The Hot One

“I’d say you’re making a big difference. She called you a miracle worker.”


Delaney beams, and I love that the simplest of compliments lights her up, so I keep going. “You can make someone feel truly better. That’s not just a gift. It’s a skill and a talent. I always thought you’d be a fantastic attorney because you’re damn good at reasoning, making a point, and arguing a position, but judging from your clients’ reactions, and from the wonders you worked on my neck, you chose the right field.”

I’m not just saying that because a kernel of guilt has lodged inside my brain, making me think I’m responsible for destroying her dreams. I’m saying it because it’s so apparent she’s happy in her work today.

“Thank you. And hey, can’t beat the attire at the spa. Yoga pants all the way. I was never particularly fond of suits, and I don’t think I look good in them.”

“Wrong on that one. I bet you look fuckhot in them.”

“I bet you’d like to see me in one.”

“Or out of one.”

And there goes my focus again.

My eyes roam over her, and though she is sexy as sin in her little running shorts and T-shirt, the woman would also look extraordinary in a tight skirt, form-fitting blouse, and fuck-me pumps. Wait. Let’s add sexy glasses that rest on the bridge of her nose, and a shelf full of books behind her. She can perch on the edge of her desk, and I can rip off the blouse, buttons spilling all over the floor, then hike up that skirt, and wrap her legs around my waist.

“You okay?”

I blink, realizing she’s staring at me, and I wonder how long I’ve been in dirty dreamland.

“What?”

“You drifted off.”

“Go figure. I was picturing you wearing four-inch heels, and my thoughts went haywire.”

“You’ve turned into quite a shoe man, haven’t you?”

I groan. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

“What is it?”

I rake my gaze over her tight, trim frame, then linger on her . . . white sneakers. “Your sneakers are turning me on,” I say in a salacious tone.

She raises her right leg then strokes her calf down to her foot. “Does this get you going?”

This time, I growl, and huff like a bull. “Oh yeah, baby.”

She rubs the side of her sneakered foot against my leg, and yep, it gets me revved up. Maybe I’m that easy when it comes to her. Or it could be that I fucking love when she’s like this—this playful, this fun, this fucking cool enough to go with the moment.

“Do it again,” I command her, and she grabs hold of my arm for balance, sliding her foot higher up my leg.

“More? You want more?” she asks, egging me on.

“So much more.”

She cracks up and sets her foot back on the ground. “Glad to know my big feet turn you on.”

“Your big feet and the person they’re attached to,” I say, correcting her.

“Thanks for the clarification,” she says, and puts one big foot in front of the other, starting us running again.

“So,” I begin. “A wig party.”

“Should be fun.”

“Need help shopping for one?” I ask, because I’m really hoping she’ll invite me.

“I’ll probably go shopping with the girls. But thanks for the offer.”

I’m not going down without a fight. And I’m not going to dance around what I want. Her.

Even if I screwed her over years ago, I have a new chance. Back then I was so singularly focused on my own selfish goals that it didn’t occur to me I could seriously derail hers with my all-or-nothing approach to that illuminating last debate.

Although she had a change of heart, I played a part in it.

But that’s the past. I can’t change it. I can, however, let her know that I’m a different man in the present.

This lovely, sassy, strong, sexy woman. I’ve got to make her mine again.

Time to let her know it is on.





14





Delaney



* * *



“Delaney,” he says my name without any trace of nerves. “I would love to take you to the party. Would that work for you?”

No can I. No I wanna go. He just lays it out. A small voice in my head, a long-held part of me that fights to protect my heart, wants to say no.

But another part of me is surprised he wants to go so badly. Another part is intrigued. Tyler wasn’t the type of guy who’d go to a wig party back in the day. Yes, he went all out to get me to go on a first date. But even though he wanted me, we didn’t do every single thing together. Case in point—he was never into Halloween. When the rest of us dressed up and trick-or-treated in the dorms—for candy and small bottles of liquor because . . . college, obviously—he declined. Not his thing, he’d said. “May I never own a costume,” he told me, holding up his hand like he was taking an oath on a Bible. I didn’t really get the aversion, but I figured some guys don’t like pretending to be someone else. I could live with that. I was never going to insist he slip on a Superman suit for my entertainment.

Though, he did enjoy stripping me out of my black cat costume that year.

Yes, of course I went as a cat. Cats are sexy.

That’s why I’m surprised he’s inviting himself.

A hint of a smile tugs at my lips. “You’d want to go?”

“I would absolutely love to go.”

My eyes narrow as we crunch along a grassy section of the path. “Do you have a wig?”

He shakes his head.

“But you’d wear one? You’d really wear a wig?” I ask, skeptical. Because this Tyler doesn’t quite align with the man I knew. I haven’t seen this side of him. This willingness.

It is, admittedly, alluring.

“Of course I’d wear a wig. It’s a goddamn wig party,” he says, his voice booming like he’s making a speech. “I will wear a wig, and I will wear it with pride.”

Color me impressed. I tilt my head and stare at him, as I concoct a plan. “Any kind of wig?”

He shakes his finger at me as we round a bend in the path. “I know what you’re doing, and I won’t back down. Yes, I will wear a wig, and yes, you can pick it out. You know why I say that?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because if wearing a long black wig, or a combover pink wig, or a kinky, curly Richard Simmons wig means I get to spend more time with you, I will do it.” He taps his chest with both hands. “Let me introduce you to me. I’m the guy who wants you back. Badly.”

My heart races, and I don’t think it’s from exercise. He’s always been a daring man. He’s always gone after what he wanted. But I’ve never seen him bend like this to get it. Fine, we’re only talking about a wig. But it’s also a step. A sign. An olive branch. “I’m tempted.”

“Good. I can work with tempted. I like you tempted.”