Mister O(40)

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.

Yes.





16





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.

Princess: Trapped by a very tipsy Jen. Give me a few minutes. Meet me in a dark stairwell? Vending machine on second floor? Library? Underneath a tree on the grounds?





I smile. So very Harper.

And I’m going to be so very me, now.



Room 302.



Once 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.