“Enjoy the book,” Harper calls out, then looks to me, cocks her head, and shoots me an I-just-saved-your-ass grin. In her own imitation of the Mister Orgasm groupies, she says, “Nick Hammer. Is that your real name?”
Just like that, I hope Serena stays in the restroom for a lot longer.
2
My real last name is Hammer.
I get asked that question all the time. Everyone thinks it’s fake. Like it’s a stage name, or pen name, or my stripper name from back in the days when I worked hard for the money.
Just kidding. I was never a stripper.
But I was lucky enough to land a kick-ass last name, and I’m doubly lucky because if I’d been a girl, my parents were going to name me Sunshine. Instead, my mom named her bakery Sunshine and her sons Wyatt and Nick. Our little sister came a few years after the bakery was born, so she dodged the hippy name too, but Josie definitely got the vibe. She’s a free spirit.
I point at the ring Harper has in her hand. “Did you jet off to Vegas this weekend and marry Penn? Or wait. Was it Teller?”
“No. Criss Angel,” she says, as she stuffs the ring inside a red purse so big it could provide safe harbor for refugees.
“Seriously, though. Why do you carry a wedding band around?”
“I could tell you, but then I’d be breaking Code 563 in the Magician’s Handbook of Secrecy, which was written to keep mere mortals such as yourself in the dark.”
I tap my chest and shake my head. “I beg your pardon. I’m not a mere mortal. ’Fess up.”
She cups the side of her mouth and stage whispers, “It’s fake. I picked it up so I could do a little sleight-of-hand trick at a party last weekend.”
“Did the trick work?”
She nods, her lips curving in a grin. “Like a charm. Turned this into the Green Lantern’s ring. The kid was in awe.”
“As well he should be. By the way,” I say, tipping my chin in the direction of the long-gone lady, “thank you. For a second there I was thinking maybe she had a magic bullet in her pocket.”
Her eyes widened. “Has that happened?”
I nod, rolling my eyes. “Once. At a fan meet-and-greet.”
“A fan rubbed one out in line?”
“Either that or was just priming the pump for later. But don’t worry. I’m pretty psyched that you saved me from the sneak-off-the-wedding-band tactic, too. I think you might be a superhero.”
“That’s me. I swoop in out of nowhere and rescue unsuspecting men from married women with dangerous husbands who would want to crush the life-force out of wildly popular cartoonists. You’ll probably want to take me out for a coffee when I tell you her husband is about ten feet tall, has arms the size of cannons, and wears brass knuckles. Saw him outside the bookstore before I came in.”
“Does he lead an underground fight ring, too?”
She nods in mock seriousness. “Yes. He’s Vicious. That’s his fight name.”
“I clearly owe you the coffee. Maybe even a slice of cake, just so you know how much I appreciate you saving me from Vicious.”
“Don’t tease me. Cake is my religion.” She lowers her voice. “I was debating for the longest time whether to use the ring trick or to give her these,” she says, dipping her hand into her bag and producing a pair of purple eyeglasses, “and suggesting she wear them to help her eye-fuck you better.”
I crack up at her choice of words. “Are they specially designed for that? If so, I’d really like to get a pair.”
To use on you.
She nods again. “There’s a shop in the East Village that sells them. They need to be special ordered, but I can hook you up,” she says, then roots around in her bag. It’s like Hermione’s purse. Yes, I read all of Harry Potter. It’s only the best story ever told.
She grabs a copy of my collection from inside her bag and sets it on the table. “Can you sign it to Helena?”
I shoot her a look when I see the receipt inside the book. She bought it here. “Harper, you didn’t have to come here for me to sign a book. I would have given you one.”
She winks. “Good to know I’m on the short-list. For now, I have a client who is secretly in love with you. So I’m giving her this as a gift.”
“Tell Helena, Mister Orgasm says hello,” I say as I sign it.
When I look up, Harper is wearing the purple glasses.
I blink.
Holy shit. She is red-hot in them. As a guy who wears glasses, I dig a chick in glasses, and I’ve never seen Harper wear them before. Not gonna lie—the sexy librarian fantasy is strong in this one. This one being me, and I’m thinking pencil skirt, tight white blouse enticingly unbuttoned, and Harper bending over a desk, ready to be spanked for mis-shelving some books.
She ogles me like the woman in line was doing, and whispers in a naughty tone, “Do they work, Nick?”
Absolutely, but you don’t even need glasses for me to want to be eye-fucked by you. Also, I’m imagining what you look like in nothing but them.
Wait. Shit. No.
I smack the 99.99 percent of my brain that just thought that. Because Harper is my best friend’s sister. And Spencer already promised he would shave off all my hair and dye my eyebrows if I ever touched her. Not that I’m scared of Spencer, I just really like my hair. It’s light brown, thick, and—well, I’m just going to be honest here—I could totally do shampoo commercials. There. I said it.