The Hot One

And I don’t just mean physically. I don’t only know the roadmap of Delaney’s body. I know her. I know she loves her mom and her brother, fairy tales, and shoes, lilacs, and 90s hair bands, her nod to retro. Poison, Guns N’ Roses, and Aerosmith were her guilty pleasures. She used to joke about how she wanted to marry Axl Rose someday, especially since she loved his long hair. She’d say that as she ran a hand through my short hair.

I know that she never met a vegetable she didn’t fall in love with, that she liked to argue—thoughtfully—with our history and poli-sci professors, that she was terrified of getting in trouble and always tried to please people, and that was because her father was rarely happy with her, nor with her mother. Which is why the dickhead walked out on them when she and her little brother were teenagers. But she also believes in the power to change, that true friends are worth their weight in diamonds, and that you can do anything you put your mind to.

There’s something else I know about her, too. I once rocked her world.

Look, I’m not being cocky, just honest. We were the night sky and the stars, loud thunder and crackling lightning, a Stratocaster and a kickass amp.

Seeing her earlier today sparked all those memories, sent them rocketing back to the surface in seconds.

That’s why when I drop Carly at her home a little later that morning, I give my niece a quick hug good-bye, and as she runs off to play with her mom and their dog, I make a beeline for the door. I need to track down Delaney and set the record straight. I don’t want her to think something about me, us, or the way we split that’s untrue.

“In a mad rush to ditch me?”

Clay strides across the hardwoods in the foyer of his Greenwich Village home. He’s my cousin, my mentor, and my business partner. Well, he’s the senior partner. I joined his firm a few years ago, and together we kick unholy ass as one helluva pair of entertainment lawyers. Our client list is sick, and I’ve worked my ass off to nab some of the best ones.

“Nah, just have some things to do,” I say, keeping it casual as I point toward the door.

He strokes his chin, narrowing his brown eyes at me. “Yeah? Well, thanks for taking Carly to the park. She loves hanging out with you. Hope she didn’t cramp your single-man style,” he teases.

He doesn’t know the half of it. But I could never fault that sweet girl for the misunderstanding that was clear in Delaney’s eyes. I wave off his comment. “Never. Your daughter is my style. Love her like crazy.”

Clay claps me on the back. “Join the club. We have jackets.”

I laugh, but I’m bouncing on the heels of my sneakers, ready to bolt. The need to find Delaney is like a buzzing in my brain saying do it now.

“Had a little too much caffeine today?”

“No. I saw Delaney, and I need to find her,” I say, because I’m not one to hide shit from my cousin.

His mouth forms an O. “The one and only?”

I nod. Clay knows the score. He’s well aware of what went down eight years ago, even though he wasn’t entirely on my side when I ended things. “How was that?”

“Illuminating. You ever feel like something just hits you out of the blue? Bam.” I slam my palm against my forehead.

“Like seeing your ex and regretting not being with her?” he asks, his tone full of the wisdom that happily married dudes seem to have.

I bristle at that word. “I wouldn’t call it regret.” I’m thirty and single, and even if my last few hookups felt more meaningless than I would like, that doesn’t mean I’m experiencing the Great Remorse of 2017.

More just like a need.

A desire.

A want.

And I’m all about taking chances.

“Yeah? What would you call this intense need to see the girl you were madly in love with in college?”

The way he puts that makes it sound like we’re scripting the romance movie version of my life. I downplay his comment. “Curiosity,” I say with confidence. “I didn’t realize she was here in New York. And that she looked . . .” I pause. It’s not that I don’t have the words. I’m just not sure I want to say them out loud.

“Like heaven?” Clay supplies, remembering what I’d called her.

Guess I don’t have to say them. “Yeah, exactly.”

Clay taps his finger to his lips. “Hmm.”

I tilt my head. “Hmm, what?”

He parks his hand on the doorway. “Let me go out on a limb. Feel free to call me crazy if this sounds the slightest bit off-character,” he says drily.

I roll my eyes. “What is it?”

“You’re going to do that thing right now. That thing you do when you jump headfirst into something, damn the consequences, and don’t even bother with a parachute, right?”

Like I’m playing charades, I act out diving from a plane. Or really, falling off a cliff. “I believe you’ve called me Bungee Jump Tyler for a reason.”

“And you think you’re gonna bungee jump right back into her life? Like you did with the Powder deal earlier this year?” he asks, mentioning a show we worked on. I took the lead and pushed hard in the negotiations. It was one of the riskiest deals we ever attempted, but with a laser attention to loopholes, and making them work in our favor, we nabbed a big new client, and got the client what he wanted.

“And if memory serves, my full-speed-ahead approach worked like a charm, did it not?” I tilt my head, waiting for his acknowledgment that my aggressive strategy sometimes is the perfect counterbalance to his more circumspect one.

Clay shakes his head. “No. Your aggressive approach combined with your eagle-eyed focus on details did it. The perfect combo. That was precisely what the client needed.” He shrugs with one shoulder. “But with a woman? Is this strategy going to solve your regret?”

“Not regret,” I correct. “Curiosity.”

“Right, of course. You’re a cat, and you simply can’t resist pouncing into the empty cardboard box to see what’s inside. Just like any cat would do.”

“Exactly.” And like a cat, I’ll land on my feet.

Clay claps me on the back. “Good luck.”

I arch a brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He grips my shoulder. “It means . . . good luck.”

“No, it doesn’t, counselor. It means something else. Just say it, man. Dispense all the wisdom.”

“It means, good luck parachuting into her life without a plan.”

“Fine. You think I need a plan?”

“I fucking do,” he says, laughing.

“Why?”

He sets his hands on his hips. “Women aren’t empty cardboard boxes for kitty cats to play in. They’re complicated, beautiful, sophisticated creatures with amazing bullshit detectors. And since you broke her heart years ago, you might want to consider applying a little finesse to your plan.”

I huff. “Then I’ll come up with the finesse in the elevator.”

“Hope you land safely,” he says with a quirk of his lips. “I’ll see you tomorrow after you meet with LGO about After Dark.”