I frown. “That’s really terrible. I kind of wish I never knew such a horrific thing happened. I’m not sure I can get that image out of my head.”
On that note, I say goodbye to Serena and head to Peace of Cake where Harper waves to me from a table in the back. She’s reading my book.
Is it wrong that I wish she still had those glasses on?
But glasses or no glasses, she just does it for me.
3
We share a piece of double chocolate cake.
I know how this looks.
Like a date.
But it’s not. It’s just that the slices here at this cake/coffee shop are huge. No way can you eat one all by yourself, unless you were born with two dessert compartments. I love dessert, but I only have one.
Besides, it’s not like that between us. I’ve known Harper for what seems like forever, since I’ve been best friends with Spencer for that long. The three of us went to the same high school, but Harper is three years younger than me, so it’s not like I was doing the left-hand shuffle to thoughts of her when I was a senior and she was a freshman. I’d never thought of her that way then.
Besides I’m right handed.
Anyway, now that we’re both in our late twenties and living in New York City, we hang out from time to time. Maybe even more so since Spencer got engaged; he’s much less available these days. Sometimes Harper and I go to the movies on weekends, and lately, sitting next to her in the theater is the definition of distracting.
Let’s just be blunt here: Harper is not cheerleader hot. She’s not Victoria’s Secret hot.
She’s quirky hot. Nerd hot. Video-gamer fantasy hot. She does kickboxing for workouts, she competes hard in our summer softball games, and she knows what house she’d be in at Hogwarts. She’s a Hufflepuff, and yes, it turns me on that she didn’t pick Ravenclaw or Gryffindor like everyone else usually does, but she chooses the house known for loyalty.
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.