Seven Books for Seven Lovers

by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair

  “Okay, sure. It’s probably not a bad idea considering this, um . . . whole exploding Goldilocks thing ya got goin’ on.” She scans my hair and smiles.

  Looking up, I push aside a straggly strand and snort.

  She looks over reassuringly. “Kenz, it’s gonna be okay. Everything will work out.” A beep-beep from the car behind us barks that the light’s turned green.

  Out of habit, I check my phone. The message. There was another one. I almost forgot. Opening it, I scan and see the same one as before with additional text.

  I read it out loud to Ellie in the same dreamy tone as in You’ve Got Mail. I pop my eyebrows to Ellie. “I got that one earlier. Fitting, right?”

  She gives a closed-mouth smile and I keep reading. “I know this is probably a little late to be asking, but are you married?”

  “Is that a line from You’ve Got Mail, too?” Ellie asks, turning onto my street.

  “Yeah.” I lean back to think. “Yeah, it is. Although it’s Kathleen’s line to Joe Fox.”

  Ellie’s voice rises. “Oh, I bet he wants to know about Bradley. If you’re going back to him.” There’s a spark of excitement in her eyes.

  I’m busy typing a response, my heart thumping a beat or two faster. I say it out loud. “Dear NY152, What kind of a question is that? Oh wait, I get it. Your friends are telling you the reason we haven’t met is that I’m married. Am I right?”

  I hit SEND.

  “That’s Joe Fox’s line.” The response is almost immediate. “Dear ShopGirl, We should meet.” What? “No.” I shake my head. “He set me up for that. I’m not meeting with him yet. I’m . . . no.” I still need time to think. He’s lucky I’m playing along with the whole You’ve Got Mail thing. I pocket the phone and start rummaging in my bag for my keys, flustered.

  Ellie pulls into my apartment complex and parks the car without another word. The only thing I want to do is head back to my couch and maybe open some wine. I’m still hunting for my keys as we get out of the car. I bump the door shut with my hip, mentally cursing the size of my purse.

  “Kensington.”

  My heart stops. Really? I look up in disbelief. It’s Mr. NY152. Here in my parking lot. There’s no let’s meet. Shane’s already here.

  Why is he in a suit? He smells of musk and temptation, proving the Devil does indeed wear Prada. At least I think that’s Prada. Doesn’t really matter. The point stands.

  Shane’s standing there, waiting for me to say something. I blink. This is where one of the remaining six curlers should pop and spring another hair coil. Oh, God, my hair.

  “Hi, Shane.” Ellie smiles sweetly, widens her eyes to me, then walks past to . . . oh, great. Rand Peterson. Gang’s all here.

  This is not something I’m prepared to deal with. I start walking, my hand spinning the contents around in my bottomless bag to redistribute everything. I still can’t find my keys.

  Where are they? I quicken my pace, without a single word or acknowledgment that he’s here. Dressed like that, following me, dressed like this. It’s more than embarrassing.

  “You look pretty,” says Rand with a bright smile to Ellie as I pass them. His face falls when he sees me.

  Whatever. I’m starting a new trend. I wipe under my eyes and notice black on my fingertips. Great, my mascara ran, too.

  Ellie’s updating Rand on our misadventure. “And then we’re in the bathroom, and Kenz, oh my God, she . . .”

  “Kensington, wait, please,” Shane calls from behind me, his tone warm, his expression possibly amused.

  It doesn’t matter, I’m not amused and I’m definitely not waiting. I just want to hide. My slipper cleats make a dull click, click, click with every step on the concrete. My assorted hair antennas bob and dance to their tempo. I feel like a doodlebug wearing tap shoes.

  “Kensington, please. We need to talk.” Shane’s beside me, matching my click-shuffle pace.

  I stop outside my door, reach in deep, swirl the contents like I’m about to draw a raffle ticket until my fingers brush metal and plastic. I yank my keys out, unlock the door, and move aside to let in Ellie and Rand, who are waiting. But as Shane steps forward, I cut in front, step inside, and slam the door behind me. I’m not ready to talk.

  “Kensington.” Shane’s words are muffled from the other side.

  The apartment’s made of brick. So he can huff and puff all he wants. When I swivel around, Ellie and Rand are both looking at me.

  “Is she drunk?” Rand asks Ellie, one hand pointed in my direction.

  Ellie laughs. “Not yet. Are you gonna let him in?”

  There’s a knock, knock, knock. I ignore it. “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Kensington,” Shane says louder. Another knock, knock, knock.

  “We need wine. Talk to him, Kenz,” Ellie says and heads for the kitchen.

  “I’ll, um . . .” Rand motions to Ellie and follows her.

  Good call. Another light knock. This time the wolf really is at the door. And what big lies he’s told. Well, I guess he hasn’t technically told any, but he’s held back. He knew about Tonya and Bradley. The logical me says not to trust him.

  But there’s a persistent little voice, excitedly jumping up and down chanting, But he’s here, he’s here. It’s even throwing sparkly glitter.

  I close one eye and squint through the door peeper with the other. He even looks good distorted. Dark waves framing deep honey-brown—oh, he’s looking back. I jump away quickly. He can’t see me, can he?

  “Kensington, can I please come in?” The handle turns left, then a half-centimeter right, before it catches.

  I stand close to the door. “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.” I almost say not by the hair of your chinny, chin, chin. But I already look crazy; I don’t need to sound it, too. I lean my back against the door and fiddle with my hands.

  His weight jostles both me and the door as he leans from the other side. “Fine. I’m not leaving, so we’ll talk like this.”

  “Whatever.” All I’d have to do is walk away. Not stand here. But my feet are fixed in place. And to be fair, I should give him the same courtesy I gave Bradley, right? I turn so my shoulder is pressed to the door. “Here’s the deal. You get one chance to tell the truth. I ask, you answer. Okay?”

  “Ask.”

  My stomach jumps. I’m not ready. What exactly do I want to ask? Why didn’t you tell me about Bradley and Tonya? Do you know about Clive? How am I supposed to ever trust you again? Why do you have my paintings? In a tiny, faint voice from somewhere deep inside . . . How do you feel about me?

  “Kensington?”

  My head rocks and clunks on the door. I leave it there. “You knew about them from the start. Why didn’t you tell me about Bradley and—”

  “Would you have believed me? Really? After everything from before? It would have only pushed you further away. No, you needed to make that choice on your own.”

  I did break it off with Bradley before I found out he cheated or the pregnancy thing. So I did choose on my own. And, no, I might not have believed Shane. In fact, just him saying Bradley wasn’t right for me was grating. Ugh, that actually makes sense.

  “Kensington?”

  “Okay, I guess I can understand that.” A surge of indignation washes through me. “But why didn’t you stop me from leaving? You let me leave.”

  “I tried to stop you but . . . you also still had his ring.” The timbre of his voice is low.

  True enough. My hand splays on the door. “I don’t have it anymore, Shane.” I swear I can feel him through it. I close my eyes. Just say it. “I need to know what it is you see happening between us. What it is you want. Because I still want to get married and have a family . . . and all those things.” There. It’s out there. In the void. This time I need an answer.

  There’s a pause. The longest, most excruciating pause ever.

  The door shifts, but he’s not saying anything. God, say something, anything. Please.

  I l
ook back out the peephole. My breath catches. He’s gone? He left. I don’t see him. Angling my head from side to side reveals an empty front step and walkway. I open the door and lean out.

  There’s no Shane.

  The excited, glitter-throwing voice is now chucking it at me, shouting, You’ve ruined everything, you sounded needy and demanding and . . . he doesn’t want those things. He doesn’t.

  But I do.

  And for once, that’s all that matters.

  I shut the door, confused and irritated. The couch is calling me, so I grab my phone, head over and plop down, my mind reeling. What’s the point? I mean, why did he even come up here?

  Clicking on Facebook, I scroll the feed. Photos of what people made for dinner and another invitation to play Texas Hold’em. I flip to e-mail. A new message from Shane? The subject line says “updated list.” I click to read.

  1. Sleepless in Seattle

  2. Pretty Woman

  3. Bridget Jones’s Diary

  4. 27 Dresses

  5. Dirty Dancing

  6. Sixteen Candles

  7. Love Actually

  8. Say Anything

  9. You’ve Got Mail

  10. My Best Friend’s Wedding

  That’s it? It’s just the list. No note, no nothing. Reading through, I can’t help but think of the movie moments with him. But I’m not sure what he’s doing. I mean, he knew about Tonya and Bradley. And then he comes up here and leaves, why—what is that? Cocking my head to the side, I focus on the sound coming from outside. The volume starts to climb.

  It’s music. Music?

  I click off my phone and listen. The lyrics and melody are familiar. I know this song. It’s Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes.”

  “Oh my God.”

  It’s Say Anything. He’s doing Say Anything.

  In the movie, Diane Court never looks out her window. She never sees Lloyd Dobler and his pained expression. No, she lies in bed and listens. Knowing it’s the song that played the night they spent together, that he’s just outside, and every word is meant for her.

  In your eyes. I am complete.

  I’m smiling through warm tears. I’m not Diane Court, I’m Kensington Shaw, and I’m looking. Walking to the front window, I slowly push the curtain to the side and peek out.

  The laugh is instant. Shane’s doing it. He has a boom box held over his head and . . . what is he wearing? A long, ill-fitting trench coat is on over his suit.

  I push the curtains wider and he spots me. We stay locked in our gaze through the glass as the song finishes the last round of its chorus.

  Knowing that every word is meant for me. Knowing exactly what it is I want. Maybe what I’ve always wanted.

  In an instant, I’m at the door, tearing through it, and running to him in my thumbtacked slippers. My hair is bobbing along with each step. I stop right in front of him.

  He regards my crazy hair, smudgy tearstained face, sweats, and slippers as if he had forgotten what was really on the other side of the door. I can feel the heat on my cheeks as he sets the boom box down.

  My nose wrinkles. “Still want me?”

  Shane steps forward with deliberate care, lifting a wayward curl from over my face. He leans in close, flecks of gold an inch away, and smiles. “Yes, definitely.”

  I glance up through moist lashes, making another decision. The ring’s off my finger, so I ask. “Kiss me?” It comes out with a small breath, and it’s captured at once by his lips.

  They move slowly over mine. My hands wrap around his neck as he pulls me close. Holy hell. Fireworks, lightning bugs, static cling . . . anything remotely electric is now zapping around inside my heart. It’s a gentle tease, a sweet torture.

  A really good kiss.

  Shane pulls back only enough to whisper near my ear, “I know it’s been tough, and tomorrow with the shower thing it isn’t going to be any easier, so I have a surprise. It’s not on our list. And you may want to change.” Shane kisses my cheek, then leans out so my eyes meet his gaze. It’s full of suggestion.

  Snap. One of the last curlers springs free, rolls down my shoulder, and lands on the ground with a light bump, right on cue. Giggling softly, I smile.

  “IT’S A VINTAGE 1955 ROLLS-ROYCE,” Shane says, checking the rearview mirror. The car vibrates and shimmies as he backs out of the parking spot. “The company I rented it from said it sat disassembled for almost twenty years. They had it rebuilt.”

  This is my surprise. It’s an old car like in the movie Titanic. Okay, that movie’s not technically on our list, the car’s not an exact replica, and the movie doesn’t end happily, but who cares. That car scene was hot, and this works.

  The inside has an aviation look with the oversized speedometer and fuel gauges in the mahogany-veneered dash. The bench seats are leather. It’s just cool. “This is . . . well . . . a really great surprise,” I say, smiling. “Where are we going?”

  Shane turns with a sideways glance. “To the stars.”

  I laugh. “That’s my line. In the movie Rose says, ‘to the stars’ and pulls Jack into the backseat, remember?”

  “Then I guess I’ll have to pull you into the back.” Shane’s eyes dance with mischief.

  My insides churn wildly and I smile then look away, sure my cheeks are red.

  “So, dinner? Dancing? I’m dressed for whatever you want.”

  Even though I’ve changed, it doesn’t change what transpired with Tonya today. Or the upcoming interrogation about Bradley that waits for me in the morning. Ugh, Ren’s mini-shower and what was supposed to be my engagement party. I look out the window, at early evening’s sky feathered in pinks and reds, and sigh. “I’m not really up to dancing.”

  “Hungry?”

  I look again at Shane and shake my head.

  Our eyes meet and he reaches over and takes my hand. His fingers caress my palm, open against his. I bite my lip and smile coyly.

  Shane smiles back, and I can tell by his expression what he’s thinking. My heart’s skipping wildly in my chest as I take everything into consideration.

  “You know I need some time before I can commit to us, right?” I say, glancing at our fingers, now interlaced.

  “Yes, and that’s understandable.” He takes a long, slow breath, then glances sideways. “What are you gonna do?”

  “Um . . . reevaluate everything. Start over.” I shrug. “Maybe paint.”

  “Well, if you can paint, I can wait, Kensington.”

  My heart swells in my chest. It’s the final movie lines from An Affair to Remember. Well, almost. “You know she says the line and it’s if you can paint, I can walk, right?”

  Shane searches my eyes. “I don’t paint and I’m not walking.”

  My stomach flips. I glance up through my lashes. “So you said dinner, dancing, anything I want?”

  He looks over, but doesn’t say a word.

  My heart’s skittering around in my chest. I move beside him as he drives and lift his hand, the one still entangled with mine, and bring it to my lips. Pressing a soft kiss to his fingertips, I whisper through them, “Put your hands on me, Shane.”

  Within seconds, he’s pulling onto one of the small scenic photo spots along the White River where we were driving. It’s secluded with no overhead lights. The ignition’s turned off and his lips find mine hungry, wanting.

  Shane’s door opens and he pulls me out, only to guide me into the backseat.

  “Not over?” I ask.

  “This was faster,” he says, his breath uneven. He’s kissing right above my collarbone, my neck, just below my ear.

  This is, oh . . . a small gasp escapes as he bites my lobe. There’s a bittersweet pain pooling below my navel as he gently sucks it in. My heart is pounding hard in my rib cage. The new scruff on his jaw is coarse and bristles against my heated skin.

  I run my hands along the inside of his jacket, up onto his shoulders, forcing the jacket off. My fingers nimbly undo his shirt buttons one after another until my ha
nds are running over his bare skin. I ache to touch him.

  He traces the contours of my body with his fingertips. It’s agonizingly slow. And I need him. Want him. I want to give him all of me. Body and heart. My whole heart.

  Shane has my dress unzipped and lifts it off slowly over my head, then gently lays me down. Hooded eyes of copper brown stare into mine. Whispered words and kisses follow to my closed eyelids, my brow.

  We’ve been here before, Shane and I. And this somehow feels like coming home. It feels so good to feel happy. To just let it all go, even if it all comes back tomorrow. Because right now, I’m lost in this moment. In Shane. All at once, I’m overtaken with emotion. I can feel my eyes start to water, and then one fat tear breaks away.

  Shane’s kisses find their way to my neck, my cheek. He meets my gaze and holds it. Using his thumb, he pushes away the moisture. “Don’t cry, ShopGirl, don’t cry.”

  The next line is I wanted it to be you. But there’s no need for words.

  So I don’t say anything.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Four-Letter Words and a Shower

  I CRANE MY HEAD TO look at Shane. God, he’s cute when he sleeps. He’s leaned up against the door, his legs stretched out on the vintage car’s bench backseat, and I’m wrapped in his arms. My legs are curled practically on top of him. He’s in nothing but his boxer briefs, me in my thong. We’re covered by his suit coat. This is a nice way to wake up.

  Wait . . . wake up? Today is . . . no, is it?

  Oh, crap!

  It’s Saturday.

  Oh no! Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! This is not good. Please be a dream. Be one of those really weird dreams where it lingers even after you’ve opened your eyes. Don’t be Saturday. Please say we didn’t fall asleep. I blink, then squeeze my eyes supertight and . . . open. Okay, try again. Close . . . open. Close, open. Close, open. Close, open.

  We’re still in the car.

  Not a dream. Today is Ren’s shower.

  I smack him.

  “Hey! Wha?” His eyes open in shock.

  I sit up. “We’re still in the car. It’s morning. I don’t know what time it is. I think it’s early but . . .” I take a gaspy breath. Clothes . . . where’s my bra?