The One Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  She studies me. “Funny, I would have pegged you for model toys, airplanes, and RC cars.”

  I bring my hand to my heart, pretending to look affronted. “I’m offended that you don’t realize I’m weirdly practical. I have no interest in things that don’t do . . . anything. But I do love the radio.”

  “Do you have your own radio?”

  “Of course. Built it from old parts. Listen to it at night. Works like a charm.”

  She shrugs playfully. “Maybe you can tune in to little green men on it.”

  I wiggle my eyebrows. “One can hope.”

  Hope. Just like a sad part of me is hoping this night can keep ticking along in the direction of paisley dresses, cardboard robots, little green men, and cabs hailed hastily. I want to turn on the radio, then turn her on, as sultry music plays and moonlight streams in through the penthouse windows.

  She laughs as she lifts her yellow teacup and takes a drink of her beverage. But when she sets it down, a lightning bolt of anger flashes across her eyes. “Wait,” she whispers sharply, and there goes the hope. “Did you know I was going to be covering you? Did Mr. Galloway tell you first?”

  I wrench back, getting out of the way of her ambush. “Are you crazy?” I slash a hand through the air in certain denial. The interlude is over. Officially. “I had no idea who you were. I had no clue you were working on a story on me.”

  “I was literally just assigned the piece today. My editor told me you knew about it,” she says with narrowed eyes, as if she’s trying to catch me in a fib.

  “And you think that means I knew who you were at the party?”

  “Maybe you were feeling me out. Trying to get a sense of what I was like.”

  I scoff. “Angel, I’m not that nefarious nor so desperate that I need to conduct recon for a magazine article I agreed to do. And I don’t need to sleep with a reporter to try to sway her view of me.”

  “Then why did you say you were a VC last night? See? You were trying to throw me off then. I thought you were a venture capitalist. Were you just saying that so I wouldn’t know who you were?”

  I hold up my hands. “I didn’t say it. You assumed it.”

  “And you didn’t correct. Why?”

  I sigh, rubbing a hand across my neck. “Because I didn’t want you to know who I was. Because we were role-playing. Because it was part of the game. I thought you liked the game.”

  “I did,” she says, her tone vulnerable once again. “But why didn’t you want me to know who you were?”

  “Because I wanted you to like me for me.”

  She exhales deeply. “I guess I wanted the same.” She holds up a finger, a sign she has to ask another question. “But if you didn’t know who I was last night, if you truly didn’t know it was me, how did you recognize me as the girl from last night when you came in?”

  I furrow my brow as the bartender brings me a pink teacup. It’s a frilly-looking porcelain cup, meant for proper ladies sipping tea. I swear this drink better be as strong as steel.

  “This ought to do the trick,” he says, then whispers, tequila.

  I thank him and swallow a thirsty gulp of the fiery liquor from the prissy cup. The burn intensifies as it goes down, then it spreads through my lungs. I draw a deep breath, and when that cuts-like-a-knife sensation starts to fade, I say, “Seriously, Angel? Is that a serious question? You think I’d only recognize you if I had planned in advance to seduce the reporter assigned to cover me?”

  She lifts her chin, nodding, as if she believes that line of bullshit.

  I lean closer to her, raise a hand, and finger a curl of her hair. Her breath catches. “Angel, I recognized you because you’re wearing polka dots, because you said you make your clothes and something about polka dots seems uniquely you and uniquely DIY. I recognized you because your hair is the same gorgeous shade, because I had my lips on your face, on your earlobe, on these pink lips.” A shudder moves through her as I go on. “I knew your voice because it was the same husky, sexy voice that the woman used last night when she begged me to fuck her against a wall. To fuck her hard.” A tremble is her answer. “I knew it was you because you match my mystery girl, and you smell as delicious as she did.” I move back, letting my words linger. “But perhaps I didn’t make a memorable enough impression.”

  “You did,” she whispers, her voice wobbly. She doesn’t meet my eyes. She runs a hand over her skirt and crosses her legs. Taking a deep breath, she raises her face. “I swear you did.”

  I like her response. Hell, I needed her response. But once it’s voiced, a kernel of doubt wiggles insidiously through me, burrowing into my chest.

  What if she’s setting me up?

  I throw her question back at her. “But how can I be sure you didn’t know who I was?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Please. I already said I thought you were a VC.”

  But what if she’s lying? What if she knew who I was and seduced me to soften me up for the piece, like Annie came back to me to try to pry open my accounts? “How do I know?”

  She arches a brow and straightens her shoulders. “How do you know? I guess you don’t. You’ll have to take my word for it. All I knew was you were a guy I liked spending time with. I had no idea what you did for a living. I didn’t care. I liked dancing with you. I like talking to you. And I really liked kissing you. I liked that the best.”

  Dammit, she’s making my heart roll over, and there’s no time and space for that.

  “I liked it too,” I say, but I can’t let myself be fooled. I can’t be Annie-fished again. I need to zero in on boundaries. “But obviously we’re not going to do it again.”

  “Obviously.” She agrees almost too quickly. “I don’t sleep with sources, or people I interview.”

  She takes a drink from her yellow teacup then sets it down. Her drink has a sprig of mint in it. Mojito. Yeah, she obviously likes torturing the bartender, since those drinks are hard as hell to make. I tended bar briefly after college while working on my first start-up, and anyone who ordered that drink might as well have used me as a voodoo doll. It’s best that I learn now she’s an evil bartender-torturer.

  She pushes the teacup away and lifts her chin, her jaw set hard. “And I’m not going to recuse myself from the story.”

  “I don’t think you should recuse yourself.”

  “Good. Because I don’t need to. I didn’t know who you were when last night happened, so I wasn’t sleeping with a subject then. And now that I do know, we’ll proceed as if it’s business as usual. Plus, I could wind up covering your company or your sector on an ongoing basis for this magazine, or honestly, for any publication, so it’s best if we just move on.” Her tone is all-business, no flirting, and no soft underside.

  I nod in agreement because, hell yeah, do I agree. “Business as usual means I also don’t sleep with people I work with.” Though, to be fair, I’ve never confronted a situation where I considered sleeping with a reporter covering my company. Nonetheless, I get that it falls in the same Very Bad Idea category as sleeping with a business partner, investor, banker, or lawyer.

  I haven’t done those either.

  See? I do deserve a lollipop.

  “Besides,” she adds as she lifts her teacup, “I can’t risk this story. I have bills to pay, and I need this assignment . . .” Her voice trails off in a waft of desperation.

  And the red warning buzzer goes off.

  Money troubles.

  She needs money.

  Instinctively, my hand goes to my back pocket, covering my wallet. I’m a generous guy. I donate to charity, I’ve funded scholarships at my alma mater, and I have no problem sharing the wealth.

  But it’s good I’m learning her deal now. If she’s mentioning money this early, then how would I ever know going forward if she likes me for me? I wouldn’t. It’s good the universe is looking out for me, giving me this info before I fall harder for her. Last night was one night, one moment, and that’s all it’ll ever amount to. I need to be r
uthless about who I let into my heart.

  “I have your halo still,” I say, cool and businesslike.

  She waves a hand dismissively. “I don’t really need it.”

  “So I’ll just toss it?”

  “Sure,” she answers, then furrows her brow. “But I do like the headband I used. Can you just hold on to it for me, and I’ll get it next time?”

  “I’ll bring you the headband.”

  “You can just toss the other parts.”

  That feels fitting. I’ll dismantle her halo, trash the fake money, and bring her the only part that matters. Just rip to pieces the thing she left behind.

  There’s one more item she discarded though.

  I finish off the tequila, then reach into my pocket. “Here are your panties.”

  She stuffs them into her purse.

  Like I said, I’m no Prince Charming.

  Dirty or clean.

  Prince Charming would have gotten the girl. Dirty Prince Charming would have found a way to take her home again, spread her out on the bed, and take her all night long.

  Me? I’ll be heading home alone to listen for little green men on the radio.

  Before I leave, she lifts her chin and taps the bar. “By the way, I like your glasses.”

  13

  Sabrina

  If something is too good to be true, it usually is. That’s what I’ve always taught my brother.

  That’s why I’m not in the least bit surprised.

  Luck doesn’t twirl around in spectacular fashion, transforming the beast into the prince before the last enchanted petal falls. Nope. That’s the stuff of fairy tales. In real life, you don’t get the gig, the guy, and the great sex.

  You get one night with someone like Flynn Parker. The fairy tale ends when he returns your slipper. My panties are back, the story is over, and happily-ever-after is for fictional gals.

  This is what happens next. The after-the-glass-slipper moment, when real life, real bills, and real responsibilities trump fairy-sparkle magic.

  As I lock the door to my pipsqueak apartment, I sink against the wall, sliding to the floor on my butt.

  I groan in frustration. I wish he was anyone else. I wish he was the trash collector, the guy who runs the flower shop at the corner of my street, a product manager for an enterprise software company.

  Anyone but the man I have to cover.

  The cardinal rule of journalism is to be fair and get it right.

  You can’t be fair if you’re sleeping with the subject.

  You simply cannot.

  And the story matters more to me than the guy, than the sex, than the stupendous spark, and the sizzle I felt with him last night and again tonight. Like when he leaned in close and told me all he remembered, and when he asked me about the first outfit I ever stitched together. When I shuddered from his nearness, from the way he seemed to want to own me. And, truth be told, the way I want to be owned. I want to hand over the keys to my body to someone who knows what to do with me.

  To Flynn.

  “Stupid fate,” I grumble.

  I dig my hand into my purse and take out my panties. They’re clean. Freshly washed. I narrow my eyes. How the hell did the dude have time to launder my underwear? This is New York City. No one has a washer and dryer. We go to laundromats, or we send out our laundry.

  Unless we’re rich.

  Super rich.

  Lucky bastard probably has three washer-dryer combos.

  Now I’m jealous, but it’s also a reminder. Flynn and I live in different worlds. We’re from opposite sides of the tracks. He’s millions and I’m pennies, and it’s for the best I learned this now. Opposites don’t attract. They repel.

  After I make myself a cheese sandwich—I do know how to rock it when it comes to cheap eats—I FaceTime my brother.

  “Want to hear a funny story?” I ask him on the screen.

  “Of course I do.”

  “The guy I like?” I ask, since I told him this morning I met someone.

  Kevin wiggles his eyebrows. “Oooh, guy talk. I was hoping for some guy talk before I returned to St. Thomas Aquinas.”

  “Oh stop. My guy talk has always been more interesting than a philosopher’s mumbo-jumbo,” I tease.

  “Perhaps because it often requires me to be philosophical,” he says, then flashes me his dimpled smile.

  “I wish I could give you a knuckle sandwich through FaceTime.”

  “No, you don’t. You love me and my non-knuckle-sandwiched face. So, tell me what happened. Did this one take off for Chile? Nova Scotia? The Arctic Circle?”

  “He might as well have,” I say with a sigh. “It turns out he’s the guy I’m covering for my new article.”

  “Ouch,” he says, frowning. “That would be a bit of an ethical quandary. Are you going to recuse yourself?”

  I recoil, staring at him as if he were speaking in tongues. “No! I didn’t know who he was when I met him at the party. I’m going to start this with a clean slate.”

  He nods, a thoughtful look in his eyes.

  My chest squeezes. I need the money from this piece. My bills are looming. “Don’t tell me you think that’s a bad idea,” I say, nerves thick in my voice.

  He holds up his hands in surrender. “Of course I’m not going to say that. I’m simply processing the news. Trying to consider all the angles.”

  “Do you think I’m crossing a line?”

  He sighs, and I brace myself for a yes. Kevin has always been a barometer for doing the right thing, and I’ve needed that, especially since our mom rarely does. Hell, our mom is the reason I don’t eat roast beef. For my twelfth birthday, she asked what I wanted for a special dinner, and I told her I would love one of her delicious roast beef sandwiches.

  “Consider it done,” she said, then took me to the grocery store, snagged some cold cuts, stuffed them in her purse, and proceeded to earn her first shoplifting arrest.

  It wasn’t her last.

  I stare at Kevin, swallowing as I wait for his answer.

  “I don’t think it’s an issue,” he says, and I picture him as a pastor, doling out advice to a congregant. “Just keep things on the business level with him going forward and that’s the best you can do. You’re not at fault for something you didn’t know and I have faith you can do a fair, and fantastic, interview.”

  I smile. “Me too.”

  When I say goodbye to Kevin, I send an email to Flynn.

  Not to Duke.

  Not to Prince Charming. But to my source. To the man I’m interviewing.

  I send it from my work address.

  From: Sabrina G

  To: Flynn Parker

  Hello! I see we’re meeting at your office, but can we change the location? I find people are more comfortable and open up more easily if we’re not talking at their office. We can have a thoughtful conversation if we’re someplace else. Do you have a favorite spot?

  From: Flynn Parker

  To: Sabrina G

  How much time do you need? I have lots of favorite places.

  From: Sabrina G

  To: Flynn Parker

  An hour or two? Let me know one of your favorites.

  Ten minutes later, he sends me an address that strikes my curiosity.

  I haven’t been there. Ever.

  And that’s saying something, because New York is mine.

  I write back telling him I’ve never been there before, but that I’m looking forward to it.

  I have a feeling that Flynn Parker is going to be one hell of an interesting guy to get to know over the next few days.

  That’s all he’ll be though.

  He’s not the duke. He’s not the guy from last night. I’ll need to erase those fun, fond, flirty memories from the banks of my mind. These last few messages should help—they’re so professional. So worky, worky, work.

  I flop down on my bed, grab my laptop, and bury myself in research for the piece. A little later, my phone lights up with an alert. Probably an e
mail from a friend, or a note about a new yard of fabric for sale at my favorite discount shop.

  But some insistent little voice nudges me. Tells me to check it now because . . . what if?

  I slide open the inbox, a flutter of excitement racing through me. The email is from Flynn, and it’s not about the interview. It’s a simple question: Why should you never date an apostrophe?

  I scrunch my brow and then shout, “Aha!”

  My fingers fly on the keys, tapping out a reply before I risk him sending me the answer: Because they’re too possessive!

  He answers swiftly, but this time his note zips over the transom of text. He’s switched gears, shifting back to who we were last night.

  The name I gave him on my text blinks.

  Duke.

  My heart dares to skitter in my chest, to bounce around madly.

  Duke: What do you call Santa’s elves?

  Clutching my phone as if it’s a source of joy, I squeeze my shoulders in delight, my grammar nerd heart lighting up. I swear it’s glowing in my chest, and the warmth from it spreads to my toes, then my fingers. I think and think, and then the answer materializes, and I grin as I reply. This is more fun than 80s Trivial Pursuit. This is better than Boardwalk.

  Angel: Subordinate Clauses!!

  I’m rewarded with another grammar riddle seconds later.

  Duke: What should you say to comfort a grammar nerd?

  I narrow my eyes and chew on my lip, considering. Then, it hits me, like a bucket of social media grammatical errors slamming into me all at once.

  Angel: They’re, their, there.

  I feel like we could go on all night. I want to, even though I know it’s silly. Even though I know it’s pointless.

  But maybe that’s the point of us flirting.