The Hot One

by Lauren Blakely

  “Hey, this is Delaney.”

  “Hey, you.”

  And that damn stomach of mine? It flips like a flapjack in the skillet. “Hey there. I’m eating a salad.”

  I’m eating a salad? Why the hell did I just announce my lunch menu? So much for winning at words.

  Tyler laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle. “Can I take from that you still won't eat anything with a face?”

  A tiny smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “Me and green beans, we’re as tight as we’ve ever been.”

  “Excellent. The lady still loves carrots. I’m taking notes. And does bacon still win for the meat you’d least want to eat?”

  I shake my head as a bespectacled woman at the table next to mine barks into her phone at a million miles an hour about who’s picking up the laundry. “Ham, actually,” I say, glad my conversation sounds more fun than hers. “It overtook bacon in a long, but well-fought, race.”

  “Poor ham,” he says wistfully.

  I scoff. “Poor pig.”

  “For the record, bacon is way better. Anything wrapped in bacon is pretty much a perfect food,” he says, and I laugh.

  We used to tease each other mercilessly about my devotion to a vegetarian lifestyle and his to a carnivorous one. I don’t believe in eating animals; he prays at the church of the almighty barbecue.

  “And does your affection for snack food still remain strong? Pretzels and peanuts for the win?” I ask.

  “Always. But only as long as there’s beer,” he says, and I remember he used to joke that beer warded off hiccups, and he was one of those unlucky people who was prone to them.

  Wait.

  I turn down the volume on the memories. I’m not supposed to be talking, or joking, or laughing with him. This is far too easy. I slipped into old habits with him in a heartbeat, like we were pre-lubed and ready to go.

  “Anyway,” I say, resuming my all-business tone as I pick up my fork. “How did you get my cell? It’s not on Facebook.”

  “I tracked it down.”

  “How? Is that hard to do?”

  “It’s not like splitting the atom hard, but when you’re a determined bastard, you get stuff done,” he says, and I hate that I love that he worked for my number.

  Almost as much as I abhor that I adore that he remembers I don’t eat anything with a face. I take a quick bite of a garbanzo bean. “So, how are you?”

  “I’m great, but I was better before I got your note this morning.”

  I sigh. “Tyler . . . I’m busy,” I say because I can’t give in. I clench a fist, trying to hold tight to my advice to Violet a few hours earlier. Completely rewarding. Biggest victory. Catching a taxi in a storm.

  “No time to catch up with an old friend?”

  I set down the fork. “You’re hardly just a friend,” I say because what’s the point in pretending? We were boyfriend and girlfriend, madly in love, college seniors who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. There was nothing remotely friendly about how he touched me.

  “But I have the ability to become friendly,” he says, pressing on. “Did you know I’ve been lauded for my friendship skills?”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, what are those?”

  “Let me take you out for a drink, and I’ll show you. I’ll show you that I can be an amazing friend.”

  My phone buzzes. My alarm. I bolt up out of the chair. “I have a massage in fifteen minutes. I need to go.”

  “Think about it,” he says, in a firm but hopeful voice. “Promise me you’ll think about it.”

  As I gather up my salad remains and pop the plastic top onto the bowl to save for later, I press the phone harder against my ear. “Why? It’s been years since we’ve talked. Why now? I saw you in the park for five seconds, and now you want me to think about a drink?”

  “Yes, Delaney,” he says, his voice smooth and certain. “I do want you to think about having a drink with me. I want you to think about it a lot. So much you say yes.”

  His persistence reminds me of the man I fell for in college. The guy who was dogged in his pursuit of me then, sending me texts and messages, chatting me up after classes, finding me in Josiah Carberry’s late at night and telling me I was going to fall for him if I’d just give him a chance.

  I’d relented, giving him all the chances, and all my heart.

  Then he broke it, and derailed my plans, too.

  Fine, plans might change, even for the better. But people? I’m not sure they do. Not when he sounds like the same cocky guy. “I’ll think about it,” I say as I leave the salad bar and hang up.

  I try hard not to think about the ease of our three-minute conversation as I return to Nirvana and work my way through the afternoon.

  That evening I hunker down in the tiny office in the back of the spa and take care of my online banking, then answer some work emails. I hit refresh once more on the inbox before I close out. For a few days I’ve been waiting for a particular email, hoping to hear from a guy I hired to track down information about someone I once loved. I’m eager, even antsy, but as I scan my inbox I’ll have to live with those emotions a little longer. There’s no word yet. I try to put the possibility out of my mind. I shut down my email and pore over bills and invoices, happily paying all of them—because I believe bills should be paid with a smile, since it means I’m fortunate enough to own a business that makes money—until the receptionist raps on my door.

  “Hey Jasmine,” I say to the pretty girl who handles the phones. Yoga pants with a butterfly pattern hug her hips, and silver bracelets adorn her wrists. A nose piercing glints in the evening light.

  “Look what we have! A gift for you,” she says. Jasmine loves gifts. She loves that working the front desk means she’s the one to sign for flowers and packages, even if they’re intended for others. She simply likes delivering them, like she fancies herself one of Santa’s elves.

  She hands me a potted plant, bursting with light purple blooms.

  A tiny lilac bush.

  She rubs her hands together. “Who’s it from? It smells so good. Someone must know lilacs are your favorite flowers.”

  My stomach pirouettes this time, like it’s excited. Like I’m excited. But I’m not. I swear I’m not.

  I swallow but don’t answer right away. He does know they’re my favorite. But he was never a big gift-giver before. So these can’t be from him. I can’t get my hopes up.

  A notecard hangs on the side of the pot. I flip it open and read: Don’t think. Just say yes.

  Two, three, four pirouettes.

  I bend my nose to the plant and inhale my favorite scent in the world.

  Motherfucker.

  4

  Tyler

  * * *

  I suppose Delaney could have turned into a bitch. It’s possible she might bore me to tears. There’s a chance we’d have nothing to say to each other.

  But I’m a betting man, and I’m not putting my money on any of those options.

  “I won’t give up until I have a chance to talk to her again,” I say to my buddy Simon when I shoot hoops with him the next morning.

  After he sinks a layup, he gives me a doubtful stare. “Talk to her? You’re trying to make me believe you simply want to talk to her?”

  I nod, resolute and then some. “Hell yeah.”

  “And what is it you want to talk to her about? The stock market? The weather? The latest movie you’re dying to see?”

  “No, asshole. I want to talk to her about . . .” I trail off, remembering how easy our phone call was. I shrug and hold my hands out wide. “Anything. Just anything.”

  “All this from five seconds of you juggling in the park?”

  He dribbles then passes the ball to me. I grab it and throw, watching it catch nothing but net. “That, and a phone call yesterday,” I add as he grabs the rebound.

  “A two-minute call?”

  “Oh, ye of little faith. It was three or four minutes, and we reconnected like that,” I say, snapping my fingers.
“She also sent me a thank you note for the lilacs, I’ll have you know. You’re not the only one who has game when it comes to the ladies,” I point out, since Simon recently wooed and won a very special woman.

  “What did her note say? Was it demonstrative of her deep and undying affection for you? Like, say, Thanks for the lilacs?”

  “Yes,” I admit, annoyed he totally nailed it. “And she said they were still her favorite flowers.”

  “Well,” my friend says, raising the ball above his head. “That’s all the proof you need that she wants you to win her back.”

  “Hundred bucks says you miss and I’m not wrong. I know the two of us can be good together again.”

  Simon laughs as he shoots. “Man, you kill me. Not only are you an entertainment lawyer, but you’re entertaining.”

  I’m also damn determined to get her to say yes, no matter what Simon thinks. Especially since he misses the next shot.

  The next day, my morning starts bright and early when I meet the top lawyer and an executive at LGO, a premium network that’s been giving HBO a run for its money with its equally aggressive online and on-air approach to programming. Even though Craig Buckley, the dark-haired and famously risk-taking network head, has home-field advantage, since the meeting’s at his office, I win four out of the six deal points I want for my client, the creator of a new sexy show, After Dark.

  I thank Craig with a handshake, and his attorney grumbles that he’ll call me soon.

  I leave the high-rise building in Times Square, emboldened that I can wrap up the rest of the thorny issues in the deal over the next several days. As I weave through the morning crowds and tourists, heading toward the relatively quieter route up Eighth Avenue to return to the office, I call my client, Jay Benator, a brilliant artist who is poised for breakout success. I update him on the developments.

  “That’s great. But what about the final points?” he asks, in a reedy voice, nerves getting the better of him. “I haven’t slept at all since this has been going on.”

  “Relax, Jay. Working with me is like an Ambien. I’ll get you there, and you’ll have sweet dreams, too. I promise.”

  “You sure?” he asks, his voice wobbling.

  “Trust me. I’ve got your back. We’ll seal this up soon,” I say, then reassure him some more as I walk toward Columbus Circle. Sometimes with clients, my job is being their shark, their shield, their lubricant, their hawk, their watchdog, and their therapist. Jay seems to need all of the above, but especially my psychotherapy skills today. Mostly, I manage those by steering him to a heated debate about which NBA team is having the best season so far.

  I say good-bye when I reach my building, telling him I won’t even bill him for the head-shrinking.

  “Thanks, man. And the Lakers suck.”

  “Ouch,” I say, but I’m glad he seems to feel good enough to trash-talk.

  Once inside the offices of Nichols & Nichols, I say hello to Holly, our perky new receptionist, who’s studying at night to become a paralegal.

  “How’s it going, Holly? Any messages for me?” I ask as I stretch my neck from side to side. Too much time reading contracts makes it stiff. “Need me to quiz you on anything?”

  She smiles and shakes her head. “No to both, but maybe later?”

  I bang my fists on the edge of the high desk, then point at her. “Count on it.”

  “Oh, quiz me now, Tyler. Please, please, quiz me now on intellectual property.”

  The deep British voice mocks me as I turn to Oliver, our newest associate, who loves to give me a hard time. Especially since he thinks I flirt with Holly. But I don’t. I respect her—the woman is working her ass off trying to advance her career, and all I want to do is help her.

  He walks into the reception area, debonair as always in his suit. The accent helps, obviously.

  “Here’s a question for you, Edgecombe,” I say, using his last name as I give my tall, dark-haired colleague a stern look. “If my last name’s on the sign, would that make it my property or yours?”

  Oliver clasps his hands to his chest, like I’ve shot him. “Oh, the wound. The intellectual wound. It hurts so very much.”

  I wave him off as I head down the hall. “Get back to work on your IP deals.”

  A second later, he pops into my office. “By the way, great advice on the Newton deal. The studio loved it, and so did the client.”

  I park myself in a chair. “Excellent news. I guess we’ll keep you on staff, in spite of your surly attitude.”

  Oliver flashes a huge smile. “So surly.” He blows me a kiss, then whispers, “Behave around Holly.”

  I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to worry about that, Edgecombe.”

  After he leaves I settle in at my desk and track down the salad bar next to Delaney’s spa.

  An hour later, her lunch is delivered to Nirvana, courtesy of me, and her meal is full of all her favorite things.

  Two hours later, I’m rewarded with a Facebook ding and a message. When I open it, I grin proudly. She sent me a GIF of a dancing carrot.

  I take that as a cue to call her. “So, is it safe to assume you don’t have a boyfriend?” I say as I kick my feet up on my desk and lean back in the leather chair. Might as well get the possible hurdles out of the way.

  She laughs. “I wouldn’t have accepted the lilacs or the salad if I did.”

  “Didn’t think you would, but I do like to confirm important details like that. Oh, and while we’re on the topic, I’m one hundred percent single, too, so feel free to say yes to drinks.”

  Another laugh lands softly on my ears. “Yes, Tyler. The salad was delicious. Thank you so much for sending it to me.”

  I smile. “Fine. Tell me all about that salad before you say yes to the drinks,” I say, with a hint of a dirty tone of voice. “Was it crunchy? Was it healthy?”

  She answers in an equally flirty tone. “You know little excites me more than a crisp green salad. It was all of the above, and it had the best Green Goddess dressing in all of a ten-block radius.”

  “What more can you ask for when it comes to lunch?”

  “Only that it turn into a bowl of cereal,” she says wistfully. “Hey, speaking of cereal, I keep meaning to ask what’s up with your profile picture on Facebook?”

  “You like the laser-eyes feline?”

  “It’s cute and completely bizarre. Naturally, I love it.”

  “It’s a cartoon from one of my clients. Nick Hammer. Creator of The Adventures of Mister Orgasm and—”

  “Naughty Puppet Theater Presents Dirty Girl Mechanic. I love his new show. It’s hilarious, and I’ve seen every single episode.”

  “I’ll let him know you’re a fan. He loves hearing that.” I set my feet on the floor and spin lazily in my office chair. “Did I ever tell you the story of how I met Nick?”

  “I don’t think so,” she says curiously. “He didn’t go to Brown with us did, he?”

  “No, he was an RISD guy. That’s where I met him. I saw him drawing at the RISD museum when I was there for a class one day—an art history elective. He was sketching a caricature of a Jackson Pollock.”

  “Um,” she says, deadpan. “How do you caricature a Pollock?”

  “Excellent question. Here’s how. He said he liked to pretend Pollock’s abstract paintings were representations of everyday things. Pickle jars, brooms, cereal . . . So, Nick was drawing a cereal bowl with a cat shooting lasers into it.”

  She laughs. “That’s kind of crazy and genius at the same time.”

  “Anyway, we chatted for a few minutes and wound up becoming buddies.”

  “And then he became your client later on,” she adds.

  “We stayed in touch after college.” I stop talking as a morsel of guilt crawls through me from wherever it had been lurking. I feel like shit for my choices—I kept in contact with my friends, but I didn’t stay in touch with the girl I loved. But I couldn’t. It was too hard. Too fucking tempting. If I’d stayed in touch with her,
I never would have gone after my dreams. “He became my first client,” I say, focusing on the topic, rather than dwelling on things I couldn’t change.

  “So the cat cartoon is like a memento of your friendship?”

  I adjust the knot in my tie. “In a way, but it’s also a new show concept he’s sketching. A cat with magical superpowers. His name is Cat Crazypants, the Great Illusionist.”

  “I want to see that show . . . tonight. You had me at ‘cat with superpowers.’ I’ve been hoping to adopt a cat someday soon.”

  “A cat with superpowers?”

  She laughs. “If that’s an option, sure. I’d also like him to have six toes.”

  I laugh. “Like the Hemingway cats?”

  “Yes, but I learned all the details from an author I like who has several of these cats—Tawna Fenske. They’re called polydactyl. The coolest thing is their extra toe is kind of like a thumb,” she tells me, her voice rising with excitement.

  “Can they open doors and such with these thumbs?”

  “Of course. Drawers and cans, too. Tawna even gave me an early copy of her next book—the heroine inherits a B&B that’s now a sanctuary for polydactyl cats, so I’m even more hooked on them now. You should tell your client he can give his cat a real superpower with an extra toe.”

  I sit up straighter, sensing an opening, and try once more to win a date with her. “I could tell you more about the cartoon cat over a drink.”

  “Ooh. Bribery now.”

  “You call it bribery. I call it giving the woman what she wants. You want a kitty cat with powers. I can deliver. Over drinks.” My tone is full of confidence, but my chest is tight with nerves.

  I want her to say yes so fucking badly.

  My suggestion is met with silence then a heavy sigh. Before she even speaks, the lightness of the conversation seeps away. Her quiet is nothing but a preface to a no.

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Tyler,” she says softly.