Chapter 32
I go to the movies with Wyatt that night, checking out a spy flick that numbs my brain with two hours of explosions, knife fights, and one badass motorcycle chase down a never-ending set of stairs.
He doesn’t once ask about Harper or Spencer when we grab beers and burgers after the credits roll. I’m thankful for that, even though I don’t know what to do about my buddy. I’ve got to hope Spencer will understand that the way I feel for his sister isn’t cause for eyebrow-dyeing or hair-shaving.
Even if I haven’t been upfront with him.
I push those thoughts away for tonight. Always the chatterbox, Wyatt tells me about his business expansion plans and how he needs to hire a new assistant. It’s one of the rare occasions when we don’t give each other crap the whole time.
I’m grateful, too, that I’ve survived the first day in the countdown to bare. When I return home that night, I head straight to my standing desk and draw a puppet with a stopwatch. He stares slack-jawed at the hot mechanic, who fixes brake pads in nothing but a cape.
I title it Countdown to Bare.
I know, I know. I’m pretty fucking brilliant.
But as they say, a dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste.
I turn off the screen, and when I slide under the sheets that night the last thing I do is check my phone.
Again, karma loves me, because there’s a photo from her.
A close-up shot of her fingers, sliding under the waistband of her cranberry-red lace panties.
I swear, this woman will be my undoing. She’s so goddamn perfect for me.
* * *
On Sunday morning I wake to my phone rattling on the nightstand. Must be another message from Harper. I grin in anticipation as I grab the phone.
A note from Serena pops up on the screen instead, with a picture of a baby sleeping.
Seven pounds of torture and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Meet my baby boy!
An even bigger grin spreads on my face over the good news, and because I know Harper will like this picture, I forward her the note.
I freeze.
I just sent her a photo of a baby. To make her happy. What the hell has my world become? Who is this dude inside my skin texting pictures of a newborn? To a woman who sent me a dirty photo last night?
That’s when the Road Runner drops the anvil, and Wile E.
Coyote gets smacked with ten tons of obvious, and his head rings, and stars spin, but then everything becomes crystal clear.
I want Harper to be happy in every way—in bed and out of bed.
I don’t just want to give this woman ten thousand orgasms. I want to see her smile more times than I can count.
Because . . . I’ve fallen in love with her.
I groan and flop back against the mattress.
This woman has upended my world. Once I only wanted to send her soaring, to bring her pleasure, to screw her out of my system. Now I want to make her feel joy in every way. I, Nick Hammer, self-avowed serial monogamist and Magellan of the female orgasm, have become a love-struck fool.
I wish there was a clue in the Sunday puzzle as to how to give voice to this madness taking over my heart.
Knowing how to touch Harper, how to kiss her, and how to deliver ecstasy to every square inch of her body seems easy compared to reckoning with this strange, new foreign object occupying space in my chest. What do you even say to a woman you’ve fallen ass over elbow for?
I scratch my head, coming up empty. Sex is my classroom, but love is a language I barely understand.
I close my eyes, letting my mind wander to all the things I know about Harper.
She loves to entertain, to tell jokes, to spend time with her friends and family, to help people she cares about.
She loves autumn, and cake, and bowling, and beating me in competitions.
She likes taking care of Fido, and learning new magic tricks, and she loves to give gifts.
Most of all, she likes being understood.
I flash back to one of the texts she sent me. A non-dirty one.
I want to look into someone’s eyes and feel like he knows me, gets me, understands me. I want him to see my quirks and accept them, not try to change them. I want to know what that’s like.
I latch on to something. Bits and pieces of our conversation back at Peace of Cake. Something she said about cheesy moments. What was it?
I rub my thumb and forefinger together, as if that can stir the memory to the surface. It works, and I smile inside as I remember her offhand remark.
Does she write those cheesy sex scenes where the man tells the woman he loves her while he’s inside her or right after?
I might not know what to say, but I definitely know when not to say it.
I get out of bed, brush my teeth, pull on my workout shorts and a fleece, and go burn off some of this energy, running all the way downtown to Spencer’s house, where I feed Fido, trusting that this cat and his master will have to be okay with this turn of events, because I’m going to be so damn good to Harper.
I’m going to treat her like the royalty she is to me. All I have to do is tell her.
I don’t have a plan, a skywriter, or a bouquet of flowers, and frankly, I don’t think she’d be impressed with any of those. That’s not the kind of person she is.
But I know the most important part of my plan—there’s no way I can let these lessons with Harper end. Not until I tell her I want to be so much more than friends with her, more than her teacher, more than her love coach. I want to be hers.
Too bad her train is really late that night. She texts me at ten to tell me it’s stuck in Bridgeport for some sort of engine repair.
I write back immediately with the only possible solution.
Nick: I’ll come pick you up.
Princess: Seriously?
Nick: You have no idea how much I want to see you.
Princess: As much as I want to see you?
Nick: Yes. THAT MUCH.
Princess: You won’t use emoticons, but you’ll use shouty caps?
Nick: SHOUTY CAPS ARE MANLY. Get over here, woman. I need your naked body under me.
Princess: WHAT IF I WANT TO BE ON TOP?
Nick: I DON’T CARE. JUST GET HERE. How’s this? I’ll order a car service. I’ll send one to you. Whatever you want.
Princess: This is where teleporting would come in really handy.
Nick: Now you’re really turning me on, talking magic spells. But seriously, princess—can I send a car for you?
Princess: They say the train is going to start again in twenty minutes. I’ll be there soon. If not, I might chew my leg off with waiting.
Nick: Um, I like your legs. Please refrain from all chewing of limbs.
Princess: Ooh! We’re moving again!
A little later, I check the time. It’s eleven, and a new text says she should arrive in Grand Central by midnight. I figure fifteen minutes in the cab will put her at my door at twelve-fifteen. I take a quick shower, brush my teeth, and wrap a towel around my waist.
A new text from her lands on my screen.
Princess: Ugh. Still more trouble. Train arriving at 12:45 now. Should I just go home?
My reply is instant.
Nick: NO FUCKING WAY.
I lie down, read a book, and drift off to sleep.
* * *
The ringing in my apartment is loud. I wake with a jolt, sitting upright in bed. I rub my eyes, orienting myself. I grab my glasses. It’s a little after one. I get out of bed, and answer the phone. The doorman tells me I have a guest, and I say to send her up.
I pad out of the bedroom, then slide the lock off the chain, crack the door a sliver, and peek down the hall.
The gears on the elevator crank, then slow, and the lift opens.
She turns and heads to me. Her hair is in a loose ponytail, and she wears jeans and her pink jacket. Her eyes widen as she nears me. They turn planet-size when she’s inches away, and they drift down my body.
I glance down. Oh. Seems I’m wearing my birthday suit.
“I should always show up after midnight if this is my greeting,” she says, her eyes roaming my naked body.
“You play your cards right, and that can be arranged,” I say, raising an eyebrow. She doesn’t know the half of it, though. She doesn’t know how true that statement is. If she wants me, she can have me any time, all the time.
I grab her hand and tug her inside. She drops her bag to the floor as the door clinks shut.
I waste no time. I kiss her as if it’s been weeks. Her tongue slides between my lips, and her hands travel down my chest, across my abs, down the happy trail, and I’m oh so happy that her journeys have taken her there. She skims her palm over my dick, and my breath hitches.
Her touch is spine-tingling. She dips her head to my neck, kissing me. I shudder, then bite my lip, because I can’t let on all that I’m feeling for her yet. She kisses up my jawline, then to my ear. “I have to run to the little girls’ room and pee. Wait for me in bed.”
I salute her and retreat to the bedroom, following orders.
I take off my glasses, set them on the nightstand, and park my hands behind my head.
Slivers of moonlight slice through the blinds, and my room is cast in shadow.
The water runs in the bathroom sink, then it’s silent again.
Her heels click on the floor, and three seconds later she stands in my doorway, illuminated by the moon.
She strikes a pose. If she was surprised by my attire, then color me ten shades of shocked by hers.