, I keep meaning to ask what’s up with your profile picture on Facebook?”

“You like the laser-eyes feline?”

“It’s cute and completely bizarre. Naturally, I love it.”

“It’s a cartoon from one of my clients. Nick Hammer. Creator of The Adventures of Mister Orgasm and—”

“Naughty Puppet Theater Presents Dirty Girl Mechanic. I love his new show. It’s hilarious, and I’ve seen every single episode.”

“I’ll let him know you’re a fan. He loves hearing that.” I set my feet on the floor and spin lazily in my office chair. “Did I ever tell you the story of how I met Nick?”

“I don’t think so,” she says curiously. “He didn’t go to Brown with us did, he?”

“No, he was an RISD guy. That’s where I met him. I saw him drawing at the RISD museum when I was there for a class one day—an art history elective. He was sketching a caricature of a Jackson Pollock.”

“Um,” she says, deadpan. “How do you caricature a Pollock?”

“Excellent question. Here’s how. He said he liked to pretend Pollock’s abstract paintings were representations of everyday things. Pickle jars, brooms, cereal . . . So, Nick was drawing a cereal bowl with a cat shooting lasers into it.”

She laughs. “That’s kind of crazy and genius at the same time.”

“Anyway, we chatted for a few minutes and wound up becoming buddies.”

“And then he became your client later on,” she adds.

“We stayed in touch after college.” I stop talking as a morsel of guilt crawls through me from wherever it had been lurking. I feel like shit for my choices—I kept in contact with my friends, but I didn’t stay in touch with the girl I loved. But I couldn’t. It was too hard. Too fucking tempting. If I’d stayed in touch with her, I never would have gone after my dreams. “He became my first client,” I say, focusing on the topic, rather than dwelling on things I couldn’t change.

“So the cat cartoon is like a memento of your friendship?”

I adjust the knot in my tie. “In a way, but it’s also a new show concept he’s sketching. A cat with magical superpowers. His name is Cat Crazypants, the Great Illusionist.”

“I want to see that show . . . tonight. You had me at ‘cat with superpowers.’ I’ve been hoping to adopt a cat someday soon.”

“A cat with superpowers?”

She laughs. “If that’s an option, sure. I’d also like him to have six toes.”

I laugh. “Like the Hemingway cats?”

“Yes, but I learned all the details from an author I like who has several of these cats—Tawna Fenske. They’re called polydactyl. The coolest thing is their extra toe is kind of like a thumb,” she tells me, her voice rising with excitement.

“Can they open doors and such with these thumbs?”

“Of course. Drawers and cans, too. Tawna even gave me an early copy of her next book—the heroine inherits a B&B that’s now a sanctuary for polydactyl cats, so I’m even more hooked on them now. You should tell your client he can give his cat a real superpower with an extra toe.”

I sit up straighter, sensing an opening, and try once more to win a date with her. “I could tell you more about the cartoon cat over a drink.”

“Ooh. Bribery now.”

“You call it bribery. I call it giving the woman what she wants. You want a kitty cat with powers. I can deliver. Over drinks.” My tone is full of confidence, but my chest is tight with nerves.

I want her to say yes so fucking badly.

My suggestion is met with silence then a heavy sigh. Before she even speaks, the lightness of the conversation seeps away. Her quiet is nothing but a preface to a no.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Tyler,” she says softly.

It’s not a no, but it sure as hell isn’t any closer to a yes.

“Why? We’re chatting. We’re getting along.” I push, like I would in a business negotiation. “How could it be bad to have one drink with me?”

“Because it’s too easy with you,” she says.

“What?” I furrow my brow. “That makes no sense. What’s too easy?”

“Talking to you. Chatting. It’s all too easy.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It might be a bad thing,” she says, her tone soft.

“We were always good at talking, Delaney.”

“I know,” she says softly, but with a hint of longing I latch onto.

“We were good at a lot of things,” I say, low and husky. “Remember that time in the library?”

“Which one?” Her tone turns a little breathy, and that sound encourages me. We’re not at no after all, and I’ve got to keep trying.

“Every time,” I say, my mind awash in a deliciously dirty image of her backed up against the shelves, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted in an O, her hair wild. She bit my neck to muffle the noise as she came hard. “But especially that afternoon when you wore that little red skirt, and we got to know exactly how sturdy the books on the French Revolution were.”

A small whimper seems to escape her. But then, just as quickly, she seems to reel it in, cloaking her weak moment with a quip and a light laugh. “The barricades of books all came tumbling down.” Her voice shifts to pragmatic. “But still, I’m not sure—”