Free Mister O by Lauren Blakely

“I’ll let you two get back to your reindeer games.”
    I want to whack him, but that’s par for the course.
    When Wyatt leaves, I turn to the star of my dirty dreams. Her lips are curved in a grin, and she seems pleasantly surprised. “I didn’t know you did that with the dogs.”
    “I like dogs. I like helping out, too.” And this ease of conversation reminds me that the kiss didn’t happen for her either, so we are all good.
    “I like that. No, I love that,” she says, and her expression is soft, free of the usual undercurrent of sarcasm. The way she says it is disarming and makes me feel warm all over, not just hot for her. “I help out at the New York ASPCA. I do some fundraising for them.”
    “You do? I had no idea.”
    “Yeah. I help organize some of the 5Ks to raise money for shelter pets, spread the word on social media, help set up the events . . . Someday, I’ll get a dog. For now, I do what I can.”
    “That’s awesome,” I say, enjoying learning this new detail about her. I’ve been friends with her for so long, but not best friends, so uncovering these pieces of her is a whole new experience. “What kind of dog do you want?”
    “The kind that laughs at all my jokes,” she says, and I laugh.
    “Sounds perfect. I’d like that kind of mutt, too.”
    She clears her throat and holds up the canvas grocery bag. “You might be wondering why I’m here.”
    “The thought did cross my mind. But then I figured you were bringing me groceries. Please tell me there’s a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream and two spoons in there.”
    A too-big pout forms on her face. “Damn it. I really fucked up. But I know what to get you next time. For now, I have this offering of detergent. I was just going to leave it with the doorman,” she says, glancing in the direction of my building.
    But she didn’t leave it with the doorman. She’s still carrying it, and she was hunting for her phone a minute ago, like she was trying to call me. Maybe to tell me she was here? Hell, maybe she wanted an excuse to see me.
    Before my thoughts careen out of control, I give myself a mental eye-roll.
    Yeah, right. If the chick were into you, she’d be speaking in tongues and babbling.
    She’s not. In fact, she’s cool, confident Harper. Ergo, I’m reading something into nothing.
    I take the bag and thank her. “You really didn’t have to. I was going to pick some up today after work.”
    “But this way I can convert you to my brand. It’s cruelty-free. No animal testing.”
    “Ah, that’s awesome.”
    “Want to know what else is awesome? It smells really good.”
    I groan. “Am I going to smell like lavender or something girly?”
    “I don’t think so. I use it. Want to sniff me?”
    I freeze. A million dirty thoughts dance in my head. I would fucking love to sniff her, to inhale her scent, to run my nose along her neck, down her breasts, across her belly. Then I decide, fuck it. This chick asked me to teach her about dating. She needs to know that the things that come out of her mouth are sometimes insanely naughty. I park a hand on her shoulder. “You are aware that sounded ridiculously filthy? Tell me you know that. I need to understand how far back your training must go.”
    She rolls her eyes. “C’mon, I wasn’t trying to be dirty. Just sniff. It’s like springtime. It smells really good,” she says, and tugs at her own shirt, a turquoise V-neck underneath a light jacket.
    Like I’m saying no to that. I lean forward and bring my nose to the fabric. She smells amazingly good, and I’m temptingly close to her breasts. Closer than I’ve ever been. So close that if, say, the person walking behind me conveniently bumped me, I could have my face in Harper’s chest. My mouth waters, and my pulse thunders, and I’ve never prayed so hard to be bumped into in my life.
    But it doesn’t happen, and obviously I can’t spend the entire day hanging out here sniffing her clothes. It’s probably grounds