The One Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  That it goes nowhere.

  That it’s a momentary buzz.

  It’s a quick whiff of expensive perfume in the department store. A nibble on a bite of decadent chocolate. A dance with the best-looking guy you’ve ever met.

  You take your snippet of pleasure and you move on. That’s all you get.

  Angel: Did you know the last four letters in queue aren’t silent?

  I wait, and I wait, and three minutes later, his name appears.

  Duke: I bet they’re just waiting their turn.

  Now it’s my turn to move on.

  14

  Flynn

  “In retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have sent that apostrophe email.”

  I wait for a response from my audience. She gives me none. I pace across the living room, checking out the view of Gramercy Park. “But in my defense, it was a good joke.”

  Still no answer.

  “She liked it. I swear, she liked it,” I insist.

  Silence.

  “Look, you’d have done the same, Zoe.”

  A delicious smile is my reward. My niece coos at me.

  This kid. This sweet little baby. She melts me. “See? I knew you would laugh! You love my jokes. You cracked up when I told you the broccoli joke the first time I met you in the hospital room.”

  She smiles again, like the Mona Lisa, and I’m ready to give this little blonde baby anything in the cosmos she wants. I bounce my niece higher in my arms then drop a kiss to her soft forehead, taking a moment to inhale her baby scent as I pace around my sister’s place, waiting for her to return from her morning workout.

  “Knock, knock,” I say, then answer for Zoe. “Who’s there? Broccoli. Broccoli who? Broccoli doesn’t have a last name, silly.”

  She emits a gurgling sound that makes it clear she remains my number-one fan, enjoying the joke as much as she did on her Birth day.

  A lock clicks and the door to my sister’s home opens. Olivia returns, her face flushed, her hair a little damp from sweating. “Who is my favorite brother in the entire universe?” She points both hands at me as Zoe squirms at the sound of her mom’s voice. “I knew you’d win the Best of the Twin Brothers Olympics today.”

  I wipe my free hand over my forehead dramatically. “All I’ve ever wanted is to win the gold over Dylan.”

  She strides across the living room, reaching for her little girl, who squeals when she sees her mom. “Hello, my little love bug,” Olivia says to the baby, then to me, she says, “If you keep babysitting in the wee hours of the morning when my husband has to spay a dozen Chihuahuas, you could pull far ahead in the brother race.”

  “A dozen?”

  “Crazy, right? They were rescued from a puppy mill. Herb spayed them all, and now they’re going to Little Friends to find homes,” she says, naming one of the dog rescue shelters in the city.

  “That’s fantastic. Now, can you two stop being such do-gooders? You make the rest of us look bad.”

  She nudges me. “Speaking of doing good, how did your face-lift go the other night? I’m waiting for all the details.”

  I groan and drag a hand through my hair. “Too well.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I give my sister the quick update, minus the wall-sex details, but including the I-met-this-awesome-woman-who-I-can’t-see-again part.

  “And you really like this girl?”

  “I do. I mean, I did. Is that weird?”

  “Why would it be weird that you liked her?”

  “I only spent one evening with her. Isn’t that too soon to really like somebody?” I stare at the ceiling, considering. “Okay, fine we texted later that night. And we did talk a little bit last night at the bar, even though we really weren’t supposed to.”

  “So, it was almost like three dates.”

  I seesaw my hand. “Technically, one could make a case for a trio, yes.”

  She laughs, shooting me a warm smile, stripping her tone of our usual teasing. “You don’t have to convince me. I knew after my first date with Herb that I was crazy for him. We just clicked.”

  I hold up my hands. “Whoa. I didn’t say it was love at first sight.”

  She arches a brow. “It wasn’t love at first sight. It was chemistry. It was attraction. It was mutual respect. Then, the more I got to know him, the more all of my initial first impressions were confirmed. Sometimes it happens quickly. Sometimes it happens over the course of years.” She runs her hand over her daughter’s hair as the baby snuggles closer to her. “Is there really no way you can make this work?”

  I shake my head, adamant that, in spite of the grammar games, I can’t go there again with Sabrina. “She’s covering my company. I have to focus on Haven right now, and the huge opportunity we have in front of us,” I say, and point to the door. “On that note, I should make my way to the office.”

  “Wait. Why can’t you just see her when the story is over in a couple weeks?”

  I stop with my hand on the doorknob, considering.

  That’s a good question.

  I suppose we could do that.

  But doing that, or rather, planning for it, sounds a little shady. A bit like hoodwinkery. Like we might as well be getting together.

  And that’s what we’re trying to avoid.

  Plus, a bigger reason looms.

  A reason that I can’t avoid. I can’t let my desire to chat with Sabrina from the masquerade party make me forget that Sabrina the reporter might not have my best interests at heart.

  She might only have hers front and center.

  I shake my head. “I don’t even know if I trust her. There’s a part of me that wonders if she knew who I was all along.”

  Olivia stares at me, her expression soft. “You really think she was deceiving you?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. That’s the issue.”

  I power through work, focused on the three o’clock meet-up time. I cruise through contracts, review more marketing plans, make calls, and even conduct some of the other phone interviews Jennica has set up for the rollout.

  Later that day, Carson and I go over the early numbers in my office. He’s nervous, shaking his knee as we chat. “We can stave off ShopForAnything. It’s looking good so far, and I want everything to go well.”

  “Yeah, me too.” I give him a curious look. “Hey, are you okay? You seem out of sorts today.”

  He sighs heavily. “Yeah, sorry. My mom is starting radiation next week.”

  My heart sinks. “Sorry, man. How is she doing? Do you need to take some time off to help her out?”

  He shakes his head. “No, she’ll be okay. I just want to make sure everything here launches without a hitch. I can’t afford to let ShopForAnything chase us down right now, know what I mean?”

  I nod. I do know. He’s worried about his job. He doesn’t want to lose it at a time like this in his personal life. He doesn’t want us to be stomped on by the competition.

  “We are going to crush it,” I say with confidence. Complete and utter confidence.

  When he leaves my office, I renew that promise.

  “We’re going to crush it,” I say to myself.

  That’s the reason I can’t dally around with what happens in two weeks scenarios, and I can’t keep firing off flirty texts to the woman from the masquerade party.

  I need to zero in on the goal—leading my company through these rougher waters.

  There will be time, eventually, to think about women, about trust, and about falling for someone.

  But that time isn’t now.

  The trouble is, when I see Sabrina that afternoon at the subway station, I wish she’d stop smiling at me like she was also wanting all the things we can’t have.

  15

  Sabrina

  His green eyes gleam as he walks to me on the sidewalk by the Fifty-first Street subway station. He’s holding something in his hand. I can’t quite tell what it is, since his fist is closed. He stops inches away and for a brief moment, I imagine
him kissing me on the cheek, or perhaps embracing me with a hello hug.

  My heart beats a little faster. Stupid hopeful thing.

  Instead, he simply smiles. “Hey.”

  “Hi.”

  “I have something for you.”

  “What do you have?”

  “I conducted a very daring halo-dismantling mission last night. The wire nearly nicked my hand, and the Monopoly money tried to give me paper cuts, but I soldiered on.” Flynn uncurls his fist and hands me the headband.

  I tuck it into my purse. “Thank you. I appreciate you risking life and limb for a hair accessory.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “It’s a favorite of mine.”

  “A duke always tackles dangerous tasks for a lady’s lovely hair,” he says and tingles spread down my chest from that private little reminder.

  I curtsy and nod in a demure thank you.

  His eyes drift toward the subway entrance. “And look. We won’t even have to queue up for the train.” He winks.

  I laugh at the reminder of our clandestine exchange last night, as I give him a furtive once-over. It’s hard not to, since I like looking at him so much now that I can see all of him. Of course, I liked looking at him on Sunday night too, even shrouded by the mask. With it removed, he’s so handsome it hurts, but it hurts so good.

  He wears jeans, brown shoes, and a dark-blue button-down, untucked. The cuffs are rolled up, revealing his forearms. Racquetball arms, I think. When I researched him, I read that he plays racquetball for a hobby, as well as softball, and I wonder if those sports have made him lean and ropey.

  I raise my gaze quickly to his face, cataloging his features.

  Flynn Parker has a boyish charm about him, with his clean-shaven jaw, twinkling eyes behind simple black frames, and flawless skin. But I doubt he shaved this morning. Stubble lines his square jaw and makes me wonder deliciously dirty things about how his face would feel against my thighs.

  Things I should not entertain.

  Especially since the prospect of his scruff near my lady parts is dangerously arousing.

  I conduct a clean sweep and focus on the article, donning my imaginary super-reporter cape. “Thank you for making time for me. I’m curious about your favorite place.”

  He gestures toward the stairwell that leads underground. “Let us go then, you and I.”

  I grab his arm. “Did you just quote T.S. Eliot to me?”

  “Hmm. Seems I did.”

  I shake my head, amused and turned on. “I was an English major. That’s not fair.”

  An impish grin appears. “What’s not fair about it?”

  “You can’t quote the first line of a great love poem to an English major. Shame on you,” I admonish playfully, but I’m being honest too. He sounds too seductive reciting poetry.

  “Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky,” he whispers, and my skin tingles.

  “Bad boy.”

  “Do you like bad boys?”

  “Now I do.”

  I’m flirting. I’m flirting times ten. I should stop. I really should.

  “I’ll keep it up, then. She walks in beauty like the night.”

  My pulse beats faster, and it’s too hard to stop when he quotes poetry. “You’re very bad, Lord Byron.”

  “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” he begins, and the little hairs on my arms rise in excitement, anticipation.

  “You. Must. Stop.”

  He tilts his head, and screws up the corner of his lips, fixing on a comical expression. “Arr, I’ll talk like a pirate then, ahoy, matey.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re terrible.”

  Laughing, he tips his forehead to my skirt as we head down the stairwell. “I’ll shift gears for you. Is today’s outfit homemade?”

  I’m wearing a simple black skirt with a pale pink satin ribbon down one side. “Yes. I suppose I’m predictable.” I glance at my skirt, which hits mid-thigh. I like them short, always have. Flynn seems to, as well, since his gaze follows mine and lingers on my legs.

  “You’re hardly predictable. It’s more like a fun discovery each time I see you.”

  “You’re kind of weirdly fascinated with my clothes,” I say as our shoes smack against the concrete, but truth be told, I like his interest in my wardrobe. I care about what I wear. I love making my clothes, and the fact that he notices—well, it delights me.

  “It’s not so much that I’m fascinated. I’m more curious and impressed with how handy you are. I suppose, in a post-apocalyptic world, you’d have a seriously usable skill to barter with.”

  I crack up. “That’s exactly why I learned to sew. To trade services at the end of the world. Speaking of, how will you manage, Mr. CEO? Will you organize the first company to sell post-apocalyptic supplies?”

  “Maybe.” He scratches his jaw. “Or perhaps I’d start an escort business.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “You’d have time for an escort business?”

  “I’d make time for it. One, pleasure would be at a premium when the fate of the world hangs in the balance. Two, what if it’s not really the end of the world? It’d be good to have a business that can transition. Three, I have a feeling I’d be excellent at it, and it would make my final days brighter.”

  “You are indeed prepared for a doomsday scenario. I’m impressed.”

  We head past the turnstiles and into the muggy station, waiting for the 6 train. “Also, I assume you’re good with us chatting for the piece as we ride the subway?”

  “Absolutely. It was my idea, after all.” He taps his chest, a look of pride in his eyes. “And I’m pretty damn proud of myself for finding something you haven’t done.”

  “Me too,” I say, bouncing on the toes of my short gray boots. “Especially since I’ve lived in New York or around it my entire life, and I’ve never actually seen the abandoned City Hall subway station.”

  He wiggles his eyebrows. “There’s a first time for everything, then.”

  Like sex with a stranger at a masquerade party.

  But that night was both a first and a last time, I remind myself.

  I take out my phone, hit record on my voice recorder app, and clear my throat. “Tell me about the robot you made when you were a kid.”

  He shoots me a curious look. “Why are you asking about the robot?”

  “I suspect Mr. Cardboard Robot has significance in the story I want to tell about Flynn Parker, the next generations business visionary.” I peer down the tracks. No sign of the train. “The robot was one of the first things you made. Did you always want to create?”

  He strokes his chin. “Ah, she assembles the clues, like Inspector Poirot.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “I love him.”

  “He’s badass,” Flynn says of Agatha Christie’s Belgian detective. Flynn strokes an imaginary mustache, the crime solver’s trademark.

  I lean in closer and whisper, “So glad you don’t have one of those curlicue mustaches.”

  He mirrors me, sliding near and dropping his volume. “Me too.” He steps back. “So, you want to understand the role of the robot in my life story.”

  “I do.” I’ve started the interview with a relatively easy question, but at the same time, it’s one that I hope will open a door, that will give me a chance to look around, to shine a flashlight into the corners of his mind that he might not normally share.

  I want to find out who he is. Yes, he’s a man who creates—experiences, products, companies. But what led him in that direction?

  He lifts his chin. “Why do you ask that question?”

  I grin. “You’re turning the tables around and interviewing me?”

  “I’ll answer, but I like knowing the reason.”

  I like being asked. I like that he makes me think, that he seems to poke and prod at me too. “I ask because at the heart of it, being a visionary is often pictured as thinking deep thoughts about what’s to come. But most true visionaries aren’t only gazing at the future. T
hey’re not afraid to get their hands dirty either. Do you agree?”

  “I’m definitely not afraid to get my hands dirty at all,” he says, skirting this close to the naughty line, but not quite stepping over it.

  I must steer clear of the line, too, so I stay the course. “I want to know if there was a lightbulb moment when you knew what you wanted to do in life. When everything clicked into place.”

  With his eyes locked with mine, he shakes his head. “No.”

  I shoot him a skeptical stare. “That surprises me.”

  “It’s the truth. I can’t isolate a moment when the lightbulb went off because it’s always going off. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to build something big. Something exciting. Something innovative.”

  My skepticism vanishes. “It’s as if that drive in you was pre-memory. Before you were even aware of wanting it.”

  He taps his nose. “Exactly. I’ve always built things. I’ve always wanted to. I don’t know how not to.”

  “What sort of things did you make when you were a kid?” I hold my phone, soaking up the details that he shares as we wait for the train.

  “Everything. Jigsaw puzzles. A huge Lego pirate boat sculpture. A catapult. A candy dispenser. After that, I made a tree house, a doghouse, and a swing set at my home in Connecticut.”

  “Wow,” I say, my eyes widening as he lists his projects, and I ask what his inspiration was for each.

  “Pirates are cool. Catapults are cooler. Candy is the coolest.”

  “Good, better, best.”

  “Exactly. Plus, tree houses are the definition of fun.”

  “And the robot? What inspired that?”

  A sheepish grin spreads on his face. “Naturally, Star Wars did. After I saw that flick for the first time I wanted my own R2-D2, so I built one out of cardboard.”

  “Did it talk in a sort of boop-beep way and hold all of the secret plans of the rebellion?”

  “I wish,” he says, a look of pure desire in his eyes, as if that truly would have been the greatest thing ever. “But even though it was cardboard and flimsy, I was hooked. I couldn’t stop making things.”