Mister O(6)

And she’s a fucking magician. For a living. The chick pays her own bills performing sleight of hand and slipping the wool over people’s eyes.

That’s kind of the hottest profession ever—hotter than bartender, than model, than rock star. Maybe not hotter than sexy librarian, though.

I honestly didn’t think these thoughts until a few months ago. Until the day last summer when she asked me to help her get even with her brother for something he did to her years ago. To exact her revenge, we pretended we were getting it on at softball practice.

I took off my shirt, she ran her hands down my chest, and the rest is history. The 99.99 percent of my brain started going there with her that day in Central Park.

Look, I’m a guy. It is that simple. We’re not complicated, and anyone who tries to make us out to be complex is full of shit. That’s not to say we aren’t capable of advanced feelings, emotions, and all that jazz. But when it comes to women, it doesn’t take much for the lightbulb to go on or off.

And the Harper switch went all the way on that day.

I do my best to focus on idle chit-chat with her, rather than cycling through what kind of lingerie she might be wearing, especially since I can see a hint of a black satiny strap at the edge of her V-neck sweater. I force myself not to imagine what the rest of that sexy garment looks like.

Too late. I’m picturing it now, seeing in my mind how the lace hugs her flesh, and that is one fine image. Thank you, brain, for never being afraid to go there. But now I need to zone in on the conversation.

I point at the cake we’re working on. “Scale of one to ten. What would you give this cake?”

With her fork poised midair, she stares at the ceiling. “Rapture.”

“I don’t believe that’s on the scale.”

“I did say cake was a religion.”

“Then I would think second coming would be fitting.”

“Coming. You said coming,” she says with a straight face.

“I say that a lot, actually.” I lean back in the chair, keeping it casual.

“I know.” She wiggles her eyebrows then whispers, “I was enjoying your book before you arrived. It’s so dirty.” She says it like this is a secret. Like she just learned for the very first time that my cartoon is a fiesta of naughtiness. “What I really want to know, Nick Hammer,” she says, owning my name in a way that the blonde from the bookstore could never even come close to, “is where your inspiration comes from.”

You don’t even want to know, Harper.

I pretend to study the cake. “I think this cake might be laced with something.”

She takes a bite and winks. “Yeah, deliciousness. That’s what it’s spiked with.”

Fuck, see what I mean? She’s too much. She makes it really hard not to think about what she’d be like in bed. She operates at this constant state of verbal banter that’s flirting, but not quite flirting. The net effect? I’m a cat, and she’s working the laser pointer. I’m chasing the red light, but I can’t ever catch it. The fact that I’m single doesn’t help. I have nothing whatsoever against one-night stands, but I’m less of a hookup guy and more of a serial monogamist, even though I’ve never fallen in love with anyone I’ve monogamied serially with, including the last woman, who’s in Italy now, working on a book.

Ergo, I’m one hundred percent available, I’m absolutely interested in the woman sitting across from me, but no way can I have her.

I take a drink of my coffee, and she reaches for her hot chocolate. Since I can’t spend the entire time staring at her lips on the mug, I look around. The shelves at the counter are full of fantastic-looking cakes, and a chalkboard menu lists mouth-watering flavors alongside the standard coffee options. Peace of Cake is packed. The wooden tables are nearly overflowing with your Upper West Side potpourri of people—moms, dads, and young kids, along with twenty-somethings and couples.

“So how many was it?” Harper nods in the direction of the bookstore.

“How many what? Books sold?”

She shakes her head. “How many times did you get hit on in there?”

I laugh, but don’t answer her.

“C’mon,” she presses, tapping the table. “A good-looking guy like you. The center of attention. It must have been, what . . . every other fan?”

My ears perk up at her description. Other parts do, too. But see, it’s not like she says good-looking guy in this come-on way. She says it like it’s some known fact. Which is why I can’t figure her out. I have no clue if her mind swerved out of Friendshipville and into Naughty Thought Town that day in the park, too. “No, not every other fan,” I say.