Mister O

by Lauren Blakely

  Involuntarily, I clench my fists. But before I can say, “Shut up, you ape,” Harper spins around and flashes us both her gorgeous smile. It’s pure magic. It’s what woos the kids and wins the hearts of the parents who book her months out for the parties. It’s wide, charismatic, and totally stunning.

  “Well, hello there. You played a very good game,” Gino says, extending his hand. She shakes it, and I make a mental note to remind her to wash her hands thoroughly when we leave. Maybe even use hand sanitizer a few times. Fuck, the way he grips her hand, we’re going to need a full decontamination chamber here.

  “Thank you so much. But honestly, you’re just so fantastic,” she says to him, an adoring look in her eyes. “Quite a tenacious competitor.”

  I could kiss her for this.

  “Oh, you flatter me,” he says, waving a hand.

  “I assure you, it’s not flattery when someone rocks the lanes like you do,” she says, then gives a sexy little jut of her shoulder.

  And that’s the money shot, folks. Gino is eating out of the palm of her hand. He turns to me and hooks his thumb at Harper. “I like her, Hammer. She’s a keeper.”

  “She definitely is,” I second.

  When we leave, she grabs my arm and squeezes my bicep.

  My arms are strong. That’s not me being conceited. They really are, courtesy of my devotion to exercise and perhaps my addiction to the benefits it reaps. Her hand curls over my left arm, and yup, the hours at the gym are worth it right now. “Was I obsequious enough?”

  “Like you have a master’s degree in it.”

  She wiggles her eyebrows as we pass the vending machine on the way to the shoe counter. She gives another squeeze. “By the way, nice arms.”

  Then she lets go, and I’m tempted to stop at the machine, buy a crackerjack box, and hunt for a decoder ring at the bottom. Something to decipher what the hell she means with these half-flirting, half-not remarks. Was “nice arms” a compliment, or just a general observation? Did it mean she wanted to run her fingernails along them as I braced myself above her, or that she thought I could be useful for, say, lifting a heavy coffee table in her apartment?

  She practically skips ahead of me to the counter. “Don’t forget, you owe me a game now, too, Nick Hammer. I want a rematch with you.”

  “You’re on,” I say, because at least rematch means more, and that’s what I want most.

  She bends to unlace her shoes, and when she stands, she slaps them on the counter. “Oh hey,” she says, and her face lights up.

  “Harper Holiday!” The guy behind the counter clearly knows her. He’s got dark hair, straight teeth, and brown eyes that he can’t take off Harper. Christ, is there any man in Manhattan who doesn’t want her?

  “Hey, Jason, how are you? I haven’t seen you since—”

  “Senior year,” he supplies with a smile, as he takes the shoes.

  “This is my friend, Nick,” she says and squeezes my arm again. “He went to Carlton Prep, too. But he was a senior when we were freshman.”

  “Hey, man. I remember you. You were always drawing comics, hunched over a notebook,” he says with a grin as he hands me my Chucks.

  “That’s me,” I say, and I hope he leaves it at that. Not that I hated high school. Not by any stretch, ’cause I’m just not a hater. And honestly, being the quiet guy was not the worst fate. I had plenty of friends. But I was completely a cipher when it came to girls.

  “Your shit was good,” he adds, and I straighten my shoulders and tell him thanks. This guy isn’t so bad after all.

  “I had no idea you worked here,” Harper says.

  He holds out his hands and gestures around. “All the time. This is my place. My little patch of land.”

  “No kidding! You run Neon Lanes?” she asks, sounding thoroughly impressed as she slips on the pair of short boots he’s handed her, and I finish lacing my shoes.

  “Own and operate.” He taps the counter. “I do a little bit of everything. Be sure to say hi next time you’re here. And hey, are you on Facebook?”

  “I am.”

  “Look me up. Friend me. Let’s catch up,” he says.

  As we walk away, I stare at her. “You do realize he likes you?”

  “What?” she asks, like I’ve just told her monkeys live on Jupiter.

  “Yes. He likes you.”

  “You’re crazy,” she says, shaking her head.

  “You’re a trip, Harper. You have no clue sometimes. It’s fucking adorable,” I tell her, and then, because we came as friends and we’re leaving as friends, but in case any of these other assholes who want her might be watching, I drape an arm around her.

  “Seriously, Nick. Why do you say that?”

  I tug her closer, and she goes with it, letting me. “Princess Clueless, you’re about to get an education in all the things you’re oblivious to.”

  5

  We grab two stools at Speakeasy, a kick-ass spot in Midtown. The bartender, Julia, slides us two coasters and takes our order.

  Julia’s married to the guy who owns the law firm I use for all my contracts. That’s Clay Nichols. He runs the shop, and is pretty much Manhattan’s most fearless entertainment lawyer. His cousin Tyler joined him recently. Tyler’s a beast, too, and handles the day-to-day for me. He’s absolutely the guy I want having to deal with Gino.

  Julia pours me an Imperial Stout and then mixes the drink Harper ordered, which is made with tequila and lemon soda.

  “And one Long-Distance Lover for your friend, coming right up,” she says with a wink to us both, as I give her my credit card.

  Julia shakes her head, sliding the plastic back to me. “Your money’s no good here, handsome.”

  “Please. I insist,” I say, trying again.

  She stares me down. “As if you can pull the whole I insist act with me. It’s a rule. No client of Nichols and Nichols shall ever pay for his libation. Now, enjoy your drink with your pretty redheaded friend,” she says, then hands Harper the cocktail.

  “Hope you enjoy it. By the way, love your hair,” she says, and it’s funny because Julia’s redhead comment doesn’t bother me—she means it as a compliment, since her hair is the same shade, while Gino meant it in a douchey Neanderthal way. Kind of like how he means everything.

  “Thank you,” Harper says, running her hand along her locks. She let her hair down when we left the bowling alley. “Same for you.”

  “It’s true what they say. Redheads have more fun. So be sure to have fun,” she says, then presses her hand to Harper’s arm before she heads off to serve a new group of customers.

  Harper looks at me, surprise in her eyes. “She’s quite friendly.” She brings the drink to her lips, and takes a long sip. Her eyes widen and she points to the glass as she swallows. “She makes good drinks, too. This is amazing.”

  “She’s not an award-winning bartender for nothing. They have the best drinks at Speakeasy. Just don’t tell your brother we’re here,” I joke, since Spencer and Charlotte own three bars in Manhattan.

  She pretends to zip her lips. “Our secret is safe with me,” she whispers, and as soon as those words ghost past her lips, I find myself wondering if we’ll ever have other secrets, like about the things we crave, the things that drive us wild, that turn us on in the dark, and if hers would match mine.

  “By the way, did I do okay as your shield tonight?”

  “You were the best,” I tell her, then I take a long swallow of my drink. Damn, the beers here are spectacular, too.

  “What are you going to do the next time, and the next time? The hits come pretty relentlessly from the ladies. It’s like rapid-fire interest.”

  “Hey,” I say, stopping her as I place a hand on her knee. “Pot. Kettle.”

  She arches an eyebrow. “How so?”

  “From Simon to Jason, you certainly seem to have the men lining up for you.”

  She shakes her head and shoots me the universal look for what have you been smoking? She follows it with,
“What on earth are you talking about?”

  I stare at her. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously, what?”

  I hold up a hand like a stop sign. “You are aware that Jason has a thing for you? Like I told you at the bowling alley. And Simon the Hemsworth-look-alike dad does, too.”

  She narrows her eyes. “I don’t think so.”

  I nod emphatically. “I know so.”

  She shakes her head, just as certainly. “Nope.”

  “Oh yes, Princess Denial. Jason likes you. It was obvious.”

  “No, this is obvious,” Harper says, holding up her left hand, bending her thumb in half, then pretending to magically remove the tip of her thumb, only so badly it’s clear how she does it.

  “Wait. So you didn’t really pull off your thumb?”

  She holds up all ten fingers. “No! Astonishing feat, isn’t it? I still have them all.”

  “And it’s equally astonishing that you don’t realize Jason ‘let me friend you on Facebook’ ex-classmate likes you.”

  She grabs her drink, shrugs, and knocks some back.

  It’s then that I realize Harper’s bafflement over the opposite sex goes both ways. She doesn’t know how to act around guys who like her, and she has no idea when they’re into her either.

  Selfishly, this is kind of an awesome discovery because it means I have carte blanche to continue thinking about her naked, beneath me, over me, coming for me, and she won’t have a clue. Considering I think about her naked an inordinate amount of time—like, for instance, two seconds ago my mind wandered to wondering what color her panties were—this is a very good thing.

  Especially since the natural next step is to daydream about stripping her of the pale pink panties I’ve decided she’s wearing.

  But I care about Harper, and I can tell this little lack of fluency in all things men is going to become a big problem for her at some point. Seeing as I’m all about helping the ladies, I give it to her straight. “First, yes, Jason is into you. Second, Simon is too. And I’m willing to bet my left hand that Simon has already texted you since the other day when you doused me in hot chocolate.”

  That earns me a small, contrite smile. “Did you get it out of your shirt?”

  “Haven’t done laundry yet. Ran out of detergent.”

  “They have stores for that.”

  “Yes. They do. But don’t think you can derail me.” I hold up my left hand. “And don’t let the fact that I offered my non-drawing hand as stakes make you think I’m not one hundred percent confident that Simon let’s-talk-about-the-party texted you. I’m really attached to both hands.”

  “Fine,” she says, with a huff, like it costs her something. “He texted me earlier today.”

  “I amaze myself. What did he say?”

  She reaches into her purse, finds her phone, and shows the text to me.

  Hey there. Hope you’re having a great week. Would love to get together and talk about the party. Coffee sometime?

  “Case. Closed.”

  “How does that prove anything?”

  “Okay. Let me ask you something. Do you regularly need to get together with parents and talk about the parties you’re doing?”

  “Not that often,” she says, answering quickly.

  “Could you, for instance, handle the plans for little Hayden’s fifth birthday on the phone?”

  “Sure.”

  I slap a palm on the counter. “The guy wants to see you in person because he likes to see you.” I point to my eyes then to her. “He likes looking at you.”

  “Ohhhhhhhh,” she says as my meaning registers. It's fascinating, like watching a video of one of those baby foals learning to stand for the first time. She brings her fingers to her forehead, and mimes an explosion. “Mind. Blown.”

  Wait ’til she sees what other mystical insights into the male mind—if you can even call it that—I can perform. “Let’s put this to another test. Got Facebook on that phone?”

  “Of course.”

  “Open it up,” I say, making a rolling gesture with my hand.

  She clicks on the blue icon. “Okay, what am I looking for?”

  “New friend request. Jason from the bowling alley. I guarantee it’s there.”

  She scrolls down the screen and blinks in surprise. “Can you do this with lottery numbers, too?”

  I stab my finger at the phone, ignoring her cute little snark. “The dude wants to connect with you because . . .” I let my voice trail off and make sure she’s looking me in the eyes, as I finish, “he wants to connect with you.”

  “Because I heard the next Powerball is going to be huge—”

  I cut her off. “What did you say to Simon when you wrote back?”

  She sighs, shakes her head, and screws up the corner of her mouth. She waits a moment before she speaks, like she’s trying to figure out what to say, maybe hunting for her next quip. But the words she picks are simple. “That’s the thing, Nick.”

  This time there’s no sarcasm, no teasing, nothing unclear in her tone. It’s just earnest and nervous. “What’s the thing?” I ask gently.

  “I don’t know what to say to him,” she says, with a one-shouldered shrug. “I can stick a pencil in my nose and make it appear to come out of the side of my head much easier than I can figure out what to write.”

  “Wait. You can stick a pencil in your nose?”

  She nods in excitement. “Want to see?”

  I kind of do, in a sort of sick-fascination way. But not now. “Another time, unless it’s a Blackwing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s only my favorite type of pencil in the entire world. But let’s focus on one thing at a time. Let me walk you through this. You say: Sure, that sounds great. How about Friday at five p.m.?”

  She shudders. “Too hard.”

  “To say that?”

  She inhales deeply, like she’s steeling herself to say something tough. “Okay, look. There’s no pretending with you. You’ve already seen what happens when I like someone. I can’t talk. I can’t speak. If I can manage words, they’re ridiculously inappropriate ones. Even if I texted him, I wouldn’t know how to act on Friday at five p.m.”

  Damn, the way she says that is so sweet and so sad at the same time, and I half feel sorry for her, and half want to tell her she’s so fucking cool it doesn’t matter. But it does matter. Because if she can’t get past her inability to speak around guys she likes, life might be lonely.

  I move my stool closer. “But you understand women. You knew what that woman was up to at the bookstore.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Vicious’s wife wasn’t exactly subtle. But yes, I can understand my native language. It’s men that vex me.”

  “You honestly and truly don’t know what to say or do with a guy?” I ask softly.

  She levels her gaze at me. “I’m a magician, Nick. I go to kids’ parties. I work with moms. I never meet men. Simon is the exception because he’s a single dad, and that’s rare. I don’t know the first thing about the mating and dating rituals of the American male. I’m nearly twenty-six years old, and touching your arms to prank my brother in Central Park last summer was the most action I’ve gotten in ages.”

  I want to preen and offer her my arms to touch again, because my ego is keying in on the part about me. Then it hits me. Most action she’s gotten in ages?

  But before she can elaborate on the state of her sexual satisfaction, or current lack thereof, her blue eyes show a hint of sadness, and she looks away.

  “It was?” I ask quietly, trying to digest the enormity of that kind of drought. Sounds like hell.

  She looks back at me and shrugs, almost in defeat. Her expression seems resigned, as if she’s accepted the inevitable. “Yep,” she says with a rueful smile. “That’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

  “You haven’t been with anyone, in any way, in a long time?”

  “I’m quite close to my iPhone, and I’m kind of amazi
ngly intimate with my pillow. Don’t tell anyone. But yes, I’ve been single in the city since I moved back after college.” She sighs deeply, then squares her shoulders. “But it is what it is, Nick. Being a magician is not that conducive to dating. It’s a trade-off I have to accept.”

  “Why does the job hold you back?”

  She holds up her fingers and counts off. “First, whenever I do meet new people, usually the first thing they want is for me to show them tricks. They see a magician, not a woman,” she says, keeping her chin raised, even though there’s an undercurrent to those words. “Second, even though I do a few corporate events from time to time, the vast majority of the people I interact with are moms and kids. And third, the reality of my job is that I spend a lot of time alone. In front of a mirror. Practicing tricks,” she says, punctuating each phrase with a pause. “If you want to know why I could barely speak the other day, there you go.”

  Something clicks. Harper is fantastically sarcastic, something I love, since it’s a second language for me. But I bet this issue—the solitary nature of her life—is why her sarcasm is so finely tuned. It’s a protective armor, shielding her. She uses it regularly, giving it a thorough workout each day to guard a lonesome heart.

  “That’s kind of a bummer,” I say, because it’s rough when the job you love hinders you. I’m lucky to be in the entertainment business. I meet women all the time. But if I were spending all my days at home drawing, like I did in high school, I’d probably be better acquainted with the Saturday night TV schedule. As it is, I don’t have a clue what’s on, and I vastly prefer that my career has a social side to it, since, well, I like people.

  “It’s fine,” she says, waving a hand as if she’s making all her solitude disappear in a poof. “I love what I do for a living. If my job makes it harder for me to date, that’s just the price I have to pay.”

  “But why does it have to be that way? Why does one have to exclude the other? I don’t think you have to be lonely.”

  “I didn’t say I was lonely,” she corrects, but her tone is defensive. Then she brightens her smile. “But hey, I get to have my magic wand in exchange for a meaningful connection with the opposite sex.”