Tyler

---

I suppose Delaney could have turned into a bitch. It’s possible she might bore me to tears. There’s a chance we’d have nothing to say to each other.

But I’m a betting man, and I’m not putting my money on any of those options.

“I won’t give up until I have a chance to talk to her again,” I say to my buddy Simon when I shoot hoops with him the next morning.

After he sinks a layup, he gives me a doubtful stare. “Talk to her? You’re trying to make me believe you simply want to talk to her?”

I nod, resolute and then some. “Hell yeah.”

“And what is it you want to talk to her about? The stock market? The weather? The latest movie you’re dying to see?”

“No, asshole. I want to talk to her about . . .” I trail off, remembering how easy our phone call was. I shrug and hold my hands out wide. “Anything. Just anything.”

“All this from five seconds of you juggling in the park?”

He dribbles then passes the ball to me. I grab it and throw, watching it catch nothing but net. “That, and a phone call yesterday,” I add as he grabs the rebound.

“A two-minute call?”

“Oh, ye of little faith. It was three or four minutes, and we reconnected like that,” I say, snapping my fingers. “She also sent me a thank you note for the lilacs, I’ll have you know. You’re not the only one who has game when it comes to the ladies,” I point out, since Simon recently wooed and won a very special woman.

“What did her note say? Was it demonstrative of her deep and undying affection for you? Like, say, Thanks for the lilacs?”

“Yes,” I admit, annoyed he totally nailed it. “And she said they were still her favorite flowers.”

“Well,” my friend says, raising the ball above his head. “That’s all the proof you need that she wants you to win her back.”

“Hundred bucks says you miss and I’m not wrong. I know the two of us can be good together again.”

Simon laughs as he shoots. “Man, you kill me. Not only are you an entertainment lawyer, but you’re entertaining.”

I’m also damn determined to get her to say yes, no matter what Simon thinks. Especially since he misses the next shot.

The next day, my morning starts bright and early when I meet the top lawyer and an executive at LGO, a premium network that’s been giving HBO a run for its money with its equally aggressive online and on-air approach to programming. Even though Craig Buckley, the dark-haired and famously risk-taking network head, has home-field advantage, since the meeting’s at his office, I win four out of the six deal points I want for my client, the creator of a new sexy show, After Dark.

I thank Craig with a handshake, and his attorney grumbles that he’ll call me soon.

I leave the high-rise building in Times Square, emboldened that I can wrap up the rest of the thorny issues in the deal over the next several days. As I weave through the morning crowds and tourists, heading toward the relatively quieter route up Eighth Avenue to return to the office, I call my client, Jay Benator, a brilliant artist who is poised for breakout success. I update him on the developments.

“That’s great. But what about the final points?” he asks, in a reedy voice, nerves getting the better of him. “I haven’t slept at all since this has been going on.”

“Relax, Jay. Working with me is like an Ambien. I’ll get you there, and you’ll have sweet dreams, too. I promise.”

“You sure?” he asks, his voice wobbling.

“Trust me. I’ve got your back. We’ll seal this up soon,” I say, then reassure him some more as I walk toward Columbus Circle. Sometimes with clients, my job is being their shark, their shield, their lubricant, their hawk, their watchdog, and their therapist. Jay seems to need all of the above, but especially my psychotherapy skills today. Mostly, I manage those by steering him to a heated debate about which NBA team is having the best season so far.

I say good-bye when I reach my building, telling him I won’t even bill him for the head-shrinking.

“Thanks, man. And the Lakers suck.”

“Ouch,” I say, but I’m glad he seems to feel good enough to trash-talk.

Once inside the offices of Nichols & Nichols, I say hello to Holly, our perky new receptionist, who’s studying at night to become a paralegal.

“How’s it going, Holly? Any messages for me?” I ask as I stretch my neck from side to side. Too much time reading contracts makes it stiff. “Need me to quiz you on anything?”

She smiles and shakes her head. “No to both, but maybe later?”

I bang my fists on the edge of the high desk, then point at her. “Count on it.”

“Oh, quiz me now, Tyler. Please, please, quiz me now on intellectual property.”

The deep British voice mocks me as I turn to Oliver, our newest associate, who loves to give me a hard time. Especially since he thinks I flirt with Holly. But I don’t. I respect her—the woman is working her ass off trying to advance her career, and all I want to do is help her.

He walks into the reception area, debonair as always in his suit. The accent helps, obviously.

“Here’s a question for you, Edgecombe,” I say, using his last name as I give my tall, dark-haired colleague a stern look. “If my last name’s on the sign, would that make it my property or yours?”

Oliver clasps his hands to his chest, like I’ve shot him. “Oh, the wound. The intellectual wound. It hurts so very much.”

I wave him off as I head down the hall. “Get back to work on your IP deals.”

A second later, he pops into my office. “By the way, great advice on the Newton deal. The studio loved it, and so did the client.”

I park myself in a chair. “Excellent news. I guess we’ll keep you on staff, in spite of your surly attitude.”

Oliver flashes a huge smile. “So surly.” He blows me a kiss, then whispers, “Behave around Holly.”

I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to worry about that, Edgecombe.”

After he leaves I settle in at my desk and track down the salad bar next to Delaney’s spa.

An hour later, her lunch is delivered to Nirvana, courtesy of me, and her meal is full of all her favorite things.

Two hours later, I’m rewarded with a Facebook ding and a message. When I open it, I grin proudly. She sent me a GIF of a dancing carrot.

I take that as a cue to call her. “So, is it safe to assume you don’t have a boyfriend?” I say as I kick my feet up on my desk and lean back in the leather chair. Might as well get the possible hurdles out of the way.

She laughs. “I wouldn’t have accepted the lilacs or the salad if I did.”

“Didn’t think you would, but I do like to confirm important details like that. Oh, and while we’re on the topic, I’m one hundred percent single, too, so feel free to say yes to drinks.”

Another laugh lands softly on my ears. “Yes, Tyler. The salad was delicious. Thank you so much for sending it to me.”

I smile. “Fine. Tell me all about that salad before you say yes to the drinks,” I say, with a hint of a dirty tone of voice. “Was it crunchy? Was it healthy?”

She answers in an equally flirty tone. “You know little excites me more than a crisp green salad. It was all of the above, and it had the best Green Goddess dressing in all of a ten-block radius.”

“What more can you ask for when it comes to lunch?”

“Only that it turn into a bowl of cereal,” she says wistfully. “Hey, speaking of cereal, I keep meaning to ask what’s up with your profile picture on Facebook?”

“You like the laser-eyes feline?”

“It’s cute and completely bizarre. Naturally, I love it.”

“It’s a cartoon from one of my clients. Nick Hammer. Creator of The Adventures of Mister Orgasm and—”

“Naughty Puppet Theater Presents Dirty Girl Mechanic. I love his new show. It’s hilarious, and I’ve seen every single episode.”

“I’ll let him know you’re a fan. He loves hearing that.” I set my feet on the floor and spin lazily in my office chair. “Did I ever tell you the story of how I met Nick?”

“I don’t think so,” she says curiously. “He didn’t go to Brown with us did, he?”

“No, he was an RISD guy. That’s where I met him. I saw him drawing at the RISD museum when I was there for a class one day—an art history elective. He was sketching a caricature of a Jackson Pollock.”

“Um,” she says, deadpan. “How do you caricature a Pollock?”

“Excellent question. Here’s how. He said he liked to pretend Pollock’s abstract paintings were representations of everyday things. Pickle jars, brooms, cereal . . . So, Nick was drawing a cereal bowl with a cat shooting lasers into it.”

She laughs. “That’s kind of crazy and genius at the same time.”

“Anyway, we chatted for a few minutes and wound up becoming buddies.”

“And then he became your client later on,” she adds.

“We stayed in touch after college.” I stop talking as a morsel of guilt crawls through me from wherever it had been lurking. I feel like shit for my choices—I kept in contact with my friends, but I didn’t stay in touch with the girl I loved. But I couldn’t. It was too hard. Too fucking tempting. If I’d stayed in touch with her, I never would have gone after my dreams. “He became my first client,” I say, focusing on the topic, rather than dwelling on things I couldn’t change.

“So the cat cartoon is like a memento of your friendship?”

I adjust the knot in my tie. “In a way, but it’s also a new show concept he’s sketching. A cat with magical superpowers. His name is Cat Crazypants, the Great Illusionist.”

“I want to see that show . . . tonight. You had me at ‘cat with superpowers.’ I’ve been hoping to adopt a cat someday soon.”

“A cat with superpowers?”

She laughs. “If that’s an option, sure. I’d also like him to have six toes.”

I laugh. “Like the Hemingway cats?”

“Yes, but I learned all the details from an author I like who has several of these cats—Tawna Fenske. They’re called polydactyl. The coolest thing is their extra toe is kind of like a thumb,” she tells me, her voice rising with excitement.

“Can they open doors and such with these thumbs?”

“Of course. Drawers and cans, too. Tawna even gave me an early copy of her next book—the heroine inherits a B&B that’s now a sanctuary for polydactyl cats, so I’m even more hooked on them now. You should tell your client he can give his cat a real superpower with an extra toe.”

I sit up straighter, sensing an opening, and try once more to win a date with her. “I could tell you more about the cartoon cat over a drink.”

“Ooh. Bribery now.”

“You call it bribery. I call it giving the woman what she wants. You want a kitty cat with powers. I can deliver. Over drinks.” My tone is full of confidence, but my chest is tight with nerves.

I want her to say yes so fucking badly.

My suggestion is met with silence then a heavy sigh. Before she even speaks, the lightness of the conversation seeps away. Her quiet is nothing but a preface to a no.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Tyler,” she says softly.

It’s not a no, but it sure as hell isn’t any closer to a yes.

“Why? We’re chatting. We’re getting along.” I push, like I would in a business negotiation. “How could it be bad to have one drink with me?”

“Because it’s too easy with you,” she says.

“What?” I furrow my brow. “That makes no sense. What’s too easy?”

“Talking to you. Chatting. It’s all too easy.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It might be a bad thing,” she says, her tone soft.

“We were always good at talking, Delaney.”

“I know,” she says softly, but with a hint of longing I latch onto.

“We were good at a lot of things,” I say, low and husky. “Remember that time in the library?”

“Which one?” Her tone turns a little breathy, and that sound encourages me. We’re not at no after all, and I’ve got to keep trying.

“Every time,” I say, my mind awash in a deliciously dirty image of her backed up against the shelves, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted in an O, her hair wild. She bit my neck to muffle the noise as she came hard. “But especially that afternoon when you wore that little red skirt, and we got to know exactly how sturdy the books on the French Revolution were.”

A small whimper seems to escape her. But then, just as quickly, she seems to reel it in, cloaking her weak moment with a quip and a light laugh. “The barricades of books all came tumbling down.” Her voice shifts to pragmatic. “But still, I’m not sure—”

I’m not resting my case so easily. I’ve got plenty of evidence to present to her.

“How about the afternoon in the English lecture hall? The professor left, and it was just you and me in the back row. We loved being sneaky, loved those stolen moments,” I say, and a flash of images pops before my eyes. Delaney’s hand slipping inside my jeans, those wild eyes lit with desire, her mouth finding my ear, begging to do it right then and there. “We were damn good at all of that, too.”

“Tyler,” she says with a sigh. “Why are you doing this? We both know we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. That’s not up for debate. We don’t need to go tripping back in time.”

“Why am I doing this?” I repeat. “Because I know we were good together. But do you know we were good together?” I turn the question back to her, like the counselor I am.

She relents a touch. “Yes, we were good together.”

“Then have a drink with me.”

“Why? For old time’s sake?” Her tone is softer now, inviting. Maybe I’ve knocked a brick free from her wall.

This is as much of an opening as I’m going to get, so I grab hold of it. “For old times and new times. C’mon. Say yes. You know you want to.”

She scoffs. “Are you kidding me?”

I furrow my brow, wondering what I’d said. “No. I’m deadly serious.”

“You know you want to? You are un-freaking-believable,” she says with a laugh, but not the good kind of laugh.

I groan, dropping my forehead into my palm. Just when I thought I was getting close with her. “Sure sounded like you wanted to,” I mumble.

She huffs. “Maybe I did. But then you act all cocky and pushy, saying you know what I want.”

“I’m not being cocky.”

“You were. You always were so sure of yourself. As if I can’t possibly have any other opinion than wanting to have a drink with you.”

“You are more than welcome to have another opinion. But I’m not going to apologize for wanting that opinion to be yes. I want to see you. How hard is that to understand?”

“We don’t always get what we want, Tyler. How hard is that to understand?”

“It’s not hard. And even if you’re pissed at me, I still want you to say yes.”

“Why? So you can win this one, too? Is this your latest debate with me? Do you think I’ll say yes if you remind me how good we were in bed? That you rocked my world in the sheets, and in the stacks, and in the back row of English class? Did you think you’d just strip for me and all my brain cells would evaporate when you showed me your magic cock?”

“No. But would that work?”

She laughs, and I can’t tell if it’s a “you’re ridiculous” snort, or a “just try me” chuckle. “I bet you’d like to know.” Then she’s no longer laughing. Instead, she sighs, and her words are laced with sadness. “You haven’t even said you were sorry for the way you hurt me. We had plans, Tyler. Plans. You upended all of that. Every last thing.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, desperately earnest. “I swear, I’m sorry.”

“It’s a little late, isn’t it? Maybe you should have said that eight years ago.”

“Maybe I should have. But maybe if you see me in person I can say it properly, and you’ll believe it.”

“I’m not really sure why you think saying it properly is the key.” She tosses my words back at me. “Meaning it is what matters.”

Later, I meet Simon for a drink at Speakeasy. This time, I don’t serve up the situation with my usual bravado. I simply tell him what went down. He’s smart, and he also has a reputation for being upfront and honest. He has a young daughter, and he recently fell in love with his daughter’s nanny. She’s madly in love with him, too. If anyone knows women, it’s this guy.

“Give me your advice. What do I do?”

He takes a drink of his beer then sets it down. “She’s telling you that you need a grand gesture to get back in the game.”

I nod. “Got it. I’m at the plate. I need to swing for the fences.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Sorry, man. You don’t even have a ticket to the game now. You’re wandering around the parking lot, begging scalpers, and even they won’t sell to you. You need a grand gesture just to get into the ballpark. Something to get her to notice you. Something to remind her why she once loved you.”

I flash back to the phone call from earlier. To what Delaney might want from me.

I grab my beer, knock back a thirsty gulp, and slap the glass onto the bar. “You’re right. Go big or go home.”

And in an instant, I know what to do.