Of course he has.
“You have my word. I want to be a pleasure purveyor,” Ray says solemnly as he clutches the book to his chest, reciting one of Mister Orgasm’s famous lines.
Man, someday that dude is going to blow the minds of the ladies. He’s got some serious determination. But not yet. Because, ya know, he’s sixteen.
I turn my eyes to the next person in line, and I’m practically blindsided by the sheer amount of breast on display. It’s pretty much enough to activate a full-on man trance, that glazed-eye, struck-stupid look that only tits can induce in a guy. I’m not immune to it, because . . . tits.
They are one of my favorite playgrounds.
But I’ve had some serious training in combating the condition. Part of my job is interacting with the public, and I can’t just walk around slack-jawed, staring at chests. This woman is going to put my skills to the test though. She’s wearing a scoop-neck white T-shirt. That’s kryptonite for most men.
She leans forward, making sure I get a front-row seat. I cast my eyes around, hoping Serena, the very pregnant, perennially smiling, but oh-so-savvy PR woman who works with my show at Comedy Nation, will return quickly from yet another bathroom break. She’s a pro at knowing when to hold the eager ladies at bay.
Look, I’m not complaining. I do not mind whatsoever that some of the show’s viewers get a little frisky at events like this. It’s all good. But I’ve got a feeling this one isn’t supposed to be playing.
“Hey there,” I say, giving a smile to Bleached Blonde. Interact. Engage. That’s part of the job. Be the public face of the hit TV show currently crushing the motherfucking competition in the eleven p.m. timeslot—and all the programs that run earlier in the night, too. That both thrills the head of the network, and drives him bat-shit crazy, but that’s a story for later.
The woman brings her hand to her chest, trying a time-honored tactic to invoke the trance. I remain stoic. “I’m Samantha, and I love your show so much,” she coos. “I read the profile of you in Men’s Health the other week, too. I was so impressed with your devotion to your craft, as well as your body.” The profile—’cause it’s Men’s Health—featured a shot of me working out. Then, because she’s not subtle, she roams her gray eyes along my ink-covered arms, over my chest, and well, let’s just call a spade a spade. She pretty much tries to mate with me via eye contact right here in the bookstore.
“Devotion is my middle name,” I say with a smile, and push my glasses higher. She makes me edgy, and it’s not the ample cleavage but rather what she did in line a few minutes ago in her pocket.
She bends closer, gliding the book across the table to me. “You can sign right here if you want,” Samantha whispers, dragging her finger across her cleavage.
I grab the book with quick hands. “Thanks, but I’ve found the title page is an equally excellent location.”
“You should leave your number on it,” she adds, as I sign Nick Hammer and hand her the book.
“Funny thing, I don’t actually know my number,” I say with a harmless shrug. “Who can remember numbers anymore? Even our own?”
Where the hell is Serena? I hope she didn’t give birth in the ladies’ room.
Samantha giggles, then drags a long, candy pink nail across my signature. “Hammer,” she says coyly, letting it roll around in her mouth. “Is that your real name, or is it a term of endearment about—”
No, no, no.
Abort.
Cannot go there. Will not play the Dirty Synonym game featuring my last name with Samantha, who’s about to run those sharp nails down my arm.
“Oh, excuse me. Did you drop something?”
I straighten my shoulders when I hear a familiar voice—deadpan humor and pure innocence at the same time.
The blonde startles. “No,” she says with a snarl, snapping at the questioner. “I didn’t drop anything.”
“Are you sure?” The tone is of complete and utter concern.
I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face, because I know the woman behind the voice is up to something sneaky.
Harper Holiday.
Red hair. Blue eyes. Face of a sweet, sexy angel, body of a badass, ninja-warrior princess, and a mouth adept at pitch-perfect delivery of sarcasm. I’d play Dirty Synonyms, Dirty Antonyms . . . Dirty Anything with her.
Harper steps from behind the blonde in line and opens her palm. “Because I’m pretty sure this is your wedding ring,” she says, a worried look in those bright blue eyes as she plucks a gold wedding band from her hand and offers it to the hungry blonde.
“That’s not mine,” the woman says defensively, all that flirty sweetness swiped clean from her voice.
Harper smacks her other hand against her forehead. “Oh, my bad. You put yours in your pocket a few minutes ago. Right there.”
She points to the woman’s right pocket, and sure enough, there’s the outline of what looks to be a wedding band. That’s exactly what I’d suspected she’d done in line. Stuffed it away. Probably had forgotten she was wearing it and then tried to hide it at the last minute.
The married woman’s face goes pale.
Busted.
“This one,” Harper continues, holding up the ring and letting it catch the light from the ceiling, “this is the one I keep handy for situations like this.”
Samantha mutters bitch under her breath, turns on her heel, and marches away.