The Hot One

Memories I haven’t let myself linger on in ages.

At Brown, Tyler and I were a team, a pack of two, fueled by our shared desire to learn everything. We studied together, quizzing each other for our tests on modern United States history or on twentieth-century literature. We hunted for interesting lectures from guest speakers on the hottest issues of the day. We walked to and from classes together, and spent many nights in the library, hunched over our laptops.

When it came to our backgrounds, we were as different as they come. I didn’t grow up with much, and my dad took off when I was fourteen and my little brother, Caleb, was twelve. I can’t really overstate how much that sucked.

But I dealt with it and moved on, and that’s why I’m in a better spot now to be able to track him down.

At the time, though, he left us with nothing. I went to public high school outside of Tampa and busted my butt in my classes so I could go to a good school. Hard work paid off, and I nabbed a scholarship to Brown. Tyler came from money and a happy home in Los Angeles, growing up with his brother and their two parents, who ran a successful business together.

His parents had already finished saving for his full education by the time he was five.

Our drive, though, was parallel, along with our love of learning. We spent many late nights at the college snack bar, debating anything and everything. We’d share an ice cream with sprinkles, and we’d talk, then head back to my dorm, or his. Once the door closed, all the talk would vanish, and we’d find ourselves engaged in the most favorite collegiate activity of all.

Getting horizontal.

The second the clothes came undone the aspiring lawyers disappeared, and we became those people who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Skin to skin, lips to lips, we came together, and I’d never felt so close to anyone in my life. It was a perfect union of respect, desire, and love.

It was everything I’d never felt in my home, but wanted in my life.

Sometimes on weekends, we went on long drives. He had a black BMW, and during the fall, we’d get claustrophobic and take off, driving through the tree-lined neighborhoods in Providence, then beyond. We escaped a few towns over, finding hills, and hidden places, and then we’d pull over.

We got to know our way around the front and back seats of his Beemer quite well. Every time he touched me, I felt cherished. Whether in the car, the shower, the dorm, the library, the bed, or the car, he adored me.

He fought for a chance with me, and then once we were together, I was never second best. I was his equal, and that made me love him even more.

That’s what hurt so much when he broke up with me. Not the end to our plans, not his tactless and calloused word choices, not even what went down at the debate.

What hurt the most was that I’d lost him.

When I reach the bar, I remember Penny’s words and focus on the here and now.

Today.

Tonight.

Not the past.





9





Tyler



* * *



She looks like a sexy angel as she walks toward me. Blond hair, flowing and silky over her bare shoulders. A slash of pink gloss on those fantastic lips.

And those hot-as-fuck red shoes.

I’m not sure I ever saw her in heels before. College wasn’t exactly the place for four-inch fuck-me pumps. So I’m not sure she knows that I have a thing for shoes. Not wearing them. Please. But I do have it bad for how fucking sexy a woman looks in a gorgeous pair of heels.

And no one, no woman in the history of the world, has ever looked this good in red shoes.

“Hey you,” I say.

She greets me with a smile. “Hi.”

We walk through the bar.

“Ladies first.” I gesture to the small, circular booth at the back of the Lucky Spot bar. A low white candle in the middle of the table flickers, casting a faint glow across the wood.

Delaney slides in first and I follow her.

Questions ping-pong in my head. How close can I sit to her? Do I launch right into the catch-up banter? Or dive into those-were-the-days chitchat that reminds her of how good we were together? Do I tell her when I saw her last weekend it stirred up something inside me? And I don’t just mean the physical. Seeing her was a knockout blow I didn’t see coming.

Clay might say it ignited regret. But I see it more as a storm of possibilities and “what ifs.” Perhaps the biggest one is this—what if I hadn’t followed Professor Blair’s advice at the end of college?

I shake off the thoughts that have been plaguing me all day.

Delaney’s here. I’m here. Time to treat this night like a first date, not a stroll down memory lane.

I’m dressed for a first date—jeans, a button-down shirt, the cuffs rolled up to my forearms. Delaney wears a pair of jeans that do nothing but stoke my desire to stare at her ass all night, but that’s not possible since we’re sitting. A black sleeveless top affords a lovely hint of cleavage, and that same turtle charm I spotted earlier glints in the soft blue lighting.

“So,” I begin, clearing my throat as I rub my palms against my thighs. I’m fucking nervous. This is not acceptable. Yesterday, I stood naked in front of her, and tonight I’m dressed, yet at a loss for meaningful words. “How are you?”

“Good,” she says, taking her time. “How are you?”

Stupid. Nervous. Ready to kick myself.

“Great. Totally great. How was your day?” I ask, and yep, I’m going to bitch-slap my own face in front of the mirror.

This is so not me. I need to get my shit together right now.

“I had a great day. Work was crazy busy.”

That’s a perfect opening to make a joke about yesterday, and what kept her crazy busy in the morning, emphasis on crazy.

But for some dumbass reason, I say, “Your shoes are nice.”

Can I just smack myself now? Because what in the fuckity fuck was that?

She smiles, and seeing her lips curve up makes my heart beat faster. “Thank you. I got them after work yesterday.”

“Oh yeah?” I sit up straighter. Her shopping habits are a most excellent sign.

She nods. “And I only had to go to one store. Amazingly, they had these shoes in my size.” She casts her gaze downward. “Me and my big feet.”

“Hey, I always liked your big feet,” I say, and inside I wipe my hand across my forehead because just maybe I can pull out of this conversational nosedive.

She lifts her face. “Thanks.”

C’mon, man. Pull up on the stick before this plane crashes and burns.

Okay, she likes shoes. Shoes are sexy. I’ll stick with footwear. But for some reason, the words out of my mouth are about the least sexy part of them. “Did they have those little packets in the shoebox?”

Nice one, dickhead.

She furrows her brow. “Silica gel, you mean? Those packets?”