The One Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  I grab at him, taking all he has to give, letting him kiss me like the world hangs in the balance.

  Then, my skull bonks the headrest.

  “Ow,” I mutter, as the cab swings onto a side street and we separate. This driver is a big buzzkill.

  “Cabs,” I mumble as I catch my breath. When I meet Simon’s gaze, his blue eyes shine with desire. “Hard to make out in cabs.”

  “But I’m willing to keep trying,” he says, with a quirk of his lips.

  “How magnanimous of you.”

  He smiles, then threads his hand through my hair once more and presses his lips to my forehead. It’s soft and intimate, and it makes me long for more of him. Then, because my desire for him momentarily displaces all sanity, I raise my face and ask, “Do you want to go out with us tonight?”

  He cringes as if I’ve said the lamest thing.

  Crap. I just asked him on a date. I’m a world-class idiot. “I’m sorry. I just thought because of pool and all. You said you’d teach me. But I’m sure you’re busy.”

  He parts his lips to speak, but he’s silent as the car slows at the curb. Dragging a hand through his hair, he heaves a sigh. “Thank you. But I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  My heart falls with a heavy thud, and I back away from him.

  “Right,” I say, nearly choking on the word. I wave a hand in the air, as if I can erase the stupid, impulsive moment when I asked out the father of the girl I nanny for. There’s no way he wants to hang out with my friends and me. He has a real life, and real responsibilities. He’s only kissing me like his life depends on it because of pent-up lust, not from a desire to spend an evening with the gang.

  “Abby,” he says, and his tone touches on desperation, but whatever is coming next is cut off by the driver who taps the glass and announces the amount.

  “I’ll take care of it. I’m heading across town,” Simon says to the driver as I sling my purse onto my shoulder.

  He looks at me. “About tonight. It’s just—”

  He stops, blinks, and points to the window.

  I follow his gaze. My friends wait for me on the stoop to my apartment. Harper and her fiancé, Nick, lean against the stone wall, his arms wrapped around her as she laughs at something he says. I didn’t think we were meeting up for an hour, but I might have gotten the time wrong.

  “Your friends are here.” Simon’s voice is strained.

  Harper untangles herself from Nick and waves at me. My eyes swing back to Simon, and he looks guilty, even though no one saw us kissing. But just as quickly, his expression shifts to friendly as he gives a brief wave to Harper and Nick.

  “I should go.”

  “Abby,” he says again, as if it’s the start of a plea.

  But I don’t know what either one of us is supposed to say about what just happened. Instead, I guide us to safer ground. “I’ll see you . . . on Monday.” I lift my chin, reminding myself that I have a job to do. Whatever else those last fifteen magnificent minutes were, they were temporary. A blip. “We’ll just focus on work. Right?”

  He nods slowly, as if he’s processing this new plan. “Work,” he says, like he’s never heard the word. Then his voice turns crisp and resolute. “Yes, work.”

  “Pretend it never happened,” I add, because the more I say it, the more we can move on and erase this mistake.

  “Is that what you want?” he asks, like it costs him something.

  No. I want to kiss you all over again, all night long. I want you to take me upstairs, strip me naked, and make love to me the way you kissed me. With everything you have. With your heart, body and soul.

  “I just think . . .” My voice falters. I’m not ready to have this conversation, not when my deepest wishes are caught in my throat. “I better go.”

  “I understand. Good night, Abby,” he says, and he sounds pained. “Have fun.”

  “I will,” I say, doing my best impression of a cheery, happy gal.

  I slide out of the car and leave the best kiss of my life behind.

  When Harper saunters over, she arches an eyebrow. “Boss dropping you off now?”

  “I’m tutoring him in French,” I say, as the sound of the cab squealing away from the curb rips through the air. I refocus, rooting myself to this moment, to my real life, which has nothing to do with making out with the father of the girl I take care of. The kiss was a one-time thing, and now I need to slide back into who I am. “Why are you here already?”

  Harper flashes an easy grin. “We were in the neighborhood and decided to see if you wanted to start happy hour early. It is Friday after all.”

  I grit my teeth, draw a quick inhale, and do a reboot of the day. “Let’s do it,” I say with a crisp nod. “I need a big, fat glass of wine.”

  Harper laughs and threads her arm through mine. “Wine it is. Get your ID out, sweet little thing.”

  She links her other arm with Nick’s, and the three of us head to our favorite bar for happy hour, where I focus on them, not my forbidden fantasy with Simon.

  This is my real life, with my friends. They are my family here in New York.

  12

  Simon

  Pretend it never happened.

  Pretend it never happened.

  Pretend it never happened.

  Her words play in my head all weekend long. As I review pitches and proposals from business associates, as I respond to an email from Gabriel, as I work out at the gym, and as I meet my older sister, Kristy, for lunch on Saturday in Gramercy Park, where she lives.

  As I listen to my sister tell me the latest about her fashion design business, I pretend I never kissed Abby. Over appetizers, Kristy updates me on the new distribution deals she’s inked for her upcoming lines, and I try to fight away the lingering memory of Abby’s lips. My sister asks me something about a partnership, as I drift back to how that woman responded to me as if our kiss was as necessary as food and water. As if it was inevitable.

  We’d smashed together as if we unlocked the other’s desire. Then, she’d simply melted in my arms. Fuck, I’m dying for another taste of Abby.

  Frustrated doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel right now. As I drag a hand over the back of my neck, Kristy delivers a steely stare. “You’re distracted, Simon,” she says with that hawk-eyed awareness that all older sisters possess.

  Busted.

  “Just a lot going on,” I admit. “But tell me again about the partnership.”

  Kristy arches an eyebrow as she picks up her mint tea. We’re trying out a Turkish restaurant today. “Don’t worry about me. Is it Miriam? Is she being a total twat about custody of Hayden?”

  I give her a look. “Can you not use the word twat in the same sentence as my daughter?”

  She rolls her green eyes. “You’re so prickly. I was talking about your ex, not your sweet girl.”

  I ease up. “I know. Sorry. She’s just being Miriam, but you know she’s a good mother. She’s good to Hayden on the weekends she has her, and she’s fine with the arrangement.” I aim to practice civility post-divorce. It’s far too easy to hate an ex, but it’s a pointless expenditure of emotion, and one I don’t care to spend on Miriam. She only gave me a hard time in the beginning, but then she easily agreed to me having primary custody.

  “It’s a damn good thing that woman adores my precious niece,” Kristy says, with her own fierce protectiveness of Hayden. Then she raises her fists. “Or I’d have to go Fight Club on the former Mrs. Travers.”

  I laugh. “No need to take off the gloves.”

  My sister runs a hand through her dark brown hair, narrows her eyes, and then nods reluctantly. “Fair enough.” She lowers her voice to a whisper, “But I’m probably always going to think Miriam is a twat.”

  I manage a small smile. “You’re well within your rights.”

  “And business is good?”

  “Very good,” I say, then catch her up to speed on the latest from Gabriel. “He has the pick of investors, though, so I’ve
got to convince him to go with me. I’ve been doing my research, and it’s taking a lot of time. Especially since he wants to do more than open a restaurant here. He has plans for a whole slate of them, a cookware line, recipe books—the whole shebang.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work.” She reaches her hand across the table and places her palm on my arm. “Are you burning the candle at both ends again?”

  Like I said, Kristy was created with 100 hundred percent big-sister ingredients.

  “I’m fine,” I say, taking a drink of my water as I gesture for the check.

  “Fine? You said you were fine when you were working on Wall Street, too. But you weren’t. You were working too much. It was killing you.”

  I drag a hand through my hair. “And I left when Hayden was young, so it’s all good. I get to spend a lot of time with her now that I’ve rearranged my schedule and workload,” I say, though she may have a point.

  Finding the right balance has always been my biggest challenge. It’s still one, because work has been my steady companion since my marriage cratered. The new job in restaurant investing helped me through the divorce. It gave me a focus. It was reliable, regular, and it didn’t screw someone else behind my back. But lately, this new restaurant deal has started to consume more of me.

  “Okay,” my sister says, but her tone makes it clear she doesn’t believe me. “Suppose this is all true. Why are you so out of sorts today? Is it just work, sweetie?” She takes a drink of her tea then sets it down on the table. “Or something else?”

  I shake my head, bemused. “You’re too astute.”

  She smirks. “I am. It’s vexing to you, isn’t it? My uncanny ability to read you?”

  “Vexing is precisely what you are.” I shift gears, answering her, but admitting nothing. “And yes, I’ve got something on my mind. But it won’t be on my mind much longer. I promise. Okay?”

  She raises one eyebrow. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t. But it’s nothing to worry about.”

  “I can’t not worry about my baby brother.”

  For a moment, I wonder if Abby feels the same about her three brothers. If she worries about their hearts, their lives, their choices.

  The waiter arrives with the bill, and I’m thankful for the distraction. I don’t want to tread on why I’m out of sorts, because it’s stupid and pointless, and I wish I hadn’t felt like such a dirty old man when we’d pulled up to Abby’s home yesterday.

  Seeing her friends waiting for her was a smack of reality. She has a whole life that’s entirely different from mine, and that’s not just because of the years between us. On the one hand, an eight-year age difference is hardly anything in the grand scheme of things. On the other, this isn’t about the years that separate us. It’s about the situation. I was so damn tempted to say yes to her offer to hang out and play pool on Friday night, but had we gone out together, it would have been painfully clear that I was the odd man out. The single dad. The divorced dude. The employer crushing on the nanny. The one-of-these-things-just-doesn’t-belong.

  Sure, Abby likes working with children, and she’s great with them. But there’s a difference between working with kids and being responsible for one.

  I don’t want to drag Abby down with all my baggage when her future is bright and amazingly free of luggage, except the kind she’d take on a trip to Prague, or Vienna, or Tokyo. I can picture her perfectly with her adventuresome spirit, exploring all those cities. That’s what she should be free to do. I want her to have that unencumbered life.

  I tuck my credit card into my wallet, say goodbye to my sister, and head to my office. Once there, though, I’m pretty sure I set a new record for my own distraction. Because . . . That. Fucking. Kiss.

  Her taste. Her sweet breath. The scent of her skin. I’ve dreamed of it. Now I’ve had it, and it’s better than all those dirty moments in my head. Her scent like coconut. Her breasts crushed against my chest. The way her hands explored my hair, my shoulders, my arms. The sexy little murmurs she made.

  I whimper.

  I’m ashamed that I’m a grown man whimpering.

  I drop my forehead to my desk and bang it lightly a few times. I don’t know why I even thought I could pretend it never happened. Tell that lie to the heart. Tell that fable to my dick. The rebellious bastard doesn’t like the fact that Abby is off-limits. I’m fucking aroused at my desk on a Saturday evening, and the temptation is strong to take care of this persistent wood right now.

  But even though I want to scoop up Abby into my arms, carry her to my bedroom, and strip off all her clothes so I can fuck her and make love to her at the same damn time, I can’t go down this path. I might have stepped over a line yesterday, but that doesn’t give me permission to do it again. That’s the thing about lines. We make them, we break them, and we keep them.

  This is a line I need to maintain.

  My precious, sweet Hayden is the reason I need to behave.

  I looked long and hard for a nanny so I could balance work and parenting. Last fall, I scoured the top Manhattan agencies, searched online, and asked for recommendations from other parents. Honestly, it wasn’t until I thought to ask Harper for coffee and advice when she was helping me plan Hayden’s birthday party that I was able to find the person I wanted for my girl. Harper made the perfect match. Abby’s amazing with my daughter, and Hayden adores her.She’s not a mom replacement and has never tried to be. She’s simply fantastic at her job as a caretaker. I need her in my life in that role, not as a lover.

  Which means . . .

  Dick, stand down.

  Brain, you’re at bat.

  I don’t give into temptation that night. Not when I’m home alone, my mind tripping back to the cab, my body wanting her, my hand ready to take on its reliable job of steering a solo flight. Hell, getting off while imagining her has become a habit. Maybe that makes me a horny guy. But if the shoe fits . . .

  Tonight, though, I’m going to be good.

  I grab the remote and flick the channel to some military battle show. Ah, men in wool is a grade-A, top-choice turn-off, and this D-Day reenactment does the deflation trick quite nicely.

  The rest of the evening is smooth sailing. I practice some of the French phrases I need for business. I text my buddy Tyler about our meet-up tomorrow morning. And I catch up on the latest business news.

  There. Piece of cake. Getting Abby out of my system is easy.

  But the next day when I check out the Eagle Cam and see the baby birds testing their wings, my resistance flies the coop. My heart skips a beat, knowing she’ll love this. I can’t not share this with her. I snap a screengrab and text it to Abby.

  Simon: They’ll be doing flight practice in no time . . . and before we know it, they’ll be sleeping with one eye open.

  She responds with a simple note.

  Abby: Cute! Still on for French on Monday? I thought I could work with you while Hayden does the jungle coloring book I’m bringing her.

  My heart craters.

  And that, folks, is the other reason why I need to put on blinders.

  She already has.

  13

  Simon

  The basketball sails through the air, bouncing on the rim and spinning, then it drops through the net. I raise my arms victoriously.

  “And that’s another one in the can for this guy.” I point my thumbs at myself, only because it drives Tyler crazy.

  My friend shakes his head begrudgingly. “Lucky bastard,” he says as he grabs the ball on the rebound and dribbles.

  I raise my eyebrows and smirk. “It’s not luck if I can do it again.” I’ve already landed two in a row in our three-point session after our one-on-one.

  It’s seven on Sunday morning at the basketball court in Central Park where we shoot hoops once or twice a week.

  Bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet, Tyler raises his chin. “I’ve got a hundred dollars that says you can’t do it a third time.”
<
br />   “I love your bets. It’s like . . . wait.” I pause, stroking my chin as he narrows his dark eyes at me. I hold up a finger. “I’ve got it. I know what it’s like.”

  “What is it like?” he asks, exaggerated annoyance in his tone.

  I mime tugging something off a branch. “It’s like plucking money off a tree.”

  He tosses his head back and laughs. “You wish. There’s no fucking way you’re sinking another three-pointer. LeBron James you are not.”

  I scoff. “But I don’t need to be the king.” I return to the three-point line, and Tyler spreads his feet and gets in my face as he tries to defend. But I outmaneuver him, thanks to longer arms and natural skills at the game. When I release the ball, it arcs through the air and swooshes into the net. “All I have to do is get it past you.”

  “Fuck me,” Tyler says, watching the ball bounce on the concrete as he drags a hand through his dark brown hair.

  Tyler’s a couple of years younger than me, and works in entertainment law. The man is known for his daring approach to deals, and his willingness to chase risks for his clients. Trouble is, he should know by now that betting against me on the court is a mistake. Basketball is just something that comes easily to me. Like languages do for—

  “What do you say we go double or nothing on the Yankees going all the way this year?” I’m not a big gambler, but I’ve got to keep my mind on anything but that woman.

  He mimes stabbing his chest. “Hit me in the heart, why don’t you? You know I’m a Dodgers man. I would never take a bet on that New York team winning everything. Or anything,” he says with a derision he reserves only for the boys in pinstripes.

  I rub my thumb and forefinger together. “Then hand over a crisp Benjamin Franklin. Feel free to add a side of humble pie and then some crow for you to eat, too.”

  “You’re such a fucker, Travers. You’ll probably use it at a strip club.” He grabs the ball and tucks it under his arm as we walk off the court.