Mister O (11 page)

O
n Friday afternoon
I pack a bag and head to Grand Central to meet my parents, as well as Wyatt and Josie and Harper, so we can all catch a train to New Haven for the wedding. A new strain of guilt rushes through me as I walk through the terminal—guilt over ignoring Harper’s efforts to figure out men, because of my own jealousy. I’ve dropped the ball on her project, and I feel like a complete jerk for doing so. After I drew on her arm, everything became all about me, and my ravenous appetite to learn all her likes and dislikes.

I’m not sure I’ll be able to chat with her on the train, so I tap out a quick text as I near the big gold clock inside the station.

H
ow was
the date with Jason? Any questions? Anything I can help you with?

H
er reply is immediate
.

My jaw clenches as I head onto the platform, and I’m tempted to ask
how wrong?
I push my bag higher on my shoulder, and step onto the silver train bound for the next state, scanning the crowd for my family. My phone dings, and I dread whatever’s coming next. She’s going to tell me her second date was amazing, and that she’s got it bad for him now.

A weight lifts from my shoulders. I’m pretty sure I might even be able to fly right now. I look up from my phone as a skinny man pushes past me, and I spot my parents. My mom waves from a pair of seats. My dad is next to her, with Wyatt a few rows away since it’s hard to grab seats together on a Friday. Josie is here, too, her pink-streaked hair twisted on top of her head and held in place with what looks like a chopstick. She beams when she sees me. I give my mom and sister each a kiss on the cheek and say hi to my dad then turn abruptly when Harper says
hey
. She’s across from them, and she pats the seat next to her. I toss my bag in the overhead and take the seat. “He didn’t even try?” I repeat in a low whisper, so only she can hear.

She shakes her head, a bright smile on her face. “Nope. He’s very sweet. But I’m glad he didn’t. I didn’t want to kiss him.”

I can’t help it. That just makes me . . . happy. Then I’m ridiculously happy when she adds, “And I told him that while I enjoyed chatting with him, I didn’t see it going further.”

“You said that?” I ask, fighting back a grin, even though I like that she was direct and honest with him, and I love that he’s out of the picture.

“I did,” she says. “I still don’t get that crazy fluttering feeling in my chest with him, and I don’t think I will. Best not to lead him on, right?”

I nod as my thoughts slip-slide in a thousand directions. I want to say so much, but I narrow in on my role with her. “So how am I supposed to help you figure out how to date?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about other guys right now.”

“What do you want to talk about?” I ask in a low voice, my heart racing, my skin heating up just from being near her.

She holds up her phone and taps on the screen. “This,” she says, pointing to our thread of messages.

“What about that?”

“Didn’t you like the pictures I sent you?” she whispers.

My jaw drops. “Are you kidding me? I loved them.”

“You hardly said anything,” she says, and there’s the tiniest bit of hurt in her voice. “You only sent one reply.”

Oh shit. I fucked up. She opened up to me with the photos, and I shut her down because of my stupid jealousy. Those pictures should have been the start of a new hot text conversation, not the end. “I’m sorry,” I say, speaking honestly. “I should have written again.” I drop my voice further. “But they sent all the blood rushing everyplace else but my brain.”

That makes her smile. “I just wanted to hear back. To know you wanted more.”

I raise my face, meeting her eyes. They look the way they did when I showed her the drawing on her arm in the coffee shop. Hungry, ready, wanting. The same as mine, I’m sure, so I say the next thing—the thing that sets me on fire. “I want so much more.”

She licks her lips, and they start to form what sounds like a feathery
me, too
, but it’s cut off abruptly when Josie pops out of her seat, nudges my elbow, and tells me to switch with her. “You’ve monopolized Harper long enough. My turn,” she says, with a smile that shows off her dimples. Josie is close in age to Harper, and they spend the whole ride to Connecticut catching up.

Wyatt becomes my traveling companion for the next two hours. When we reach the hotel, we all check in together, Harper going right after me, and then we scatter to hotel rooms on different floors.

At the rehearsal dinner, Harper is consumed with family and is then commandeered by her friend Jen for a drink. I play pool with my brother, and proceed to clobber him, and that victory marks the end and highlight of my night.

* * *

“
I
now pronounce
you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

I smile for the happy couple from my spot near the groom, and Harper beams from across from me. Her dress is sleek, simple, and royal blue. It lands at her calves and shows off her shoulders and makes her hair look fucking amazing. Those red locks are piled high on her head, and loose tendrils fall by her face.

As the newlyweds walk down the aisle and through the guests in the huge room overlooking the hotel grounds, Charlotte’s sister wipes a tear from her eye and clutches her bouquet. I talked to Natalie at the rehearsal dinner last night, and she’s whip-smart and fun. She’s blonde, like Charlotte, with big blue eyes and legs that go on forever.

I guess I should get to know her more, but after the bride and groom kiss, we’re all pulled into various wedding photos and festivities, so there’s no time to talk. Later on, the dancing begins, and once Spencer and Charlotte have their first dance, the DJ spins some faster tunes. Harper and her friend Jen take to the floor while Wyatt and I watch from the open bar, and then Natalie joins the women. A slow song comes on, and the women separate. Natalie weaves her way to my brother and me.

Wyatt taps his chest. “She wants me.”

Harper and Jen head for the ladies’ room, and I can’t resist the chance to beat Wyatt, so I speak first. “Want to dance, Natalie?”

“Sounds great.”

I offer her my hand and lead her out on the dance floor, then proceed to slow dance in the most chaste way possible, with as much distance between us as I can manage.

“I hear my sister wanted to set us up,” Natalie says with a quirk in her lips.

“Yes, she did.”

“She’s got hearts in her eyes these days,” Natalie adds, but there isn’t any flirting in her tone, just amusement. I should be disappointed. I’m not.

“No surprise there,” I say as we move in a small circle, my hands on her waist, hers on my shoulders, our bodies many inches apart. I wonder if she feels it, too—this lack of attraction. It’s not because she isn’t pretty. It’s not because she isn’t smart. It’s just one of those things—the spark is either there, or it isn’t. Natalie and I don’t spark.

She parts her lips to say something, when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“May I cut in?”

Like someone grabbed the remote and changed the channel mid-scene, my pulse speeds up.

“Be my guest,” Natalie says with a smile, and then Harper’s in my arms, and without a second thought, there’s barely any distance between us. My fingers curl over her hip bones, and her hands wrap around my shoulders. Everything sparks. She’s so much closer than Natalie was. A few more centimeters and our chests would touch. A little more and we’d be dancing cheek to cheek. More than that and we’d be arrested for public indecency.

“Is this the obligatory best man/bridesmaid dance?” I ask playfully.

“Wouldn’t a maid of honor/best man dance be more obligatory?”

We sway, moving the slightest bit. “You stopped that from happening,” I say, nodding in the direction of Natalie’s exit. “Did you sense I needed you to perform your patented swoop in and save?”

She laughs lightly. “She didn’t seem your type,” she whispers. “Too young.”

“Why do you keep saying—?”

But she shushes me and tips her head to the right. Wyatt is already dancing with Natalie. “Maybe I just felt bad for your brother. I could tell he had eyes for her, and I’d feel terrible if you beat him out. Poor Wyatt. Always second best to his big brother.”

I laugh and shake my head. “We’ve never fought over girls. Everything else, though.”

She shrugs, and as her shoulder juts up, I wrap my fingers more tightly over her hip, brushing against the bone. Her breath catches, and these are the moments that turn my world with her into a bumper-car ride. I don’t ever know if we’re coming or going. We smash into each other, then we bounce apart, and then we’re right back like this. Bows, skipped breaths, and glossy eyes. That’s how hers look right now. This very second they shine with desire, as if she’s showing me how she pulls off a trick. As if she’s revealing her truth.

“Besides,” she says, low and soft, “maybe I felt territorial.”

My lips curve up in a grin, and my heart pounds wildly.
Territorial
is my new favorite word.

“Did you?” I ask as we turn in a lazy circle. Somewhere nearby is my best friend, and I don’t care. Because this woman is in my arms. She is all I see, all I hear, all I smell. The need to be closer to her consumes me, blotting out everything else—most of all, the reason to stay away.

Her hand moves closer to my neck, and she fiddles with the collar on my shirt. “Your tux looks good,” she says, breathless, and as much as I like that, I also hear what she doesn’t say.
You look good.

There’s a difference between the two. A big difference.

Spots of light play over the hardwood floor as the song slides to the end. “So does your dress,” I say, as I roam my eyes over her clothes then back up to her face. Then I show her how it’s done. She asked me to teach her. This I can do honestly—compliment her the way she should be complimented. With my eyes locked on hers, I say, “And you look gorgeous, Harper.”

Her chest rises and falls against my own, and I stare at her mouth as her lips part, as if she’s taking her time to say something. Then she does, and the words topple out in a nervous mess, but still they’re fucking perfect, as she says, “You look so hot.”

That’s all I can take. The sliver of space between us is thick with lust. It’s strung tight with desire, and I’m confident for the first time it’s not a one-way street. Her eyes are clear and focused on me, only me, and even if she’s not good at reading men, she has to know what’s happening with us. I’m done fighting this.

This is all I can take.

I burn for her. Everywhere. My hands, my chest, my skin. I want this girl so much. My fingers inch across her collarbone, and I run them over a loose curl of her hair. I move closer, dip my head toward her ear. “Do you want to get out of here?”

A fork clinks on a glass. Spencer’s father clears his throat. “Thank you all for coming.”

As if we’ve been electrocuted, we wrench apart, and it’s painful. Completely, utterly painful, especially since I’m not sure this erection is ever going away. But as I zero in on the face of the father of the woman I want underneath me . . . yep . . . done . . . gone.

Instant boner killer.

Whew.

He toasts, and then I toast, and then the bride and groom share the cake my mom made, and at some point, my phone buzzes lightly in my pocket.

I slip away from the crowd to look at her one-word reply, zoning in only on three beautiful letters.

I
pace
in the brightly lit hall outside the reception, waiting for her to slip out, too. But two, three, four minutes after her text, and there’s still no sign of the girl in the blue dress.

I weigh my options. Head back into the reception to look for her like Captain Obvious. Send her a text asking what’s up like a Pushy Dick. Or make my way to the bar like Cool and Casual Guy.

Before I settle on the no-brainer of Scotch, the text message light blinks.

I smile. So very Harper.

And I’m going to be so very me, now.

R
oom 302
.

O
nce I’m
inside my room, my bow tie is undone, along with the top two buttons on my shirt. I toss my jacket on the bed, kick off my shoes, and flop down on the mattress.

I grab the remote.

No time like the present to find out what’s on the tube on a Saturday night.

Clicking through the hotel menu, I learn that not only can I watch a ton of reruns, a plethora of cooking shows, and a host of filthy movies, I can also order my continental breakfast for tomorrow, plan a spa day, or take a tour of the hotel grounds on the interactive map.

Wow. That sounds immensely fascinating. Not sure I can contain my excitement at the mere suggestion of a TV-screen tour of the hotel.

I manage, though, stabbing the
off
button then checking my phone.

That killed ten minutes, but there’s still no text from Harper.

Flicking through some apps, I manage to carve another five minutes out of my night before I peek again at the texts.

That’s when I see the
unsent
status on my last note. Oh shit. I sit up, scrambling to resend the note that didn’t go through for whatever reason.

But before I can even click, there’s a knock on my door. When I cross the few feet to open it, I find Harper in her blue dress, her hair half-down, and one hand behind her back.

She wastes no time.

“My zipper is stuck. And you never told me where you wanted to meet, but I remembered your floor from when we checked in, and I knocked on a few doors, taking a chance, and someone down the hall asked if I had the chocolate-covered strawberries they ordered, and obviously I don’t, but they sounded really good, and well, here I am, thinking about strawberries and hunting for your room while my zipper is stuck.”

A grin tugs at my mouth at everything she just said, but I key in on the last one. “Your zipper’s stuck?”

She turns around and shows me, and it’s a tangled, mangled mess, caught in the red strands of her hair. I grab her arm, pull her into my room, and guide her to the edge of the bed. Sitting her down, I appraise the zipper. “Your hair is in the zipper.”

“I know,” she says with a huff. Then softer, “Can you fix it?”

“Yes.”

She breathes a sigh of relief.

“What did you do to make this happen?” I push some of the loose hair off her back. The dress has two slim straps, and her shoulders are exposed. Her skin is pale, and I want to kiss it.

“I was in my room,” she says as I start working on the zipper, gently tugging a few strands from the teeth.

“I thought Jen corralled you?”

“She did, but then I escaped, and I didn’t hear back from you right away, so I went to my room to change into something else and let my hair down, and when I started to take off the dress, my hair got stuck and this happened.”

“My message didn’t go through. But I had texted you my room number,” I say, as I free more pieces of her hair.

“You did?” she asks, and I can hear a smile in her voice.

“Yes. When you sent me your list of meeting places.”

“I found you anyway. I wanted to find you,” she says, and I freeze, my hands stilling on her zipper.

Find me
.

That’s what I’ve wanted from her—for the lightbulb to go off, and for Harper to see I’m the one she wants.

“You’re a good detective. I’ll get you those chocolate-covered strawberries if you want,” I tease.

“I don’t want that right now. I want something else.”

“What do you want?” I ask as I resume my work, practically holding my breath with the hope that she wants the same thing I do.

“I want the night with you not to end.”