The Only One Read online

  His eyes had widened, and he’d groaned appreciatively. “Beautiful.”

  It was all he’d said, then he’d kissed the hollow of my throat and blazed a sensual trail up my neck, along my jawline to my ear, and whispered, “So beautiful in blue.”

  I’d melted.

  I’d believed all his sweet, swoony words. He’d said so many things that had set my skin on fire, that had made my heart hammer, that had made my panties damp.

  Even now, as I clutch the clothes I wore with him, then didn’t wear with him, goose bumps rise on my flesh. I squeeze my eyes shut and tell myself to burn the house down.

  It’s the only way.

  I leave my apartment, march ten blocks uptown, and donate the bag of clothes to the nearest Salvation Army.

  When I return home, I open my laptop and find the folder with the photos I took of the two of us. I’m tempted, so temped to grab a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, run my fingers over the pictures, then download Skype and call his number in Europe to ask why the fuck he didn’t show.

  But I can’t be that girl. I start my first job tomorrow. I need to be a responsible grown-up. I can’t be the clingy twenty-one-year-old who isn’t able to deal with being ditched.

  I’m Penelope Jones, and I can handle anything.

  I bring the folder to the trash, then I call up his contact information. His email address. His stupid phone number in Spain. I slide his name to the garbage can, too. My finger hovers over the empty trash icon for several interminable seconds that somehow spool into a minute.

  But as I remember the way I felt last night, all alone at Lincoln Center, it’s wholly necessary to stab the icon.

  Let him go.

  A clean break.

  For the next ten years, I do my best to keep him out of my mind.

  Until I see him again.

  Chapter One

  Penny

  Present day

  Shortcake runs free up the steps. She wags her tail the second her white-gloved paws hit the top of the staircase in our building. My sweet little butterscotch Chihuahua-mix glances back from above me, her pink tongue lolling as she pants.

  “Show off,” I say to her.

  Her white-tipped tail vibrates faster and I take that as my cue to bound up the rest of the stairs, my heart still beating hard from our morning run in Central Park. Last summer, when I brought Shortcake home from Little Friends, the animal rescue I run—she’d insisted upon being mine, slathering me in kisses from the second she’d arrived—I never would have imagined she’d also demand to be my running companion. But she’s a fast and furious little widget, all seven pounds of her. We’re training for a Four-and-Two-Legs-Race that’s part of Picnic in the Park to raise money for a coalition of local animal rescues.

  When I reach the fourth floor, Shortcake scurries ahead, rushing to the door of the small one-bedroom we share in the upper 90s. It’s all ours, and it’s near work, so I can’t ask for anything more.

  With her leash rolled up in one hand, I unlock the door and enter my home. It’s my oasis in Manhattan. The walls are painted lavender and yellow, courtesy of a long weekend when my friend Delaney and I went full Martha Stewart and turned the place into a haven of pastels. I’m not normally a pastel girl, but the soothing shades work for me in here. They make me happy.

  I like being happy. Crazy, I know.

  I fill Shortcake’s water dish, and she guzzles nearly all of it down before sprawling on her belly across the cool kitchen floor, arms stretched in front and legs behind, super-dog style.

  “By all means, feel free to spend the day lounging,” I say to my favorite girl.

  She flops to her side.

  “I’m totally not jealous of your lifestyle at all,” I say as I strip off my exercise clothes then go to take a quick shower.

  When I’m done, I grab my phone. I check my daily appointment list as I blow-dry my dark brown hair. Normally, I’m based at the shelter, working with the animals and my volunteers, or heading to the airports to meet the dogs coming in from other states so we can find them homes. Today, though, I need to dress up and put on my best public face. My assistant, Lacey, has set up meetings for me this week with restaurant owners about catering the upcoming picnic. We’re in a bit of a bind—the original restaurant slated to cater it had to cancel at the last minute. In a city stuffed with places to feed your face, you might think finding a restaurant is an easy task. But with a date a mere two weeks away, the options narrow quite quickly. So far, my effort to nab an eatery has been a big bust. I’ve been calling all over town in the last few days, but have yet to come across a restaurant that’s both free that day and the right fit.

  My quest continues though, since Lacey tracked down four restaurants with openings the day of the picnic. As I twist my hair into a clip, I click on her email.

  First up is Dominic Ravini, who runs an Italian joint best known for its “heavenly” spaghetti, Lacey tells me. Bless her. But I just don’t think spaghetti is right for a picnic, unless we switch it up to a Lady and the Tramp theme.

  I peer over at Shortcake. “I’d share a strand of spaghetti with you anytime,” I say as I dust on some blush. She thumps her tail against the floor. I take that as a yes, bring me home pasta for dinner please. With meatballs, of course.

  Next, Lacey writes that I have an appointment with a burrito shop. I give the email a quizzical stare. Though Lacey assures me it’s classy, I’m not convinced burritos are the best choice, either. I need to find a restaurant that can strike the perfect balance of sophistication and informality to entice the guests to donate to the shelters but still fit the picnic-in-the-park theme.

  That’s why I don’t hold high hopes for the Indian restaurant she has lined up. Big fan of chana masala here, but I’m not sure it screams serve me on a paper plate in the park.

  As I reach into my makeup bag, I scroll to the bottom of the email.

  The last restaurant with an opening is called Gabriel’s.

  I startle as I read the name and, unexpectedly, my breath catches.

  That name.

  I freeze, one hand on the mascara wand, the other holding my phone. Even now, years after my valiant attempt to erase that man from my history, his name alone does something to me.

  I’ve dated since him. I’ve had a few serious boyfriends. But there’s still just something about that man. Maybe that’s the curse of experiencing the best sex of your life at age twenty-one. At the time, I figured that sex with Gabriel was so great because I didn’t know better. Now, I’ve learned that sleeping with him was mind-blowing because…sleeping with him was mind-blowing.

  Those three nights in Spain were magical, passionate, and beyond sensual. I’ve tried to implement Gabriel amnesia, but he still lingers in the corners of my mind. Letting go of the mascara tube, I take a breath and tell myself a name is just a name. It’s a mere coincidence that this eatery on my list shares the same name.

  Except…my Gabriel was a cook. A struggling line cook in a small bistro in Barcelona that summer, planning to move to Manhattan for a job here.

  I drop my forehead into my hand as a fresh wave of foolishness crashes over me. What if he’s been here all these years? What if he came to New York and simply didn’t want to see me? What if we’ve been sharing the same island for the last decade? What if he was married when we were together? What if he went home to his wife, his girlfriend, his lover?

  I forced myself to stop playing this what if game ten years ago when he didn’t show for our rendezvous. I booted him from my brain and refused to linger on him, and especially on all the possible reasons why he left me alone.

  Now, he’s all I can think about. I need to know if this Gabriel is my Gabriel.

  When I google the restaurant, I let out an audible groan.

  I blink.

  Blink again.

  Try to still my shaking fingers.

  He’s here. He’s in Manhattan. After a decade, I’m going to come face-to-face with the man who stole my h
eart and my body.

  I set down my phone and scoop up my dog. “Can I send Lacey instead?”

  She licks my cheek in reply.

  “Is that a yes, Shortcake? As in, you think I should play hooky and spend the day with you and make Lacey do my dirty work?”

  This time she administers a longer tongue-lashing.

  “Most of the time I’m completely content with the fact that you don’t talk,” I tell her. “But today is not one of those days.”

  The mere possibility of seeing him again sets off a storm of warring emotions and confusion inside me. I don’t know what to do about this meeting, what to say to him, how I should act. The one thing I’m certain of is that I need a two-way conversation, so I call my friend Delaney as I pace around my small living room.

  “Hey there,” she shouts over the background clatter of construction. “If you can’t hear me it’s because they’re jackhammering one frigging block away from my spa, which is completely conducive to a restful day of relaxation. Not.”

  I laugh. “Let me guess. You’re walking to work.”

  “You got it,” she says, her normally pretty voice blaring so loudly I have to hold the phone several inches from my ear.

  “Speaking of guessing, want to guess who I just found out is on my work schedule today?”

  “Tom Hardy? Scott Eastwood? Chris Pine?”

  “Henry Cavill,” I say, since he’s her favorite celebrity. “But seriously, I’m supposed to have a meeting with…” I stop, since I can still hardly believe what I’m about to say. Then I use the nickname we bestowed on Gabriel many moons ago over a bottle of cabernet. “My international man of mystery.”

  She gasps, and it’s loud enough for me to hear her over the racket. “Are you serious?”

  I nod. “One hundred percent.”

  “Okay, hold on,” she says, and then ten seconds later, the background noise is sliced away and it’s blissfully quiet. “I stepped into the ATM lobby near work. My first massage is in ten minutes, so give me the details.”

  I dive in and tell her everything I know. “What do I do? Do I go? Do I send Lacey instead? Do I just…not show?”

  But as I say the last two words, I know I won’t do that. I’ve been on the receiving end of not showing, and I won’t stand him up.

  “Simple," she says, with authority. “You go.”

  My stomach drops. Pressing a hand to the wall for balance, I ask, “Are you sure you didn’t mean to say I should spend the day working hard at the shelter so that Lacey can have more responsibility overseeing our charitable events?”

  Delaney cracks up. “Yes, I’m completely sure I did not say that. Especially since, correct me if I’m wrong, but this is your job, not hers?”

  I heave a sigh as I nod. Backing out isn’t my style anyway. This is my event and my responsibility. It’s not something I can push off on an assistant who’s still learning the ropes. Besides, with one cancellation already, I need to make sure Picnic in the Park comes together. The buck stops with me.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I say, resigned. “So, um, what do I do? I have no clue how to waltz into his restaurant like he didn’t totally devastate me when I stood waiting at Lincoln Center for a man who never showed.”

  “It’s simple,” Delaney says in a cool, confident tone.

  “How is it simple?”

  “Because you’re not the same person. You’re not that heartbroken twenty-one-year-old about to start a job she did her best to pretend she was going to love because she thought it would please her parents.”

  “True,” I say, some of her confidence rubbing off on me.

  I’ve changed since then. When I went to Spain after college graduation, I was mostly sure that I’d be a research analyst on Wall Street. But a small part of me had dreaded that job before it had even started, and that was why I left after only six months. Funny thing—I wasn’t the only one to take off from Smith & Holloway. That was the year of exits from the bank, and it became a running joke. First the receptionist, then the human resources manager, then me. “And I love my job now,” I say to Delaney, giving myself a pep talk, “and that’s why I have to meet with him. Because who cares about him, anyway? The event is more important than his stupid decision to walk away from me.”

  “Exactly. And you’re not the type of woman any sane man should walk away from. So you need to make him eat his heart out.”

  “I like how you think,” I say, a dose of confidence surging through me.

  “Leave your hair down, show off that sexy new tattoo, and wear something that makes you look stunning. You look amazing in blue.”

  I laugh. “He used to say that, too.”

  “Boom. Done. Get out that royal blue off-the-shoulder top. The sapphire-colored one. Wear it with jeans. Women usually think they need to show their bare legs to be sexy, but a great pair of skinny jeans and heels is hotter than a skirt. Then walk in with your chin held high, like you don’t care that he broke your heart.”

  A grin spreads across my face. “Perfect. That’s the opposite of how I dressed when I knew him.” I was all about sundresses and cute little skirts when he met me. Young and innocent.

  It’s time to dress like the woman I am, not the girl I was.

  I say good-bye and open my closet. I want to be so goddamn memorable that his jaw drops from the shock, that he falls to his knees and begs forgiveness for standing me up, that he tells me he hasn’t gone a day without thinking of me.

  Oh yes, I wish for Gabriel to regret with every fiber of his being that he left me alone on what should have been the most romantic reunion of two summer lovers ever.

  I slip into my favorite jeans then adjust the shoulder on the top to show off the lily tattoo on my shoulder blade. As I slide my feet into a pair of black flats, I grab my favorite black heels and drop them into my bag. No need to kill myself in four-inch shoes until I arrive at my final meeting.

  On the way to my first appointment, I use my phone to take an online crash course in Gabriel Mathias. Since I don’t follow the restaurant scene, I had no idea he’d set up shop here. Turns out he’s now something of a rising rock-star chef, who recently won a season of a popular reality TV cooking show, then a few months ago he rode that spot of fame to open his first Manhattan establishment. It’s the flagship for a bigger business he now runs in cookware, cookbooks, and more.

  Well, la-de-dah. The once-struggling cook who excelled at paella has gone from rags to riches.

  I grit my teeth when I see the first photo of him. He’s still gorgeous. Actually, I should revise that. He’s even more gorgeous.

  The fucker.

  But I’m not going to let his looks soften me. I’m not going to be swayed by his pretty face. I’m strong, and I’m tough, and I’m smart, too. Which means I need to be prepared.

  I find a clip from his show on YouTube as I walk along Eighth Avenue. Popping in my headphones, I hit play and brace myself.

  Do not let that sexy accent woo you. Do not stare at those kissable lips.

  I do my best to listen objectively, as if he’s a test subject in a lab. A host or producer off-camera asks him a question. “You lost tonight’s appetizer battle. What do you think that does for your chances to win it all?”

  “It makes it tougher for me to win,” he says in that warm, sexy voice I adored. “But I’m ready for the challenge. I’ll need to work harder on the main course match.”

  I scoff as I march down the sidewalk. What will these reality geniuses come up with next? Salad showdown? Dessert skirmish?

  “How did you feel losing to Angelique when you’ve been making a name for yourself as a master of appetizers?”

  Gabriel takes a breath, his chest rising and falling. Then the corner of his lips curves up. “I was frustrated with myself but not so angry that I’d have, say, thrown a phone.”

  A laugh comes from off-camera, and I can only imagine the producers huddled together to try to incite him to throw a phone over a fallen flan, or a run
-of-the-mill risotto.

  The screen flashes, and the video clip cuts to what looks to be the end of the episode with the host holding Gabriel’s hand high in the air. I guess he won the match in the end, and his phone was safe from damage.

  As I stop at the crosswalk, I return to my original search. My eyes widen when I dig deeper and find stories of his official win on the cooking show, and all the names the media bestowed on him.

  The sexiest chef.

  The hottest cook.

  The heartbreaker in the kitchen.

  Nearly every article comes with a photo of him. I click on the first few. Then another set. Then one more group of pics. My chest burns with annoyance. My muscles tighten with anger.

  In every single picture of the chef du jour, he has a different woman on his arm.

  That’s my answer as to why he never showed. Gabriel is a ladies’ man. A bad boy. The consummate playboy, out with a new beautiful babe every single night.

  As I head in to my meeting with the Italian chef, I hope against hope this man can do something amazing with spaghetti at a picnic so I can call off the rest of my appointments.

  He can’t.

  Then, it turns out the burrito man is now booked for another event.

  At the Indian restaurant, the manager tells me it would be his first time catering an event, and he can only cook for fifty. We’re expecting more than three hundred. I thank him with a smile, then sigh heavily as I leave and head to the Village to see the man who swept me off my feet once upon a time.

  As the train chugs into the station, I change my shoes then tug on my top, showing a bit more shoulder than I usually do. He loved to kiss me there. He loved tattoos, too. I didn’t have any then. I have three now, including the lily. Let him look. Let him stare.

  I slick on lip gloss as I leave the subway, check my reflection in the shop window on the corner, and make my way to Gabriel’s on Christopher Street. My heart beats double time.