I’m sorry. I acted like a dick

I shower, slide under the sheets, and grab my phone. There’s no reply, and all I can think is I screwed up badly.

22

I wake up far too early for my taste. As I grab my phone from the nightstand, a twinge of hope rises in my chest. It’s then dashed by the absence of a reply.

Shit.

I pull on shorts and a pullover, lace up my sneakers, and jam in my earbuds. I run hard in Central Park, my phone in my hand the whole time as the sun rises, waking up Manhattan.

Still nothing.

I hit the gym for a quick round of weights, then return to my apartment and down a glass of water. I’m wiping the sweat from my brow when my phone dings. I take a deep breath. I really hope she’s not pissed anymore.

I unlock the screen, see her name, and click open her text.

Princess: Good morning :) :) :) :) :) :) :)

I laugh at the way she needles me with her flurry of emoticons.

I try to respond in kind, tapping out a hi and adding a smiley face. But. I. Can’t. Do. It. And evidently, I don’t have to. Another text arrives seconds later.

Princess: I crashed as soon as I walked in the door last night. Apparently multiple Os are the best recipe for a solid night’s sleep. By the way, why is dick an insult?

I laugh as I lean against the fridge and write back.

That’s a good question.

Princess: I think dicks should be used for good, and referred to positively.

Does that make you a dick ambassador? Spreading the word about the unfair use of the male appendage as a put-down?

Princess: Yes. It does. I’m going to start using dick as a compliment. Here goes. Nick, you’re a dick. Also, I like your dick.

And she’s come roaring back with her sharp-tongued, dirty wit. My texting Harper. My naughty magician. I tap out a reply, suggesting a new insult.

How about ass? Wait. Scratch that. Ass suffers from the same undeserved fate. It should never be an insult. Also, I like your ass. Though love might be a more appropriate verb to express the depths of my admiration for that particular body part of yours.

I hit send then quickly add another note.

Also, would you please let me apologize for last night? I was such a . . . jerk.

Princess: You said you were sorry last night, and we’re good. I’m not upset. I swear. I’m just glad we’re on the same page.

We are. So much.

Princess: There won’t be anyone else.

Same here. Also, Harper?

Princess: Yeah?

Sometimes you ask me if something we do is okay, and I want you to know you’ve never done a thing in bed that hasn’t turned me on . . . your mouth, your face, your hair, your body, the way you touch me, the way you respond . . . it’s all one massive turn-on.

Her reply arrives seconds later.

Princess: Now I have butterflies . . .

And I grin like a fool.

I’m taking you out tonight. What do you want to do? Dinner? Movie? Trapeze lesson? Art show? Museum? Horse-drawn carriage?

Princess: None of the above. But I have an idea. I’d love to plan our date.

She texts me a time and tells me she’ll send more details later. As I get ready for work I send her a text. Something I’ve always wanted to say to her.

By the way, I can still taste you . . .

Within a minute, a response lands on my phone. I groan as lust thrums through me. This picture couldn’t be more perfect—a shot of her legs, with her fingers on the waistband of a pair of light blue panties that dangle on her ankles. I don’t know if the lacy garment is going on, or going off, but I know this much—I’m going to need a few more minutes alone with this photo before I leave for work, and in my mind the clothes are definitely coming off.

Ten minutes later, I catch the subway to Comedy Nation, feeling pretty damn good that not only do I have a date, not only are we going to engage in proper protocol, but she also felt butterflies.

I might not be as skilled at deciphering Harper’s cues outside of the bedroom, but I know one thing for sure—butterflies are better than dicks.

And I mean dick as a compliment.

* * *

That easy breezy feeling carries me through the day. After a long session with the show’s writers, then a meeting with marketing, Serena pulls me aside in the conference room. “I almost forgot to tell you.”

Even her standard preface to a Gino request can’t get me down. “There’s a cocktail party at the end of the week. Friday night,” she says, then gives me the details. Friday is just a few days before the contract talks Gino has scheduled with Tyler.

“I’ll be there. Any rules?”

“Just be your usual charming self. But not too charming. You know how it goes.”

“Can I bring a date?”

Her eyes widen. “Ooh, tell me more. Who’s the lucky lady?”

I shake my head. “It’s not serious. But she’s the one who came with me to bowling a few weeks ago.”

“Ooh. The one,” she teases, with a big wink.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sure you didn’t,” she says, shooting me a knowing look.

“It’s only temporary.”

She rubs her hand over her basketball belly. “That’s what I once claimed about Jared,” she says, mentioning her husband. “Now look how permanent we are.”

“Powerhouse couple, and you’re ready to pop,” I say, since her husband works in the TV business, too, at a broadcast network.

“So you never know about these temporary flings.”