The Hot One

But above all, this is the unexpected. And I find I like it.

More than I thought I would when he strutted into the hall, his hand covering his package.

I might have some explaining to do to my employees. But I don’t have anything to explain to myself. I want to know what happens next.

When I finish and he rouses from his slumber, his voice is gravelly and morning-husky. “I think I dozed off.”

“You did, sleeping beauty.”

He stretches and flips over, enjoying a deep inhale. “Wow. You’re fucking amazing, Delaney. I feel like a brand new man.”

The metaphor is not lost on me, but only time will tell if that’s true.

“That’s my goal.” There’s something about having had my hands on him in this capacity that feels even better. Not a sexual touch, but a healing one, where I work the kinks from muscles, and he lets me be the caretaker for his body.

I lift my chin and ask him a question. “Mr. Pollock. Tell me something.”

“Anything.”

“What time do you want to meet for that drink?”

His eyes sparkle, and he says eight tonight.

I shake my head. “I’m busy. Tomorrow?”

“Done.” He sits up, and I can’t help but wonder if we’ll kiss or touch or anything. If he’ll drop his lips to my forehead. The tingles racing down my spine make me want to sing “Kiss the Girl.” But the past, the present, and the unknown future tell me that now’s not the time.

“I have another appointment,” I say. “Be sure to drink a lot of water. We released a lot of toxins from your body, and you want to flush them out. Have some water, a piece of fruit, and sleep well tonight.”

He nods, and I point to his clothes. “I’ll leave you now so you can get dressed.” I turn toward the door, then halt, and set my hand on his shoulder. “And Tyler?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for being my ten a.m.”

“Thank you for putting your hands all over me.”

As I leave, softly closing the door behind me and giving him his privacy, I find myself unexpectedly delighted.

Especially since the butterflies in my belly are flying high.





8





Delaney



* * *



“And you didn’t touch it?”

Penny stares at me through narrowed eyes, asking me once more the question that has evidently bedeviled her since we met at Blue Suede a few minutes ago in this hastily called shoe-shopping session with my girls. Minus one—Nicole isn’t here.

“No, I didn’t touch it,” I say, emphasizing the last syllable as I turn away to scan the white cubes in this shoe boutique on Columbus Avenue.

I eye some tan suede pumps with a silver stripe along the side. Pretty, but too monotone for a date night. I spot a pair of black leather Mary Janes with two straps over the instep. Promising.

I arch an eyebrow at Penny and point at the shoes. “Too sassy or just right?”

“Try them on. They have totes potential.”

My eyes land on a pair of red beauties next—fire-engine-red peep-toes with a sling back and a cardboard placard that says “Made in the USA.”

I crane my neck heavenward. “Dear God, please let these red shoes come in my size, feel like soft pillows, and make me look like a sexy angel.”

Because I love made in the USA products. For many reasons. Not only am I a big fan of making goods right here in the homeland, but also because that means less waste, less transport and shipping. A total win-win.

That is, if the shoe fits. And the shoe rarely ever fits my boats.

Penny grabs both pairs as a wispy-thin saleswoman floats over to us.

“I’m Jane. May I help you?”

Penny smiles and hands her the shoes. “Size ten, please.”

What can I say? I have huge feet, and I have no clue how it happened. I don’t have the excuse of being very tall. I’m simply a five-seven gal with size-ten flippers.

“Let me see what I can find,” Jane says, flashing a perfect grin that shows off straight white teeth. She heads to that magical land in the back of shoe boutiques. Seriously, how is it possible for any shoe store to house as many pairs as they need unless there’s an enchanted lair in the back or a portal to another dimension full of boxes of shoes?

Penny grabs my arm and tugs me into a corner beside a display of fuck-me ankle boots. “Ooh, touch these,” she says, her hand darting out to stroke a dove gray pair.

I join her and moan softly. “Like velvet.”

“See my point? You couldn’t resist touching the shoes.”

I laugh. “You set a shoe trap.”

“So explain to me how it worked this morning. I want to understand how it went down.”

“I’ve already told you. He showed up in my spa this morning, then stripped down to nothing but a smile and asked me out.”

“Totally clear on that part.” She narrows her brown eyes. “Now, tell me the part about how you somehow developed Superwoman-esque resistance and refrained from either, one, dropping down to your knees and taking him in your mouth, or two, at the very least, stroking his free-range dick.”

I laugh as I check out a pair of black leather boots with a sleek zipper up the back. “I don’t think giving a blow job at my place of work is in the best practices handbook for small business owners in Manhattan.”

She huffs. “Fine. But what about my second point? You didn’t want to wrap a hand around it? Just to test it? I’m not saying you should have done any handiwork. But, dear Lord, it was pointing at you.”

“Amazing how I was able to control all my baser instincts.”

“How? I’m completely serious. Not because I think you’re some crazy perv”—her voice softens—“but because I know how much you liked him. How attracted you were to him. And for him to just get into his birthday suit for you . . .” Penny’s voice trails off, and she blows out a long stream of air like she’s mystified.

“I was wildly attracted to him, and look, I’m not going to lie—I still am.” It feels good to admit the truth. “But I needed time to process his nudity.”

“Have you processed it now?”

I smile. “Shoe shopping helps me process everything.”

Because . . . shoes.

“Fair enough.” Penny grabs the black zippered boots. “I saw you staring at these. Let’s try them on your flipper-feet.”

“I love that you have no problem mocking my clodhoppers.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, making sure I see her little bitty ears. “You’ve seen my ears right?”

I laugh. “They’re cute.”

She shakes her head. “They’re tiny. They’re like mouse ears. One of the many reasons I grew my hair out years ago. Anyway, I want you to know that once we finish this emergency shopping session, I’m going to order you a gold medal trophy for resistance.”

“I look forward to displaying it proudly on my shelf.” I wag my finger at her. “But don’t forget—I did touch his chest and his abs.”

“Oh, that’s true. I’ll make it a silver medal.”