Abby: He brought her a fish!
I blink, and it takes me a second to process what Abby is talking about. Then it hits me. Mr. Eagle. She’s updating me on the eagle. Okay, I’m not going to read anything into this, even though this is the first time we’ve texted about anything not related to work or schedules or kids.
But I grin as the car swings up Madison Avenue, and a warmth spreads through my body. I don’t think it’s from the wine. It’s from what feels like the cusp of flirting.
Simon: Was it a big fish?
Look, I know we’re talking about the predator’s catch. Not other things that could be big. But still. It is big.
Her response arrives quickly.
Abby: Of course :) Mr. Eagle only takes home big prizes for his woman.
Absently, I tap the angel food cake in the takeout box next to me, then I write back.
Simon: As the man of the nest should. He is the hunter.
While the car streaks along the stretch of pavement, lights from late-night New York winking on and off, her name appears on my screen.
Abby: He’s all about delivering on the You Had One Job premise.
That makes me laugh, and we keep up the playful banter a bit longer. Ten minutes later, I arrive at my building and head inside and up the elevator, buoyed by a slight buzz from the wine, but mostly from the texting. When the elevator stops on the eleventh floor, I’m keenly aware that this is one of life’s pivotal moments.
No, I’m not the eagle, and this is not National Geographic.
But this is one of those moments when something happens—when this thing for Abby shifts from a simmer to a bubbling-over-the-pot boil. Start with nearly seven months of lust, add in a pair of eagles, chase it with a leftover dessert from a dinner with a chef, top it off with the absence of a wine-red tie.
I unlock the door and find her on the couch. Damn, she looks good in my home, with the lights dim and the quiet of the night wrapping its arms around her. She sets down her iPad, and I hold up the dessert.
“I brought a cake,” I say proudly, as if I’d wrestled it from a fierce lion. “For you.”
Okay, fine.
I’m totally the motherfucking hunter, and this is my prize for the woman I so badly want to woo.
4
Abby
I’m not going to read anything into this. Even though—hello, he brought me dessert. That’s kind of a thing guys do when they like a woman, right?
As I dig my fork into this unexpected treat, I flash back on that lingering gaze before he left for the dinner, and now to the way he said for you. A delicious possibility unfurls in me. Perhaps this street isn’t as one-way as I thought. Maybe, just maybe, he’s keen on me, too. I slide the container a few inches across the counter, giddy from these new thoughts jumping joyfully in my head, like puppies bounding through a field of grass. “Do you want to have some?”
“I think I may have already passed the legal limit for cake consumption tonight,” he says.
I wave the fork and correct him. “There’s no limit for cake. Harper and I have conducted many tests and have proven as much.”
“Not once were you able to reach the threshold?”
I shake my head. “Never. Each bite you take raises your legal limit by one more bite.”
He strokes his chin as if in deep thought. “So it’s a rolling target? This cake limit?”
“It is. And we’ve studied it thoroughly, being cake fiends and all. It’s entirely possible we were separated at birth when we were left in baskets outside Peace of Cake.”
He knows my friend Harper. She’s a magician, and he hired her to perform at Hayden’s fifth birthday party last fall. At the time, Harper told me she had the tiniest crush on him, but that was way before she started spending more time with Nick. Now, the two of them are madly and inseparably in love. It’s awesome.
What’s also awesome is that Simon reached out to Harper for nanny advice. He took her out for coffee specifically to ask her for a recommendation, because she’s good with kids. That’s what he wanted for Hayden, and that’s why he hired me.
“Was it your love of sweets that reunited you with your long lost magician sibling?” he asks, leaning against the island counter in the kitchen.
“That, and going to the same school.” I take another bite. These are the late-night moments I savor. I love spending time with his daughter, but I also crave the stolen seconds when she’s asleep, and we’re adults, just talking to each other.
“College, right? I’m assuming you didn’t go to high school with her since you’re from Arizona, and she’s from here.”
I nod, impressed that he remembers all the details I’ve shared, then I add the year we graduated. He smirks and shakes his head as he laughs.
“What’s so funny about that?”
“That was only four years ago.” He taps his chest. “Whereas I finished twelve years ago.”
I set down the fork, park my hands on the counter, and shoot him a steely stare. This is one of the reasons I like working with Simon. I can be playful with him. I can tease. He’s not Mr. Serious, like my last employer. “I know how to do math.”
Wait. Why is he bringing up the age difference? It’s a curious detail to float out there. Maybe because it’s late, or maybe because he brought me cake, or maybe because it’s been a long time since I flirted, I decide to keep wandering along this path. This line of questioning is like a door sliding open, inviting me into a new kind of interaction with him, the one I secretly desire.
I inch closer. “And do you think you acquired all the knowledge in the world in those eight years you have on me?”
He scoffs. “God no. Sometimes I think I know less now than I did then.”
My brow creases. “What do you mean?”
He rubs his hand across the back of his neck. His cuffs are rolled up, revealing his strong, toned forearms. He was a football player in high school, and a basketball star, too. He’s the rare high school jock who still looks fit and trim in his thirties. His arms are to-die-for. My hands itch to stroke those forearms, to explore his biceps, to hold on tight to his shoulders. In fact, for dessert, I’ll skip the rest of the cake and take one order of sexy single dad, please.
“Just that there are things I might have done differently,” he says in a softer tone, one laced with regret. His gaze drifts in the direction of Hayden’s room. “But then again,” he says, returning his focus to me, “I also think I wouldn’t change a damn thing.”
“I get it,” I say quietly. “I totally do.”
He flashes me a sweet smile. He doesn’t talk about his ex-wife much, but the demise of their marriage wasn’t too hard to figure out. Hayden’s mother is involved with someone she works with, and from passing comments Simon has made, that relationship overlapped with their marriage.
He’s never called Miriam a cheating bitch, but as far as I’m concerned, that’s what she is. I’ve met her a few times, and she’s quite accomplished at shooting dismissive glares at me and forgetting my name. She calls me Gabby every time she sees me. She’s a great mom, though, and she’s lovely with Hayden on the weekends she has her, so that’s all anyone can ask for.
But I don’t want to linger on her, even at the outskirts of this conversation. “How was your dinner?”
As I eat more of the cake, he tells me about his night. I like listening to him talk here in the dimly lit home, the clock skating toward midnight, the faint sounds of Manhattan floating through the windows.
“Gabriel is very outgoing, and easy to talk to. We didn’t discuss the terms of any potential investment, but we all got along well,” Simon says as he finishes sharing the details of his dinner.
“You’re going to get the deal,” I say with confidence.
He arches an eyebrow. “Can you see the future?”
“I didn’t tell you that on my application? In addition to my amazing language skills and childcare talent, I read tea leaves. It’s what everyone wants in their .
. .” I trail off, for the first time feeling strange saying my job title. Nanny. It feels weird, maybe because this is the first night I’ve stayed this late and chatted with my boss as if we’re a couple—me asking about his business dinner, him bringing me dessert, us texting on his route home—when we’re so not.
My heart flutters, loving the possibilities painted in that picture.
“And the tea leaves point to Gabriel wanting my money?” Simon asks.
“Absolutely. How could he not? You know what you’re doing. You’re a wiz.” I’m well aware that he has some kind of Midas touch when it comes to business. I’ve witnessed his talent in action on some of the phone calls that he takes at home, and I know his track record. The man wins deals.
I take another bite of the angel food cake. Silence spreads, and I think, but I can’t be sure, that he watches me eat. That his eyes are on my lips as I bite into the soft cake. Maybe I’m imagining it, but the possibility heats me up. A warm, tingly feeling spreads to my shoulders then shoots down to my belly, and it happens again—one of those moments of connection where our eyes lock. It blots out all the reasons why we’re a bad idea.
Because my body says we’d be oh-so-good.
My heart squeezes, and goosebumps rise on my skin. The air between us crackles. I can’t look away from him. I love the way he holds my gaze and seems to be searching my expression.
His eyes slide down my face, and he points to my mouth. “You have . . .”
“What?”
“Blueberry sauce,” he says, his voice low and husky.
“I do?”
I swipe the side of my mouth, but he shakes his head. “Missed it.”
“Where?”
My eyes follow his hand. He brushes the pad of his thumb over the corner of my lip. My breath catches. His touch lasts less than a second, but it sparks in my chest, a thrilling sensation rushing over my skin. This moment is like a match on kindling, and now I’m lit up. All these months of longing bubble to the surface. I grip the counter, dig my sandals into the floor, and look down.
This is silly. This is foolish. I have a crush on my boss, nothing more. The late hour is playing a trick on me, making me think nighttime is for opportunity.
In reality, midnight is for mistakes.
When I raise my face, Simon is still looking at me. Butterflies race through my body, and I wish for all the things I can’t have right now. I wish desperately, wanting a collision with him. His body pressed close. His lips exploring mine. His hands on my arms, my face, my hair.
I want to say something but I don’t know where to start, what to whisper, how to even begin to give words to these seconds that seem to hover in a new territory. Our gazes lock, heat flickering between us, a pull that feels magnetic. I hold my breath. If neither one of us says a word, this won’t be a foolish risk. If we just stay here, existing in this moment, me searching his face and him studying my eyes, we can pretend there’s nothing between us.
But that would be a lie.
This isn’t unrequited. It’s two-way, hot and electric. Men don’t linger in the dark and look at women like this without wanting more. Without wanting them.
A beep breaks the silence. It sounds foreign.
Then it registers. My iPad is beeping.
The noise knocks me into reality. I fumble for the tablet, my fingers slippery as I try to reconnect to the world around us.
“Eagle alert,” I whisper, pointing at the device, my pulse still thundering. “I set it to beep when there’s activity in the nest.”
“This late?”
“You never know.” I brush my finger on the screen and check out the nest, lit in infrared, courtesy of the Eagle Cam. But the mama bird is simply adjusting herself, settling into her spot on top of the babies before she turns her head backward and tucks it into her feathers.
Together, we watch the screen. All is quiet now as the eagle lady settles into her slumber, the wind blowing harshly over the sticks and pinecones of her home, high above the ground.
Like this, I’m acutely aware of the space between us. How my shoulder is near his. How a subtle inhale would fill my nostrils with his scent—that clean, woodsy scent that turns me on. How our companionship could flip into something else in a heartbeat. I could turn my face, and our lips would be too close for anything but a kiss.
The mere image of his lips on mine sends a burst of heat flaring inside my chest, spreading like quicksilver all through my veins. I bet his kisses are fantastic. I bet I’d melt from head to toe if I ever felt his tongue slide across mine, his hands glide over my hips, his arms rope around me.
This feels like one of those nights that could too easily tip over into more.
But as that thought crystallizes, another voice inside me speaks up. It tells me to be careful. It tells me to go. I’ve stayed too late, lingered too long.
I’m on the cusp of a risk I shouldn’t take. I need my job too much to tango across this line.
“I should go,” I say. “Thanks for the cake.”
“Thanks for staying.”
“It’s my job.”
He nods several times, as if he’s realizing yes, this is my job. That’s why I’m here in his home. To watch over Hayden, not to daydream about the man who pays my bills.
Besides, the job matters. If I lose the work, I don’t have a cushion to land on. Some of my friends have trust funds, or still get support from their parents. That’s not the case for me. I’ve been paying my own way post-college. My parents are generous, and they’d help if they could, but they’re both still working hard every day—Dad’s a bank manager and Mom sells real estate in Phoenix. They’re focused on putting my three younger brothers through college. They paid a good chunk of my tuition, but I took out loans for the rest. Sure, I could live someplace less pricy, but the best jobs for someone with my language skills are in cities like New York. With some creative housing decisions here and there, I’ve managed to make New York City work for me. I need it to work for me—this city is where I can thrive.
That means it’s time to get my head on straight and lasso my heart to keep it in check. I gather my things, and Simon walks me to the door. “I called an UberBLACK for you. It should be waiting downstairs. Black Audi.”
My heart hammers at the thoughtful gesture of ordering the highest end car option. Stupid organ.
I’ve worked late before. Simon often has dinner meetings after his daughter goes to bed, and he always arranges an Uber for me on his account. I half want to assume it means something special, but I also like knowing he’s a good guy who just wants to make sure I return home safely and in comfort.
Tonight, though, for the first time, I think he might want me, too.
When I return to my shoebox apartment, wash my face, unclasp my necklace, and settle into bed, I’m not sure if I’m happy or sad about this new revelation. On the one hand, if he didn’t look at me the way he did tonight, if he didn’t touch my lips with that soft finger, I’d have no choice but to let go of this mess of feelings in me.
On the other hand, attraction may have just become a two-way street, and that’s harder to turn away from. Harder to stop replaying.
As I slide under the cool sheets, I imagine his hands moving up my skin. A sigh escapes my lips as the fantasy plays out, and my fingers drift south. Then, they find their way between my legs as I picture him exploring my body, brushing his lips across my shoulder, along my neck, over my lips.
I arch my back as shivers rush through me, radiating from my belly, up my chest. It would be this way with him, I’m sure. This intoxicating, this good.
My breathing quickens along with my pace, and I imagine, and imagine, and imagine how it would feel to have him here, climbing over me. I gasp, and the sound expands into a long, lingering moan as I picture him lowering his hard body against mine.
He slides into me, and I shudder. I feel him move in me, and I reach the edge like that. Then, I fall apart, and it’s like flying.
S
huddering, I breathe his name into the dark of the night.
The next morning, I wake up to a text from him, and you’d be hard-pressed to wipe the grin from my face.
Simon: They’re feeding the eaglets breakfast. If you’re up, this is your fair warning. You might very well overdose from the cuteness.
I might very well overdose from the swooning, because that was kind of the sweetest text ever.
I click on the Eagle Cam, and a rush of endorphins chases through me as I picture that man on the other side of the park watching the same scene that’s unfolding before my eyes.
This attraction is not unrequited.
5
Abby
After the Spanish class I teach that morning at a language school on the Upper West Side, I visit with Harper for lunch at a ramen shop off Amsterdam. She shows me her engagement diamond, and it’s as stunning as I would expect, a princess cut set in platinum. She became engaged a few weeks ago, and she and Nick took a trip to Italy to celebrate, so this is the first time I’ve been able to properly gawk.
“Nick’s a keeper,” I joke as I stare at her ring.
“He absolutely is. And not just because you got my apartment when I moved in with him,” she says with a wink. Her apartment is the deal of the century. It’s owned by her parents, and the rent is highway-robbery cheap. I love her and her parents madly for making me their new tenant. It’s yet another one of the housing choices that have made New York possible for me.
“I would never joke about true romance when it’s given me the cheapest rent in Manhattan,” I tease.
“And passing along the world’s cheapest rent is the biggest sign of true friendship,” Harper says, then she takes a breath and squares her shoulders. “But do you know what the second biggest sign is?”
I shake my head. “Nope. But I bet you’re about to tell me.”
The One Love Collection Page 3