“Boxing the big boys?”
“Yup.”
Delaney nods, her high, blond ponytail swishing back and forth. “Don’t we all? She’s the underdog who’s now—what do we call her? The overdog?”
I laugh as Shortcake play-fights the dog who’s easily fifteen times her weight. “She’d approve of that description.”
Delaney turns and looks me in the eye. “Seriously, though, Pen. Why didn’t you admit it was you?”
I shrug, trying to make light of what happened yesterday at Gabriel’s restaurant. “Just wasn’t feeling it.”
She elbows me. “C’mon. That’s lame. You’re not a just wasn’t feeling it person.”
Like that, my best friend busts me.
The truth is, it’s hard to make light of seeing Gabriel again because every second with him felt like we were on the cusp of something, like a storm cloud swollen with rain before it bursts. I didn’t admit who I was because I didn’t want to get caught in the downpour. “I was going to,” I explain. “I swear. He seemed so legit when he kept asking if we knew each other, and it made me want to tell him. I was just waiting for him to fully make the connection. I didn’t want to do all the work.”
“I get that. Truly, I do.” She sets her hand on my arm. Delaney is a tactile person. She’s always touching. Makes sense, since she does massage for a living. “And I’m all for making the man suffer. But from what you told me, it sounds like he was trying hard to connect the dots.”
I point to my face. “You’ve known me forever. Do I look that different?”
She tilts her head to the side and taps her chin. “Hmm. Penelope Jones, the twenty-one-year-old Wall Street research analyst with the short news-anchor haircut? Or Penny Jones, lover of music and dogs, who abandoned the financial business after half a year to pursue her dream of working with animals and at thirty-one now has crazy long hair and tattoos along her shoulder?” She pauses to add, “Or Penny Smith now, evidently.”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “I gave him the wrong name at that point because I didn’t want to open myself up to hearing whatever bullshit excuse he was going to give me,” I say, trying to stay tough. The full truth is I would have been hurt all over again in a new, fresh way if he’d connected the dots and then said something nonchalant like, “Oh, sorry. I couldn’t make it to Lincoln Center that night. I was busy making a roast.”
Delaney levels her gaze at me. “What happens when you’re working together on the event and he refuses to deny anymore that it’s you?”
Her point is valid. But I’m not sure I’m ready to face that possibility. “I was going to say something. I was planning on telling him who I was. But then Greta the fruit lady, with her very own cantaloupes for breasts, appeared, and she was so flirty with him,” I say, seething as I picture the busty woman. “She called him handsome then said ‘see you later,’ and well, obviously there’s something going on with them.”
Delaney scoffs. “That doesn’t sound obvious at all. Maybe she’s just flirty and he’s just friendly with people he works with.”
I huff, hardly wanting to admit she may be right. “Be that as it may, what would have been the point? He believed he didn’t know me. I didn’t need to open the old wound. I’ve done a pretty good job of putting what happened with him behind me. I’ve moved on. Lord knows I needed to.”
Her narrow-eyed look tells me she doesn’t believe me. “I don’t know if you’ve completely moved on. If you’d moved on, I think you’d have told him.” Her tone softens. “Just playing devil’s advocate.”
“It didn’t seem worth the time.”
“Then why did you say yes to dinner with him?”
I look away from her and watch the dogs play. The mastiff rolls onto his back, his front legs in the air. Shortcake paws his snout from that position. Mitch laughs loudly then returns to his phone.
“She’s so cute,” I say as I stare at my dog.
Delaney laughs loudly. “Oh my God, you still want him.”
I snap my gaze back at her. “Mitch?” I ask under my breath, casting my eyes toward the blond, bespectacled man. “We went on two dates and agreed we were better off as dog park friends.”
Mitch had asked me out a few months ago, and he’s lovely and funny and sweet, but we have very little in common besides dogs.
Delaney shakes her head. “No. I mean Gabriel. Obviously.”
“Please.”
“Why else would you want to go to dinner with him?”
“For work,” I say, insistently. Perhaps too insistently.
She nudges her shoulder into mine. “He’s still gorgeous, isn’t he?”
“No,” I say, denying the truth.
She shakes her head, her lips quirking up. “You so love bad boys.”
“You love bad boys,” I toss back.
She holds up her hands. “Never denied it.”
“Besides,” I huff, “I said yes because we have to plan the event.”
She nods, with skeptical eyes that say she doesn’t believe me. “You said yes to dinner because you want him to remember you. You want him to say he’s sorry. You want him to grovel.”
I heave a sigh. “Stop being a mind reader.”
She flashes me a smile. “One of my many talents. But I have a serious question for you. Did you not admit it was you because of him…or because of Gavin?”
My nose crinkles at the mention of my ex. “Let’s not speak of the cad.”
“The cad you almost married. Thank God you dodged that bullet.”
I shoot her a withering stare. “I did not almost marry him.”
Delaney taps her forehead. “But you thought about it.” She shudders in horror. “I’m glad he showed his true colors. He deserves to be strung up by his—”
I cover her mouth with my hand. “Don’t say it. I don’t want to think of his parts in any context. It’ll just remind me what he did with them and where he put them.”
Gavin, a regular donor to Little Friends, was my last serious boyfriend. I was sure he was going to propose. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was going to say. I had loved him, but I wasn’t convinced that he was the one. And near the end, I’d had the sense that I wasn’t the only one at all for him. A pilot, he was one of those roguishly handsome captains who made women swoon. In New York. In Los Angeles. In Chicago. In Dallas. He had a lady in every port. When I learned about his out-of-the-cockpit escapades, he tried to grovel his way back into my heart but I kicked him out. I didn’t want to hear his excuses, so I sent his things to his work address and told him to “buckle up as it might be a bumpy landing.” I was tough and take-no-prisoners on the outside, but then I licked my wounds with Ben & Jerry’s, badass breakup tunes, long runs in the park, and lots of Purple Snow Globe cocktails with Delaney.
I sigh. “I would just like to find a man who’s like a dog. Someone who’s loyal.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the mastiff now cavorting with a German shepherd, chasing the brown and tan dog around the edge of the park. Meanwhile, Shortcake tugs on the ear of a basset hound. Delaney and I crack up in unison. “Or maybe not,” she says.
“But in all seriousness, I guess I just thought it would be easier by now,” I say, turning all philosophical for a moment. “Love, you know?” She nods, and I continue, “Back when I was twenty-one and I fell for Gabriel in Spain, it seemed like it had the potential to become something real. I was young and foolish, and it lasted only three days, so maybe that was my fault for wanting more. But it really hurt when he didn’t show up.” I raise my chin. “I’m a big girl. I moved on. I’ve had some good experiences and some bad experiences. I’m not complaining, but what I’d really like is to have just one amazing experience with someone that lasts a lifetime. Is that possible anymore in this day and age?”
Delaney shakes her head ruefully. “Don’t ask me. The things I hear from my clients all day long…”
In her job, Delaney is privy to all sorts of tales. She’s told me the w
ild stories her clients share as they relax under her magic touch, their loose tongues revealing sordid stories of affairs, trysts, ménages, online crushes, and late-night secret rendezvous. “Sometimes I think we’re better off single.”
Maybe we are. Maybe we’re better off by ourselves, with our dogs and our friends, than with a guy who maintains a little black book as he flies, or with a playboy who reappears in our lives.
As I ponder dating and mating and truths and lies, a beautiful russet-coated Irish Setter mix rushes into the park, bounding through the beasts. Her name is Ruby, and all the canine heads turn and immediately follow her.
Right behind Ruby is her owner, who is perfectly paired with her pet. Nicole has a mane of silky red hair that matches her dog’s gorgeous coat. She’s tall, beautiful, and brimming with confidence. When she spots us, she waves and calls out a hello. She heads over and gives me a big hug, then says hi to Delaney, too. The mastiff follows her and wags his tail as he rubs his haunches against her thigh.
“He has a crush on you,” Delaney says, gesturing to the big dog.
Nicole laughs and scratches the dog’s chin. “He’s just a lover. He loves all the ladies, doesn’t he?”
“Sounds like someone else I know,” I mutter.
Nicole arches an eyebrow. “Gavin? Is he trying to win you back again? Didn’t he send you an email asking for another chance?”
I shake my head. “That was a month ago. I suspect he had a layover in New York and wanted a lay more than a do-over. I ignored him.”
Nicole’s mouth forms an O. “Ooh, he’ll need some aloe vera for that burn.”
Delaney jumps in. “But it’s not him this time. She’s beyond Gavin. Penny saw someone she used to have a thing for many years ago.”
Nicole parks her hands on her hips and gives me a sharp stare. “Now, what did I tell you about that, young lady?”
Nicole often dispenses relationship advice. The first adage she ever shared was about her long-lost engagement ring.
I scratch my head and try to remember which love lesson might apply to my situation. “Is this like your what-it-means-when-you-lose-a-ring scenario?”
She raises a hand and shakes her index finger. “No. But that advice is not only golden—it’s platinum. Like the ring that went bye-bye.”
Delaney pantomimes a rim shot.
The redhead takes a quick bow. “Thank you, ladies. Be sure to tip the waiters on the way out.” Then she squares her shoulders. “But seriously, Penny. It’s this: life is too short to waste on exes. They’re usually exes for a reason.”
Later that evening, as Shortcake curls up on my lap on the couch while I assemble a new playlist of indie tunes on my phone, I return to Nicole’s advice, wondering the true reason why Gabriel is an ex.
I’ve never known the reason. Maybe I don’t want to know.
But if I’m being honest with myself, and I like to think I am, I suppose I do want to know.
That’s why I reach into my purse, unfold the sheet of paper with his number, and enter the digits into my phone. I take a breath and do something I haven’t done in a decade.
I send him a message.
Chapter Four
Gabriel
The knife gleams in Tina’s hand.
“Like this?” My neighbor curls her fingers above the red onion in her left hand, holding the sharp blade in her right.
“Perfect,” I say with a wide smile, as the soaring chorus of a rock song crashes through the state-of-the-art sound system in her apartment.
Tina lowers the shiny metal and cuts a fine, thin slice. I hold my arms out wide as the singer croons about love lost. “See? You will be my sous in no time.”
Tina arches a silver brow. “Just like you will become my student.”
I laugh and drop a kiss to her wrinkled forehead. My new neighbor is a world-renowned cellist. After three decades traveling the world and playing classical music so beautifully that audiences wept, Tina retired recently, finishing her career with the New York Philharmonic. Because of her nomadic life, she never learned to cook for herself. That wasn’t an issue when she was married. But she’s now a widow, since her husband died last year. When I moved to Manhattan and into the building earlier this summer, Tina and I hit it off, and soon she was passing along tips about which washing machine in the basement was always on the fritz and which delivery service was the most reliable, while I wound up helping around her home. I’ve fixed her sink disposal, changed some lightbulbs, and hung a picture frame.
When she confessed she’d never once made a meal on the stove, I set about rectifying that with cooking lessons. One of the first things I taught her was how to hold a knife properly, and she’s got it down pat now. As she finishes chopping the vegetables for her stir-fry, I glance at the wall clock.
“I need to go soon, Tina. But this weekend, don’t forget, I will take you to the farmer’s market in Union Square and we’ll pick out the best vegetables for a pasta primavera.”
“Is that an official date, then, with the sexiest chef in Manhattan?” She winks, and I shake my head, bemused. She will never let me live down my stint on that reality show. It entertains her to no end. “And then I’ll teach you how to play Bach’s Cello Suite Number One.”
I laugh. “Somehow, I think you’ll learn to cook much faster than I’ll ever learn to hit one correct note on a cello. You are the true master. But maybe you can tell me who we’re listening to,” I say, pointing in the direction of her speakers. “I like this music.”
“Ah,” she says with a nod. She sets down the knife on the cutting board. “You’re learning fast that I’m good for more than Brahms and Tchaikovsky. This is Pizza for Breakfast.”
I crack up. “Seriously? That’s really a band name?”
Indignant, she says, “And a damn good one. Don’t make fun of Pizza for Breakfast. They’re local, and they’re playing at the Den this weekend.”
I smack my palm on my forehead. “What has the world come to when I actually like a band called Pizza for Breakfast?”
She parks her hands on her hips. “Now, don’t tell me you dislike pizza for breakfast as a food. That was my staple for years.”
“I love pizza any time of the day, Tina, and I like this band. I’ll download the music later.”
“Pay for it, young man.”
“Do I look like a pirate?”
“Not tonight, in your fancy shirt. By the way, who’s the date with?”
I wrench back, surprised at her comment. “I didn’t mention a date.”
She smirks, a knowing glint in her warm brown eyes. “You didn’t have to. I can tell from your clothes,” she says, eyeing my attire.
My eyes drift down to my shirt, a dark blue button-down. “But see, I look devilishly handsome every day. Tonight is no different.”
“You dressed up more tonight. You’re usually in those too-tight jeans and an oh-so-trendy T-shirt—”
“I’ve never had any complaints about my jeans. Or my shirts, for that matter.”
“As I was saying, judging from this dress shirt, either you’re wooing investors, which I know you’re not, or you’re seeing a woman you like more than usual,” she says in that sharp, motherly tone she sometimes takes with me.
I shrug an admission.
“Has the ladies’ man of the kitchen met someone special?” she asks saucily, firing off one of the many names tacked on me over the years. There’s no point denying it. The names are true, though it’s a bit of a chicken-and-egg situation. When I first rose up in the ranks, somehow the food and dining press was as interested in my dating life as my cuisine. On the reality show, which I desperately needed to land a spot on, the producers made it clear that they liked that many of the women wanted my food and also wanted to go home with me. I’m not complaining about the opportunities that have come my way, especially since they’ve often intersected with the skyrocketing of my career.
In the last few years, I’ve been a lucky man, but I’ve kno
wn the other side of luck, too, and I don’t mean in love. I mean in life. As I was growing up, my family had very little. We scraped by for everything. My Brazilian father, an artist, fell in love with my French mother, a teacher, when he studied in France. We didn’t have much, but my parents rarely complained. Nor did I, even as I worked my ass off, desperately seeking the TV job and the chance it might afford me to leapfrog my career.
It worked, and now I run three restaurants, as well as a company that’s expanding into cookware, cookbooks, and more. That’s why I moved to New York from Miami a few months ago, since New York was better suited for the expansion.
And so, the nicknames have followed me—playboy chef, sexiest chef, and more.
“I’m hardly a ladies’ man,” I say to Tina.
“You can’t fool me, Gabriel,” she says, as she reaches for a bell pepper from a basket on her counter. “But answer the question, or I’ll cook my peppers too long and claim that’s what you taught me.”
I feign a look of horror. “Not that. Never.” The music shifts to a softer tune, and I pause to listen as a new voice sounds. “This band is good, too.” Then I add, “Anyway, it’s not a date.”
“Liar.”
I sigh. “Fine. You win. She’s someone I’m working with on a charity event.”
“But you want to impress her for more than the event?” Tina says, like she can see right through me.
Denial is impossible with her. She’s one of those women who just knows stuff. “Perhaps I do.”
“What makes her special?”
My mind roams back to Penny, and a smile tugs at my lips as I recall the twenty minutes we spent together at a booth in my restaurant the other day. “Besides being beautiful, I presume?”
Tina laughs sagely. “Beauty fades. Tell me about her.”
“I barely know her, but she’s sharp and passionate,” I say, remembering her “heavenly sandwich” compliment and the way she’d teased me, too, asking me if I was sure I knew her. I’d been certain at first, then perhaps not so much at all. “And more than that, she reminds me of someone.”
The Only One: A One Love Novella Page 4