The One Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  She blinks. Several times. She sways the slightest bit, like her feet barely touch the ground. Good. I want her to be affected.

  She furrows her brow. “I’m sorry, but do we kiss now when we see each other in the park?”

  “Evidently we do.”

  “Weird. Because I didn’t get that memo.”

  I rock on my heels. “Want me to take it back?”

  “The kiss or the memo?”

  “The memo,” I say matter-of-factly, like this is all so obvious. “You can’t take a kiss back.”

  “You sure on that, Nichols?”

  “I can try to take back the kiss. Want me to, sweet girl?” I use the term of endearment I once called her. She doesn’t blanch, and that’s a damn good sign.

  She smirks. “Be my guest.”

  I kiss her once more, like I’m reversing the lip lock, doing it all in rewind, pulling away ever so slowly, ever so softly, leaving her dazed once more.

  Perfect.

  If she can drive me this crazy, make me this hard, send the temperature in my blood to beyond incendiary, the least I can do is return the favor.

  Judging from her reaction, I’m doing it right.

  I gesture from her to me. “Like that. I think that’s how you take back a kiss.”

  Chuckling, she nods to the running path. “Ready for me to kick your ass?”

  Every competitive bone in my body snaps to attention. “We’ll see about that,” I say, then I smack her pink nylon covered behind.

  Her eyes widen, saying oh-no-you-didn’t.

  But there’s a twinkle in those baby browns that says the lady might like spanking.

  That’s new, and it’s most interesting.

  I pencil in a new item on my mental to-do list. Find out how much she likes spanking. I never spanked her in college—just wasn’t part of the repertoire. But judging from her response now, I’m more determined than ever to find out everything she likes in and out of bed.

  For the first minute of our run, we’re quiet as we find our pace.

  A fast one, to be sure. She wasn’t kidding when she said she wanted to beat me. The woman possesses some serious speed. I like it. Keeping up with her is yet another way she challenges me. As that thought takes shape, I realize that’s a key part of why I’m so into her. She always kept me on my toes.

  We round the first bend, curving past a cluster of tall maple trees that canopy the path. “So, Delaney. It’s your turn to spill the beans.”

  She glances at me out of the corner of her eye. “What beans?”

  I hold up my hands like I’m kneading dough. “How the hell did you become the woman with magic hands? I had a seriously sore neck from reading contracts, and you worked some wonders on me the other morning,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck.

  She shoots me a warm smile. “I’m glad you felt better. Do you get tightness there a lot?”

  “Yes,” I say, but before I go into more detail, I realize she’s deflecting. She’s dancing around my question. I don’t follow her lead. “How did it happen?”

  She waggles her hands as we jog. “The magic in my hands? Simple. I wished upon a star when I was a little girl. And voilà.”

  I roll my eyes, and swat her backside lightly once more. She pretends to yelp.

  “Permission to treat opposing counsel as hostile,” I say playfully.

  “Objection. I’m not hostile. Just making you work hard.”

  “You definitely make me . . .” I let my eyes drift downward, and Delaney follows my gaze as we keep a steady pace, and I finish the thought, “. . . hard.”

  “I noticed when you showed up.” She winks.

  And I’m about to just slide right into the repartee when I remind myself that I can’t let the naughty banter distract me from my mission—to get to know her again. Delaney’s the type of person who keeps her feelings close to the vest. She takes her time to open up. Once she does, it’s a glorious thing, but sometimes the process is like questioning a reluctant witness, and you’ve got to stay on it. Good thing I’m a tenacious bastard. “Let’s get back to the question, sexy angel.” I pause a moment, realizing I like sexy angel better than sweet girl. It suits her now. “How’d you ditch law school and become a masseuse?”

  She sighs then fixes her eyes ahead of her, narrowly sidestepping a twig in the middle of the path. “My story is quite simple. Remember the debate competition?”

  How could I forget? The Elite was the last time I saw her. Professor Blair found a way for me to pair up with someone else in the competition, and when I did, we went full throttle. I prepped my ass off, treating the competition like a goddamn national debate. We took no prisoners while winning, and winning soundly.

  Which also meant I beat Delaney, even though she was sharp that day.

  “I remember it,” I say as we run past a group of gray-haired men likely training together for a marathon or race. “We were supposed to partner together.”

  “But you wound up with some other partner, and we faced off against each other. There was some prize money that was to be used for law school,” she says, and I nearly stumble on the hard dirt path.

  I feel like I’ve been clobbered, like her words smacked my chest with a bag of bricks. Why didn’t I see it before? That money must have been her path to law school. I didn’t know going in that there was a prize—it was announced at the end. Did I take her chance at law school away from her when I won?

  “Right,” I say, swallowing roughly. “Were you counting on that money?”

  She looks at me as I regain my steady footing. “It would have helped defray some of the costs. But truth be told, the competition itself—the debate itself—was the eye-opener. Especially the way I felt arguing with you.”

  A darkness seems to cross her eyes. Maybe sadness. I’m not sure, but I cringe as I recall the way I devoured the competition that day. I kicked unholy ass, and won a three-thousand-dollar award at the end. Three thousand dollars hardly makes a dent in law school. But for Delaney, maybe it would have paved the way.

  “Was it the money?” I ask, holding my breath in hope that she says no, because I will fucking kick myself in the jaw with a steel-toed boot if she says yes.

  “Honestly, no,” she says, and reflexively I run a hand over my jaw, glad I won’t be bashing in that part of my facial structure. “Sure, the money would have been nice if I still had wanted to go. But the debate itself was my . . .” She slows and looks up at the peach streaks of the sun showing above the horizon. “My tipping point. It made me realize once and for all that law was not for me.”

  That should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. Not only did I break up with her, but what if I broke her fucking spirit in the debate? What if my approach, guns blazing, did her in? Jesus Christ. Could I have been a bigger dick?

  “That debate made you reconsider all your graduate school plans?” I ask, because for some strange reason, I feel like she’s not telling me something. I don’t mean some dreaded big secret like a baby or a sickness. I mean something emotional about her decision. Something personal—Delaney was like that—she didn’t always share right away, and I can’t help but wonder if there’s more to the story.

  A strand of hair slips from her ponytail as we run, and she tucks it over her ear. “Yes. The debate was a tough one.”

  “It sure was. You were tough, Delaney,” I say, remembering how focused she was at the podium, making her points. “A ferocious competitor.”

  She nods a quick thank-you. “There was a lot riding on it for me. It forced me to look long and hard at what I wanted to do in life. Like you, I once felt that justice was my calling. That I could fight for it and deliver on it.”

  I wince as I ask the next question. “And one debate turned all that around for you?”

  “Well,” she says, laughing, “not entirely. But it was pretty illuminating.”

  “What did it illuminate?” A stone lodges in my chest.

  She darts away from me, and I turn qui
ckly to follow her. She stops, bends to pick up a discarded soda cup, and resumes running. “Litter. One of my pet peeves.”

  I grab the cup from her and toss it in the nearest recycling bin, shooting it like a basketball.

  “Two points,” she says, as we keep running. “And to answer your question, the debate made it easy for me to turn down all my law school acceptances.”

  “Whoa. You turned down everything?” I can’t even imagine doing that.

  “I did indeed. I was accepted into all but my first choice, and I declined them all.”

  I’m rarely speechless, but this new intel just surprises the hell out of me, and I take a minute to gather my thoughts. “Why did you turn them all down? Because you only wanted your first choice?”

  She shrugs. “I didn’t want to go, Tyler,” she says, but her tone is so light, so even, that I can’t figure out if her answer is good or bad. The problem is this is how she used to segue out of tough conversations before, too. I’m not sure if I should push her. Or just accept that my crime was worse than I thought. That my winner-take-all attitude played some part in derailing her dreams.

  I chew on that pill for a half mile or so as we run in relative silence. Then, her hand darts out, and she smacks my ass. “Payback, slowpoke.”

  She takes off, racing ahead of me.

  It’s clear the school conversation is over, and maybe I’ve made too much of it. Maybe she’s not pissed anymore. Either way, the woman is sprinting, and I’m chasing, and at least that means I’m still in the ballgame. She’s a blur, just like last Sunday. But this time I won’t let her get away. I pick up my pace, my long stride eating up the dirt path, and seconds later I’m by her side once more. “Are you running away from me, sexy angel?”

  A mischievous glint twinkles in her eyes as we reach the top of the hill. She stops, grabs my shirt, and tugs me close. For a second, I think she’s going to kiss me, but instead she says, “I was, but you caught me.”

  “I’ll catch you again if I have to.”

  “Will you now?”

  Double talk. Tap dancing around the topic. Sometimes, that’s how she rolls. How she needs to roll. I get it; I respect it. The woman had a shitty hand of cards dealt her in life, and then again by me. She protects herself with flirting, with banter, with playful words.

  It’s all armor to protect her heart.

  “I will absolutely catch you,” I say, my voice confident, and my meaning clear.

  She arches an eyebrow then flashes a quick smile. “Good,” she whispers, and hell if that doesn’t sound like an invitation.

  We start running again. “Why’d you choose massage instead?”

  “That is a very good question,” she says, arms swinging back and forth as her breath comes faster.

  “Then give me a very good answer.”

  A shrieking lands on my ears as a slim woman with a short, sleek, black haircut runs at us, arms wide open. “Delaney!” the thin woman shouts, practically barreling into her.

  “Gigi! How are you?” Delaney beams, too, as the women clasp each other in a massive hug.

  When they separate, Gigi runs a hand over her cropped hair. “Worlds better.”

  “Really?”

  Gigi nods. “I swear.” She gestures to her midsection. “I put on weight. I look better when I’m not a skinny chicken.”

  “You were adorable as a skinny chicken, and you’re adorable as a fluffy chicken, too,” Delaney says, then turns to me. “Tyler, this is one of my clients. Gigi. She’s a cancer ass-kicker.”

  “Nice!” I hold up a fist for Gigi, and we knock.

  Gigi juts out her hip and punches the air, understandably proud of herself.

  “This miracle worker helped me through,” Gigi says, planting her hands on Delaney’s shoulders. Gigi lowers her voice to a stage whisper. “She was like my marijuana.”

  I crack up. “Delaney’s a natural high. She makes everything feel better.”

  Delaney waves a hand as if to say she had nothing to do with it. “I’m glad you’re doing well.”

  “So well,” she says, then drags a hand through her spiky hair. “Especially since my locks are coming back nicely. Speaking of, I’m having a wig party this week. Did you get my invite? I dropped it off the other day at Nirvana.”

  Delaney snaps her fingers. “Yes! I meant to RSVP. I should be able to make it. But . . . confession. I don’t have a wig.”

  Gigi points at Delaney and gives her a stern stare. “No, my dear. What you have is an excellent reason to go shopping.”

  They both laugh, then Gigi meets my eyes and gestures to Delaney. “Make sure she goes shopping, you hear me now?”

  I salute her. “Your wish is my command.”

  Gigi bumps shoulders with Delaney then pats my arm. “By the way, he’s super cute.” Gigi doesn’t whisper the compliment. She says it while looking at me.

  Delaney snaps her gaze to her client. “No, he’s not super cute, Gigi. Super cute is for kittens, hedgehogs, and dogs that wear bow ties.”

  Dogs with bow ties? I mouth.

  “Work with us,” Delaney whispers, and all I can figure is this is some inside joke between them. Fine by me.

  Delaney returns her focus to Gigi. “If he’s not cute, then what is he? Hint. He’s the very definition of this word . . .”

  Gigi claps once in excitement. “Can I say it?”

  “You better.”

  “He’s fuckhot,” Gigi says, and they laugh, while I, meanwhile, feel like a million bucks. I square my shoulders and smile a little wider.

  “Why thank you very much. Especially coming from such lovely women,” I say, complimenting them too. Because they both deserve it. I’m struck with the realization of how easily Delaney connects with her friends—not just Nicole and Penny, but now Gigi in this unexpected and unguarded moment. Delaney’s gorgeous on the outside, but a woman who has friends like this is beautiful inside too.

  Gigi explains. “We had many conversations on the massage table about anything and everything, from life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, to levels of attractiveness, ranging from bow tie-wearing dogs to ridiculously good-looking men.”

  “I.e., fuckhot men,” Delaney adds.

  “Glad I received that ruling rather than the bow tie one,” I say, because I am 100 percent clear on this point and 100 percent A-OK to be talked about like a piece of meat.

  Gigi holds out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Tyler.”

  I shake hands with her. “You too, Gigi.”

  She jogs in place for a few seconds before she takes off along the path. She calls back, “See you with your wig on.”

  After she disappears, Delaney points her thumb in the direction of the flamboyant woman. “Does that answer your question about my change of heart in careers?”

  I nod, instantly getting it. “Yep. I can see. You really can touch people’s lives.”

  “Not all my clients have battled medical issues. But for those that do, I’m glad I’m able to give them a little relief, a little peace from what hurts. I’m not a doctor or a nurse, but in my own small way I like to think I can make a difference for some. That’s why I switched to massage.”

  “I’d say you’re making a big difference. She called you a miracle worker.”

  Delaney beams, and I love that the simplest of compliments lights her up, so I keep going. “You can make someone feel truly better. That’s not just a gift. It’s a skill and a talent. I always thought you’d be a fantastic attorney because you’re damn good at reasoning, making a point, and arguing a position, but judging from your clients’ reactions, and from the wonders you worked on my neck, you chose the right field.”

  I’m not just saying that because a kernel of guilt has lodged inside my brain, making me think I’m responsible for destroying her dreams. I’m saying it because it’s so apparent she’s happy in her work today.

  “Thank you. And hey, can’t beat the attire at the spa. Yoga pants all the way. I was never particular
ly fond of suits, and I don’t think I look good in them.”

  “Wrong on that one. I bet you look fuckhot in them.”

  “I bet you’d like to see me in one.”

  “Or out of one.”

  And there goes my focus again.

  My eyes roam over her, and though she is sexy as sin in her little running shorts and T-shirt, the woman would also look extraordinary in a tight skirt, form-fitting blouse, and fuck-me pumps. Wait. Let’s add sexy glasses that rest on the bridge of her nose, and a shelf full of books behind her. She can perch on the edge of her desk, and I can rip off the blouse, buttons spilling all over the floor, then hike up that skirt, and wrap her legs around my waist.

  “You okay?”

  I blink, realizing she’s staring at me, and I wonder how long I’ve been in dirty dreamland.

  “What?”

  “You drifted off.”

  “Go figure. I was picturing you wearing four-inch heels, and my thoughts went haywire.”

  “You’ve turned into quite a shoe man, haven’t you?”

  I groan. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  “What is it?”

  I rake my gaze over her tight, trim frame, then linger on her . . . white sneakers. “Your sneakers are turning me on,” I say in a salacious tone.

  She raises her right leg then strokes her calf down to her foot. “Does this get you going?”

  This time, I growl, and huff like a bull. “Oh yeah, baby.”

  She rubs the side of her sneakered foot against my leg, and yep, it gets me revved up. Maybe I’m that easy when it comes to her. Or it could be that I fucking love when she’s like this—this playful, this fun, this fucking cool enough to go with the moment.

  “Do it again,” I command her, and she grabs hold of my arm for balance, sliding her foot higher up my leg.

  “More? You want more?” she asks, egging me on.

  “So much more.”

  She cracks up and sets her foot back on the ground. “Glad to know my big feet turn you on.”

  “Your big feet and the person they’re attached to,” I say, correcting her.

  “Thanks for the clarification,” she says, and puts one big foot in front of the other, starting us running again.