The Hot One

I want that more than air right now.

And maybe, just maybe, she does, too. As she digs her nails into my neck, I break the kiss for one brief second, raise a hand, and drag my finger along her cheek. She turns into my touch. Softly, with longing in her eyes. An electric charge runs through me. “I want to take you home, strip these clothes off your beautiful body, and have my way with you,” I say. Then, because some things change but some things stay the same, I brush my lips against the column of her throat and kiss a hot trail to her ear, like she used to crave. She moans and her knees start to give. My hand darts out to her waist, holding her as I kiss her neck. I reach her ear. “You look like a sexy angel in those shoes.”

That’s what I should have said earlier. That’s how I should have begun the date, instead of with my awkward small talk that led to dumb pretzel-eating bravado that led to stupid hiccups.

But then, the hiccups led to this.

A kiss.

The real reboot of this first date. “And you should leave on the shoes.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “Just wanted to put that out there. You in nothing but these red heels . . .” My voice trails off as my eyes rake over her lovely frame, taking in the luscious sight of her once more.

She smiles, seeming to enjoy my stare, then she presses a hand to my chest. “I want that. You know I want that.”

“Me, too.” My voice is rough with need.

“But I was really enjoying our awkward first date banter, too,” she says with a twitch of her lips, that makes me grin as well.

“We were rocking the I-have-no-clue-what-to-say chitchat, weren’t we?”

“Like nobody’s business.” She raises her hand, so we can smack palms.

We high-five like old friends rather than old lovers. It isn’t so weird. We were friends once upon a time, as well as lovers.

“Let’s do it. Let’s have more awkward conversation.”

“Or,” she says, taking her time, like she’s going to present a revolutionary idea. “Now, hear me out. But we could try for un-awkward.”

I laugh again. “Our new challenge. Let’s go for it.”

“I’m game. Also, I’m glad your hiccups are gone.” She runs her hands over the collar of my shirt, adjusting it.

“Can you use that trick on me every time?”

She taps my shoulder. “I can. And, by the way, if I were president, I’d abolish litter, hiccups, and bad hair days.”

I drape an arm over her shoulder. “I can honestly say I’ve never had a bad hair day, but you’ve got my vote for the two other points of your platform.”

She ruffles my hair. “Glad I can count on your support.”

I flash a smile. “Though, to offer a counter argument—if I can get your hiccup remedy every time, I don’t know that I want them abolished.”

“I guess we’ll see about that, then.”

I guess we will indeed.

We leave the hall and make our way back to the table.





10





Tyler



* * *



It’s funny how some things change on a dime.

When Delaney and I were together in college, I was certain I’d be a trial lawyer. King of the courtroom, arguing points and persuading juries. Twelve Angry Men, Presumed Innocent, A Few Good Men, anything by John Grisham . . . those were just some of my inspirations. Not to mention To Kill a Mockingbird, but I wasn’t so high-minded that I thought I’d be the next Atticus Finch. I didn’t think I could save the world through my oratory. Even I’m not that cocky.

Still, I felt the call of the courtroom, the thrill of the debate, the opportunity to make an impassioned plea before twelve men and women.

Besides, I’d decided when I was six and fell in love with L.A. Law reruns that I had to be an attorney.

Perhaps that’s why following Professor Blair’s advice my senior year of college was, all things considered, relatively easy to do.

He called me into his office the Monday morning after the dinner at his home. With his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, he peered at me with wise green eyes. Cleared his throat. Took off his glasses. Grabbed a cloth. Began cleaning them.

Like he was in a goddamn movie. The Wise Old Mentor. “Tyler, I’m going to give you a piece of advice. Call this unsolicited,” he said, his voice gravelly with the years.

“Unsolicited works for me, sir.”

Leaning back in his chair, he started wiping the other lens. “You want to be the best attorney you can be?”

“Absolutely.”

He tossed the orange cloth on his desk, put his glasses back on, and steepled his fingers. “Do you know what a good lawyer needs more than anything?”

“A good lawyer?” I joked.

The corner of his lips lifted in a small smile, but then it disappeared. “He needs an ironclad focus.”

I nodded again. “That’s me. I’m one hundred percent focused.”

He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “Are you, though?”

How could he think I was anything but focused? In addition to serving as my advisor, he was also prepping me for an upcoming debate tournament. The Elite was one of the most prestigious debate competitions for pre-law students. Delaney and I had been working together as debate partners. “Absolutely, sir. I’m already practicing for the Elite with Delaney. My LSATs are done, and I should hear from law schools any day. And I’ve mapped out my plans post-law school, too.”

“With Ms. Stewart?”

Ever formal, he never called Delaney by her first name only. At the time I thought it was politeness. Looking back, I see he was putting distance already between her and me.

“Yes,” I said, feeling oddly defensive, like I needed to justify our plans. “We definitely want to be together.” Delaney and I had planned to go to schools near each other then find work in the same city. But to his ears, I’m sure I sounded weak.

“Hmm.”

“Hmm, what?” I pressed.

He leaned forward, set his hands on his thighs, and leveled me with his stare. “You want to be successful in law, yes?”

“Of course I do, sir.”

“And you know I only have your best interests at heart?”

“Absolutely,” I said, as my stomach churned with nerves.

“Then, you need to remember that, at your young age, the key to success lies in the elimination of distractions. If you want to be the best, you can’t let anything or anyone slow you down.” He paused, taking a beat to let that sink in. “You get my meaning?”

Ms. Stewart.

Distraction.

Elimination.

He didn’t have to make a closing argument. His meaning was crystal clear—being in love was ill-advised. Making plans together was a no-go. Commitment at my age was a mistake.

Slowly, I nodded. “I do, sir,” I said, my tone heavy. “I do understand your meaning.”

He handed me the paper I’d worked on for his graduate-level seminar, and across the top he’d scrawled a D in bright red ink. I flinched. I’d never received that kind of grade before.