Mister O

by Lauren Blakely

  “Like Spencer and Charlotte pretended?” she adds, as if I could forget their ruse, especially since it worked out in its own way—their wedding is in two weeks.

  “No, that’d be lame if we did the same thing,” I say, digging into the chocolate for another bite. “That would be like if a romance writer used the same trope in the very next novel.”

  That skeptical eyebrow of hers pops back up. “How do you know about tropes?”

  “I write a show.” Draw and write, but you get the idea.

  “Yours is an animated spoof of a dirty superhero. And yet you’re that familiar with tropes in romance novels?”

  “I dated a romance writer a few months ago.”

  “What was that like?”

  “Um, it was like dating,” I deadpan.

  She rolls her eyes. “No. Did she want to practice with you?”

  I laugh, loving her boldness in asking. “You mean the scenes, Harper?”

  She nods as she takes another drink.

  I nod, too. “She did.”

  “Did you?” she asks, curiosity dripping from her tone as she sets down her mug.

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow. When you read her book was it like seeing your life exposed?”

  “That one hasn’t come out yet. It’s next, I think.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “It ended,” I say with a shrug. I’m not upset about it. We had a good time for the few months we were together.

  “Why?”

  Because it was fun, nothing more. And because J. Cameron—that’s her pen name—is obsessed with her work. Fiction is her world. That, and she took off for Italy. “She went to Florence. I think her next book is set there,” I tell Harper.

  “And I’ll be looking forward to reading the one that you”—she sketches air quotes—“helped her research.”

  “Maybe I’ll never tell you her pen name.”

  “I’ll get it out of you,” she says, as I take a drink of my coffee. “Does she write those cheesy sex scenes where the guy tells the girl he loves her while he’s inside her, or right after?”

  I nearly spit out my drink from laughing. “Gee. I really don’t know how cheesy the scenes get. I don’t read romance novels.”

  “Maybe you should. Some are pretty hot,” she says with a knowing glint in her eyes, before she steers back to the matter at hand. “So the event. Let me get this straight. You want me to be your wing-woman to help you with your boss, who’s such a douche he can’t handle that you’re manlier than he is, and because you attract the ladies like a tomcat does the pussycats in heat?”

  Ah hell, I wish she wouldn’t use that word in such close proximity to the factory of dirty thoughts inside my skull. “I wouldn’t say that’s true.”

  Harper points in the direction of the store. “Judging from how badly that woman at the store wanted to Hop on Pop, I’m guessing you get hit on all the time,” she says, and I would sound like a completely cocky bastard if I told the truth. Yes. It does happen a fuck-ton, but it wasn’t always like today. With success comes more interest from women, and more interest not just in me, but in my assets. I’m referring to the green ones, not the ones made of flesh and bone, but they like those, too.

  I give a one-shouldered shrug by way of an answer.

  She smiles. “I’ll go, Nick. And then when I need something, I’ll call in a favor from you. Deal?”

  “Works for me.”

  She reaches for the cake, dips her finger in the frosting, and brings it to her mouth, licking it off. Oh God. Oh hell. Why does she torture me like this? Thank fuck I’m sitting down. She does not need to know she is one half of the ingredients in my instant hard-on mix these days—just add an unintentional sexy-vixen comment that I don’t know how to read, and it’s like a pop-up shop.

  “Look! It’s Anna the Amazing!”

  Harper snaps her head in the direction of the young voice calling out her stage name. She doesn’t use her real name with the kids’ parties she does. To them, she’s Anna the Amazing Magician. She says it’s easier to maintain a Facebook profile with her college friends if she doesn’t tie her work to it.

  A huge smile spreads across her face, and she jumps out of her chair, bends down, and says hello to a girl with wild brown hair and a spray of freckles across her nose. Harper places her index finger on her lips and whispers, “Close your eyes.”

  The little girl does as asked, and when Harper tells her to open her eyes two seconds later, she removes a carefully folded up dollar bill from behind the kid’s ear. Her jaw drops. Spoiler alert: Harper took the bill from her pocket when the girl’s eyes were closed. “But wait,” Harper says, in her magician’s voice, and then her left hand sweeps behind the girl’s other ear, and she’s got another bill, this one folded like a paper airplane.

  Okay, I have no clue how she pulled off that one.

  “You’re amazing,” the kid says in awe then looks up at her dad, and Harper’s eyes follow suit. The dad is tall and sturdy, and I have a suspicion that if he’s single, which the lack of a ring says he might be, he’s scoring regularly. No, I don’t find him attractive, because I don’t find dudes attractive. You can just tell someone is good-looking when he’s a ringer for Chris Hemsworth. Harper stands, and wobbles. She reaches out her hand, steadying herself at our table.

  “Haaa . . . huuu . . . hooo . . .”

  What the—?

  I sit up straighter, my curiosity piqued, as Harper attempts to speak a new language.

  Oh wait, she’s just failing at saying hi.

  “Hi, Anna,” the guy says, then lowers his voice and whispers like her real name is their special secret, “Harper.”

  And it sure sounds as if he enjoys saying her name. Shit. The Hemsworth ringer likes her.

  Harper opens her mouth again. Something that sounds like Hiiiyyyyyaaaaa, Simon comes out of those pretty lips.

  “How are you? This place is great, isn’t it?” he asks.

  I think, but I can’t be certain, that she says yes. Or it could be yesh, given her sudden fit of I-can’t-remember-a-fucking-word-of-the-English-language.

  “Hayden is so excited for her party in three weeks. She’s counting down, and she’s still talking about the tricks you did at Carly’s fifth birthday last month.”

  Harper turns her attention back to Hayden. “You had a good time, didn’t you? Did you like it when I guessed your secret card? Or maybe when I was able to levitate?” she asks, and her speech has completely returned to normal when she talks to the child.

  “I loved the secret card! Yes! I want that at my party!”

  “You will get all the good stuff.”

  Simon glances in my direction then clears his throat. He gives me a quick guy wave, and Harper blushes and says, “Oh, this is my friend, Mister Orgasm.”

  Silence. It just descends on the whole joint, like someone shattered a glass and we all have to stare at the wreckage on the floor.

  It is a certified train wreck watching Harper talk to this guy. It’s horrifying and awesome at the same time.

  She brings her hand to her mouth then pinches the bridge of her nose as her face turns red. Simon laughs at her faux pas, and Hayden just giggles at the scene, maybe because she finds it funny to see Harper turn the shade of a fire engine. I’m ready to grab a bucket of popcorn and keep watching this show, because it is fascinating that Harper has no clue how to interact with a guy who likes her.

  “I mean Nick,” she squeaks out. “This is Nick. I saved him from Vicious.”

  Simon arches a brow. “Vicious?”

  I stand up. “Scary dude who heads up an underground fight club. Or maybe it’s a biker gang these days. Either way, he was terrifying,” I say with a shudder, then extend a hand. “Nick Hammer. Nice to meet you.”

  “Simon,” he says. “And this is my daughter, Hayden.”

  I say hello to his kid.

  Harper hooks her thumb in my direction as she looks at Simon. Speech seems to have
returned to nearly normal levels. “He’s my brother’s best friend. Which means he’s totally off-limits.”

  Ahh . . .

  The plot thickens. Harper really likes this guy, since she’s letting him know she’s available.

  “Good to know,” Simon says with a smile. “I’ll give you a call and maybe we can get together and prep for the party. Talk about the tricks and whatnot.”

  After an awkward goodbye, Simon takes his daughter to the only free table, on the opposite side of the shop. I stare at Harper pointedly. I can’t resist. I have to poke at this. Besides, it’ll help me get my mind off the thought of her naked. “You like him, don’t you?”

  She sighs dejectedly. “Is it that obvious?” she whispers.

  “No,” I say gently. “I mean, relatively speaking. It’s not like you were holding up a sign that said ‘I like you so much.’”

  She lowers her head. “Ugh. I am such a—”

  But she doesn’t finish the sentence, because the parade of mortification launches an encore as Harper drops her forehead into her palm, which causes her elbow to slide on the table, which sends her hot chocolate on a fast track for . . .

  Me.

  And yup.

  Three seconds later, my favorite faded gray T-shirt with Hobbes on it is covered in lukewarm milk and the dregs of whipped cream.

  “Shoot me now,” she groans as she rests her cheek on the table and mimes pulling a trigger.

  “Good thing it’s laundry day,” I say, and I’m thinking there has got to be a storyline somewhere in this where Mister Orgasm saves the day.

  She lifts her face. “Are you really sure you want me to go anywhere with you?”

  I give an exaggerated nod and a tug at my hot-chocolate-stained T-shirt. “You pretty much just sealed the deal on being my sidekick, Princess Awkward.”

  4

  Harper swings her right arm behind her, arcs it in front, then launches the nine-pound, flaming-pink neon ball. In a glorious straight line, the ball speeds down the lane, which illuminates with flashing silver lights, and I hold my breath until it smacks three pins.

  I hate to do this, but I silently send a prayer that the damage ends there.

  Only it doesn’t. Two more pins wobble and then surrender.

  I cross my fingers that the others don’t give in.

  No such luck. Three more topple then one of those pins clobbers the final pair.

  And they all fall down.

  Harper thrusts her arms high and punches the air with a fist. Her second strike of the night, along with a spare. Shit, shit, shit. My team is dangerously close to beating Gino’s. I sneak a look at him. His arms are crossed, his lips form a ruler-thin line, and his eyes are nearly slits. Perched on the orange plastic chair by the scoring screen, he glares at me briefly, as if it’s all my fault for letting her nab a strike. Serena appears, and he smiles brightly as she drops a hand to his shoulder and whispers something to him. Probably reminding him to say cheese for the company photographer, since they’re going to post these pics on the Comedy Nation Instagram feed.

  I turn my focus back to Harper. Her blue eyes are lit up and sparkling, and she’s on some kind of high. She heads toward me at the ball return. It should not surprise me that she can bowl like a champion. I bet she kicks ass at pool, too. Probably nails the bullseye in darts every time. Hell, she can likely change a tire without any help.

  Now, there’s a helluva hot image.

  Ah, fuck.

  Bad idea to speculate on her auto-repair skills, because as she struts toward me, I’m mentally drawing a picture of Harper as a hot redheaded mechanic wearing Daisy Dukes and a wife-beater tank stretched over her chest, sexy streaks of grease on her legs. I don’t know why, but women are required to wear Daisy Dukes in any chick-auto-mechanic fantasies. It’s part of the guy rule book, and you cannot deviate from it. Not that I’d want to. It exists for a reason—it’s hot as sin.

  “Did you see that?” she asks, beaming as she throws her arms around me to celebrate, and I swat away my out-of-nowhere fantasy so that it’s not completely obvious that I’m getting a hard-on for her right now. But really, she’d look so fucking good working on my engine.

  The ironic thing is I don’t even have a car.

  “You didn’t tell me you bowled a three hundred,” I whisper out of the side of my mouth as I reciprocate, wrapping her in my arms, too. Because . . . well, she started it, and she feels fantastic all snug against me like this.

  “Nah, I’m not that good,” she says as we separate, snuffing that short-lived moment.

  I give her a side-eye stare as she peers into the machine that chugs and cranks up bowling balls from the lanes. “That was your second strike of the night,” I remind her. “You’re a ringer. You kept that little fact to yourself.”

  She shrugs playfully. “A girl’s gotta have some secrets.”

  And, hell, do I want to know hers.

  “That may be true,” I say, then lower my voice even more, though it would be hard for anyone to hear a word above the Go-Go’s tune that’s blasting on the bowling alley’s sound system. “But if you keep killing it, I might as well be a dead man in negotiations.”

  She claps her hand over her mouth. “Oh, shoot,” she whispers through her fingers. “Are we that close to winning? I’ve been so busy being your Velcro I nearly forgot.”

  She raises her eyes the slightest bit to a tiny brunette parked next to Gino. Her name is Franci. She works in promotions, and she’s wearing a crotch-length skirt, as she usually does. When I first arrived tonight, she sauntered over to me, then quickly turned the other way when she spotted Harper by my side. Now, she’s making the moves on Gino, which is perfect, since he’ll think he beat me in that regard, too. But little does he know I’m having the last laugh. A few months ago, Franci tried to find me on Tinder. Turns out she found my brother Wyatt instead, since I’m not on Tinder. Wyatt’s a carpenter turned big-time contractor, with a business that’s growing like crazy, and apparently she was quite pleased with his tools. Or so he told me. I told him that was TMI, but TMI pretty much describes my brother.

  As the machine spits up the ball, I grab it for Harper, bring it to my chest, and wrap my hands around it. I drop my voice. “I hate to ask, but I need you to throw the next frame.”

  Her shoulders sag. “Really?”

  “He’s going to go crazy if we crush him. He wants his team to win and raise the most money for charity. He wants his picture to be the one they send to all the trade mags.”

  She sighs heavily. “Throw it like the 1919 World Series?”

  I nod. “Do it just like the White Sox did.”

  She frowns. “This pains me.”

  “I know. But drinks for life . . . and cake for life, too, ’kay?”

  She nods resolutely and reaches for the ball in my arms. For the briefest of moments, her fingers graze the fabric of my shirt, a casual button-down that’s untucked and rolled up at the cuffs. Maybe I’m imagining things, but it feels like her fingers linger on my pecs longer than they need to.

  I do what any sane man would do—clutch the ball tighter so she’ll have to move in closer. She does, and yes, her fingertips are definitely touching me.

  Good thing I can hold this ball for a very long time. All night long, if I’m lucky.

  “Nick,” she whispers in a plea, and it sounds so damn good, the way her voice goes feathery when she says my name. Instantly I hear that inflection, and all that follows it, in my imagination—more, harder, please, now, yes, yes, yes. “May I have the ball, please? It’s the only way I can fuck up the next turn.”

  I blink and hand it over to her.

  I lean against the ball machine and watch as she heads to her spot, brings the ball to her chest, and pistons her arm behind her. She takes a few fast steps before releasing it. I tense because she looks just as polished as she did when she nailed that strike.

  But the girl is good. Her arm swings the slightest bit wider, and the pink orb r
olls straight for a second, then veers, and soon acquaints itself with the gutter.

  I utter a silent yes, even though it’s a damn shame to ask her to blow the game. I have no doubt she’d rack up even more points, and look spectacular doing so. She is a sight to behold tonight, in her dark blue skinny jeans, a purple-and-green argyle sweater, and white-and-red bowling shoes. Her hair is pinned up in a twist, all those silky red strands piled high on her head. Her neck is long and elegant, and I’ve got this feeling her skin tastes spectacular there, and everywhere. I wonder if she’d enjoy soft, lingering kisses along her neck, across the column of her throat, up to her ear. Whether she’d moan, and sigh, and lean into me, her body asking for more.

  I decide she’d love it because I’d kiss her so damn well, she’d melt into me. She’d want so much more, and I’d give it to her, making her feel good in every fucking way, driving her wild. I’d lick a path between her tits, down her belly to the button on those jeans. One fast flick, and they’d be undone. I’d have them off her in less than two seconds, my nimble fingers tugging her panties down . . .

  She turns and snaps in an aw shucks gesture, and I shut down the very vivid, very arousing, very promising fantasy faster than you can clear the history on your Internet browser. She wanders back to me, looking appropriately forlorn. Gino smiles, a slick grin that continues as his team goes on to win, thanks to Harper blowing the final few frames. The photographer he hired snaps a shot of Gino, with his curly hair, dark eyes, and broad frame as he ambles toward me.

  “Nice game, Nick,” he says, all slick and faux-friendly. “Better luck next time.” He punches my shoulder in an old buddy, old pal move. “But hey, at least you’re good at writing the shows.”

  “Let’s just hope I write better than I bowl,” I say, serving it right up to him the way he likes it, with a side dish of suck-up.

  He laughs loudly, like a gorilla. Then Gino notices Harper a few feet away, checking her phone in her purse. “Ah, redheads,” he says, as if he’s sucking a piece of meat off the bone. “They’re fiery and feisty.”