The One Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  Just drinks.

  Just drinks.

  Just drinks.

  That mantra echoes in my head as I walk to the bar, listening to a podcast on local politics. The poli-sci major in me can’t resist, and I like to be informed on the issues facing my city. But I have a harder time focusing on the words of the hosts because my heart beats faster and my skin prickles as memories fight their way to the front of my brain.

  Memories I haven’t let myself linger on in ages.

  At Brown, Tyler and I were a team, a pack of two, fueled by our shared desire to learn everything. We studied together, quizzing each other for our tests on modern United States history or on twentieth-century literature. We hunted for interesting lectures from guest speakers on the hottest issues of the day. We walked to and from classes together, and spent many nights in the library, hunched over our laptops.

  When it came to our backgrounds, we were as different as they come. I didn’t grow up with much, and my dad took off when I was fourteen and my little brother, Caleb, was twelve. I can’t really overstate how much that sucked.

  But I dealt with it and moved on, and that’s why I’m in a better spot now to be able to track him down.

  At the time, though, he left us with nothing. I went to public high school outside of Tampa and busted my butt in my classes so I could go to a good school. Hard work paid off, and I nabbed a scholarship to Brown. Tyler came from money and a happy home in Los Angeles, growing up with his brother and their two parents, who ran a successful business together.

  His parents had already finished saving for his full education by the time he was five.

  Our drive, though, was parallel, along with our love of learning. We spent many late nights at the college snack bar, debating anything and everything. We’d share an ice cream with sprinkles, and we’d talk, then head back to my dorm, or his. Once the door closed, all the talk would vanish, and we’d find ourselves engaged in the most favorite collegiate activity of all.

  Getting horizontal.

  The second the clothes came undone the aspiring lawyers disappeared, and we became those people who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Skin to skin, lips to lips, we came together, and I’d never felt so close to anyone in my life. It was a perfect union of respect, desire, and love.

  It was everything I’d never felt in my home, but wanted in my life.

  Sometimes on weekends, we went on long drives. He had a black BMW, and during the fall, we’d get claustrophobic and take off, driving through the tree-lined neighborhoods in Providence, then beyond. We escaped a few towns over, finding hills, and hidden places, and then we’d pull over.

  We got to know our way around the front and back seats of his Beemer quite well. Every time he touched me, I felt cherished. Whether in the car, the shower, the dorm, the library, the bed, or the car, he adored me.

  He fought for a chance with me, and then once we were together, I was never second best. I was his equal, and that made me love him even more.

  That’s what hurt so much when he broke up with me. Not the end to our plans, not his tactless and callous word choices, not even what went down at the debate.

  What hurt the most was that I’d lost him.

  When I reach the bar, I remember Penny’s words and focus on the here and now.

  Today.

  Tonight.

  Not the past.

  9

  Tyler

  She looks like a sexy angel as she walks toward me. Blond hair, flowing and silky over her bare shoulders. A slash of pink gloss on those fantastic lips.

  And those hot-as-fuck red shoes.

  I’m not sure I ever saw her in heels before. College wasn’t exactly the place for four-inch fuck-me pumps. So I’m not sure she knows that I have a thing for shoes. Not wearing them. Please. But I do have it bad for how fucking sexy a woman looks in a gorgeous pair of heels.

  And no one, no woman in the history of the world, has ever looked this good in red shoes.

  “Hey you,” I say.

  She greets me with a smile. “Hi.”

  We walk through the bar.

  “Ladies first.” I gesture to the small, circular booth at the back of the Lucky Spot bar. A low white candle in the middle of the table flickers, casting a faint glow across the wood.

  Delaney slides in first and I follow her.

  Questions ping-pong in my head. How close can I sit to her? Do I launch right into the catch-up banter? Or dive into those-were-the-days chitchat that reminds her of how good we were together? Do I tell her when I saw her last weekend it stirred up something inside me? And I don’t just mean the physical. Seeing her was a knockout blow I didn’t see coming.

  Clay might say it ignited regret. But I see it more as a storm of possibilities and “what ifs.” Perhaps the biggest one is this—what if I hadn’t followed Professor Blair’s advice at the end of college?

  I shake off the thoughts that have been plaguing me all day.

  Delaney’s here. I’m here. Time to treat this night like a first date, not a stroll down memory lane.

  I’m dressed for a first date—jeans, a button-down shirt, the cuffs rolled up to my forearms. Delaney wears a pair of jeans that do nothing but stoke my desire to stare at her ass all night, but that’s not possible since we’re sitting. A black sleeveless top affords a lovely hint of cleavage, and that same turtle charm I spotted earlier glints in the soft blue lighting.

  “So,” I begin, clearing my throat as I rub my palms against my thighs. I’m fucking nervous. This is not acceptable. Yesterday, I stood naked in front of her, and tonight I’m dressed, yet at a loss for meaningful words. “How are you?”

  “Good,” she says, taking her time. “How are you?”

  Stupid. Nervous. Ready to kick myself.

  “Great. Totally great. How was your day?” I ask, and yep, I’m going to bitch-slap my own face in front of the mirror.

  This is so not me. I need to get my shit together right now.

  “I had a great day. Work was crazy busy.”

  That’s a perfect opening to make a joke about yesterday, and what kept her crazy busy in the morning, emphasis on crazy.

  But for some dumbass reason, I say, “Your shoes are nice.”

  Can I just smack myself now? Because what in the fuckity fuck was that?

  She smiles, and seeing her lips curve up makes my heart beat faster. “Thank you. I got them after work yesterday.”

  “Oh yeah?” I sit up straighter. Her shopping habits are a most excellent sign.

  She nods. “And I only had to go to one store. Amazingly, they had these shoes in my size.” She casts her gaze downward. “Me and my big feet.”

  “Hey, I always liked your big feet,” I say, and inside I wipe my hand across my forehead because just maybe I can pull out of this conversational nosedive.

  She lifts her face. “Thanks.”

  C’mon, man. Pull up on the stick before this plane crashes and burns.

  Okay, she likes shoes. Shoes are sexy. I’ll stick with footwear. But for some reason, the words out of my mouth are about the least sexy part of them. “Did they have those little packets in the shoebox?”

  Nice one, dickhead.

  She furrows her brow. “Silica gel, you mean? Those packets?”

  I’ve got to sell this to the jury like I meant to bring up fucking silica gel. Like it’s the most fascinating subject in the universe. “The ones that say ‘Do not eat.’”

  She shoots me a look that says why on earth are you asking me this question. “Yes. There was one in the box for these red shoes, in fact,” she says slowly, like she’s talking to someone who needs extra time to understand speech.

  But I don’t try to stop the slide into awkward. Instead, I embrace the weirdness. I dive into it, roll around in it, embrace it. “Were you tempted to nibble on it?”

  She laughs lightly, and that sound tells me my bizarre topic has leveled out the plane in spite of myself. “Well, if they didn’t h
ave that warning, surely I would have.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. We’re getting into the swing of things. “How do you think the silica gel makers started those warnings? Let’s be frank here.” I stab my finger on the table like I’m making a serious point in court. “Somebody must have tried to eat one in order to get that warning.”

  She narrows her eyes. “Probably the same person who started ripping tags off mattresses.”

  I slam a palm on the table. “It’s horrible to think some scofflaw is going around tearing off tags on mattresses.”

  “Hey there!”

  I turn toward the upbeat voice. The waitress has materialized at our table like she’s arrived magically in a cloud of smoke. I didn’t even see her coming. She’s young, maybe twenty-two, and she bounces on her toes, making her black ponytail swing back and forth.

  “Hello there,” Delaney says with a smile.

  “How is everyone doing tonight?”

  “Grand,” I answer, then wink at Delaney. “Just grand.”

  “Grander,” Delaney says, weighing in, too.

  Whatever nerves or worries I had before are officially squashed. They’ve gone sayonara, and I couldn’t be happier to see them skedaddle.

  “Excellent,” the chipper waitress says as she slides an orange ceramic bowl to the middle of the table. “These are mustard-dusted pretzels and honey-roasted nuts to get you started.”

  I arch an eyebrow as my mouth waters.

  Delaney points her thumb at me. “You just named his two favorite snack foods in the universe.”

  The waitress beams. “I’m so glad to hear that. You will love these pretzels. We use a special house recipe for the mustard coating.”

  “Bring it on then,” I say, grabbing a handful. I pop the mini pretzels in my mouth along with a few nuts and crunch down. I roll my eyes in over-the-top delight and mouth “so good.”

  Delaney laughs then says to the waitress, “Better bring him a beer. He can’t manage his nuts without a brew.”

  As I swallow drily, I say, “I so can.”

  “Get this man a pale ale, and a Riesling for me, please,” Delaney says, meeting my gaze briefly as if to say That okay? I say yes with my eyes—I like her drink order.

  “Be back soon.” The waitress turns on her heel and takes off.

  A dry spot lodges in my throat as I chew on the pretzels.

  I swallow.

  Roughly.

  And then a dreaded sensation descends on me. I look around for a glass of water, but we don’t have any yet. I draw a breath, but I’m not about to cough. Nor am I about to choke to death. Instead, this rough, Saharan-like feeling spreads in my throat, and it’s followed by literally my least favorite thing in the world.

  Hiccups.

  Delaney’s laughter ceases. “Not the dreaded—”

  I nod, as an errant “erp” bursts from my lips.

  Fuck me.

  I hate hiccups because they hurt. I hate them because they’re hard to get rid of. And I hate them because they are my weakness. I get hiccups at the mere sight of crackers, or bread, or nuts. I’ve tried everything from handstands to holding my breath while staring in a mirror to drinking water upside down and half drowning myself.

  Delaney grabs my hand. “Hold your breath.”

  Inhaling deeply, I purse my lips. I count in my head, and she counts under her breath. When she gets to fifteen, a brand new noise rattles free.

  It sounds like I’m beeping.

  I curse.

  “I’ll go get you some water,” she says, scooting out of the booth and rushing away to find a beverage. I hold my breath once more, to no avail.

  Hiccups and I have a love-hate relationship. I hate them, but they love me. A few seconds later, the click-clack of heels grows louder, and I look up to see Delaney sliding back into the booth. She thrusts a big glass of water at me. “Thank you,” I mutter, before I down half of it. Hoping. Praying. Begging for this to be the end of tonight’s hiccup episode brought to you by mustard-dusted pretzels.

  I set down the glass and take a quick stock of my insides. My chest feels quiet. Throat, too. All’s well in America, it seems, and I flash a smile.

  Delaney wipes her forehead. “Whew. I thought you were going to hiccup forever like that time—”

  And another evil gremlin shoots up my chest and springs free.

  That time is the night we had dinner with Professor Blair, my senior advisor, who also mentored me in my pre-law endeavors. He invited us to his home, one of those stately Victorian affairs in Providence, less than one mile from campus. His wife was in academia, too, the headmistress of a local girls’ school. He invited some of his top students for dinner, and it was an honor. We actually dressed like the Ivy League students we were. The fire roared in their fireplace, and his wife sat perched on the edge of a cranberry red couch with ornately carved oak arms, a glass of red wine in her hand. One entire wall in their living room was lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves, filled with the kind of books that if cracked open gave off the opium scent of old, rich, timeworn pages.

  The whole crew of pre-law suck-ups like myself gathered around the mahogany coffee table. Professor Blair brought a tray of cheese, crackers, and bread to the table.

  I swear that fucking bread was drier than the Gobi. It contained less water than a pitcher of sand. And instantly, I hiccuped.

  Hiccups are a natural phenomenon, but it’s everyone’s reaction to them that’s unbearably awkward. The “can I get you something, dear?” from Mrs. Blair. The way everyone tries to pretend you’re fine, even though you kept firing off every twenty seconds.

  But that’s what I try to do with Delaney right now. Pretend it’s not happening.

  “So, you were saying something about shoes?” I say, trying my best to rewind the night.

  Delaney points behind me. “Holy shit. Did you see that guy? He’s coming straight at us.”

  I snap my gaze in that direction, but don’t see anyone. “Who?” I furrow my brow.

  She waves wildly. “There. He’s huge. The one with the ring in his nose.”

  My shoulders sag, and I turn back to her. “Nice try. But you weren’t scary enough.”

  I hiccup again.

  Once more, she scoots out of the booth, and this time she grabs my hand. She tugs me away from the table and grabs the water glass in one hand. “Follow me. Eyes on this the whole time.” She points to her ass.

  “I can do that,” I say, a surge of confidence coursing through me, and I watch her butt as she walks through the bar. My eyes don’t stray from the sight of that firm, tight ass that I used to love to squeeze as she rode me.

  And my dick stands up and pays attention.

  Well, what have we here? Yep, the shameless bastard in my pants is on alert now, its one eye watching the lovely woman strutting in front of me. And I do believe we may have uncovered a cure for what ails me. As an antidote, this is the best distraction in the universe. Delaney rounds the corner to the restroom, and I sigh happily. This is the cure, and I want it over and over.

  She turns around and stops me in the hallway. “Did it work?” She parks her hand on her hips.

  I stare at my gorgeous ex-girlfriend, my whole body buzzing as I take in her warm brown eyes, her high cheekbones, her lovely, kissable lips.

  I give her a long, lingering nod, and stare at her fantastic body with nothing but red-hot desire in my eyes. “By ‘work,’ do you mean am I ridiculously aroused in—”

  Erp.

  My chest hurts, and I mutter a string of curse words.

  She snaps her fingers. “I thought distraction would do the trick.”

  I gesture to my dick. “You could distract me in other ways. I’m willing to try.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Do this.” She bends at the waist, still holding the water glass, and takes a sip from the opposite side. She stands up. “It works for me every time.”

  I arch a brow, giving her a dubious glare.

  “I swear
it does.” Her dark eyes brook no argument.

  I’ve got nothing to lose. I grab the glass, bend, and drink up. Or down. Or upside down. Whatever. It flows weirdly and slowly, and I have to focus to keep the water from sliding into my nose. I guess that’s the point.

  Delaney places her hand on my lower back, rubbing. She’s a toucher. Always has been. Part of me feels like an ass, like a helpless fucking pathetic male who can’t hold his pretzels.

  The other part wants to get back to the table and hit the nuclear option so we can restart this date.

  As I finish draining the glass, a sense of calm descends on my body. Like maybe I’ve been freed from the vile hiccups. I stand, smile, and meet her eyes. Mine are twinkling, I’m sure, saying “we did it, babe.”

  “All better?” she asks, hopeful.

  “I think so—”

  And then I’m not.

  She grabs the water glass, sets it on the floor, and then backs me up to the wall. In a blur, she cups my cheeks, and then the breath whooshes from my lungs.

  My world turns black and hot and hazy as she crushes her lips to mine.

  Delaney kisses me hard and rough, an ambush of lips and mouth and soft breath. Her lips seal to mine, her hands grasp my face, and her tongue finds its way inside my mouth. Exploring, seeking, and setting me to flames.

  My head goes haywire, my brain is full of static, and I can barely process this night.

  I’m kissing Delaney Stewart on our first date, and it’s astonishing.

  My body takes over, and my hands make their way to her hair. I thread my fingers through that silky blond waterfall, groaning into her mouth as I savor the feel of those strands.

  As if she’s handing off the next leg of this relay race of a kiss, she lets her hands fall from my face, roping them around my neck. “I can’t believe I did that,” she murmurs.

  “Kissed me senseless?”

  She nods, almost in disbelief. “I think I’ve gone crazy,” she whispers.

  “I like your style of crazy, then.”

  “You have to know I didn’t plan to just kiss you out of the blue tonight.” It sounds more like she’s trying to convince herself than me. Or maybe exonerate herself.