The One Love Collection Page 2

  I can’t let on how I feel about Simon, because I’ve spent the last seven months taking care of his adorable five-year-old daughter. And I’ve spent the last six months, three weeks, and four days keeping the cat of all that attraction tucked in a neat, sealed, airtight bag.

  (That’s a metaphor, obviously. No cats were harmed in the telling of this tale.)

  And for the math wizards of the world, that means it took me three days on the clock to like the guy.

  Fine, I’ll admit that’s hardly any time at all, but he’s just that likeable.

  That also means I spend all my working days fighting this need to fling myself at him. It’s not as though he’s ever given me a sign that he’s interested, so call this crush unrequited. I’ve learned to live with it. I’ve come to accept it, the same way you accept having a spray of freckles across your nose, or curly hair that’ll never straighten. It’s a fact of my existence now, and like the freckles and the curls, I deal with it when I arrive at work, when I leave work, and when I meet him at various places in the city, including here.

  In her dolphin-decorated one-piece, Simon’s daughter, Hayden, splashes around the shallow end of the pool with the other kids and the swim instructor. When she surfaces, she pushes her goggles up her face and spots her hero. The kid beams, her smile as wide as the sky as she shouts, “Daddy! Come see me dive!”

  “On my way!” Turning the corner at the deep end, he walks past, waving as we watch the kids, and, let’s be honest, ogle him.

  His eyes meet mine next. “Hey, Abby,” he says, with an easy grin.

  My pulse speeds up, and I wave back. But I don’t blush. I don’t stammer. See? I live with this attraction, and I’ve mastered the art of self-control, revealing nothing as we hand-off the kid here at the pool today. “Hey there.”

  He nods at his adoring fans. “Hello, ladies.”

  That’s all it takes. Two words from the hottest guy around, and the hearts, they’re all aflutter as they wave back. He walks on by, crouching at the edge of the pool to say hi to his little girl and drop a quick kiss on her forehead.

  Yup, his love for his girl makes him even hotter.

  Leggy Lady leans in, pats my shoulder, and deadpans, “Nope. I’m not jealous of you whatsoever. Not one bit. Not at all.”

  I shake my head, trying to dismiss the idea. “The only thing to be jealous about is that I’m two months away from paying off my college loans,” I say with a wry smile.

  She narrows her eyes. “Now I really hate you.”

  As I steal a glance at Simon, hate is the furthest word from my mind. The four-letter word that’s now front and center is work.

  Tomorrow night, he’ll be working late. Which means I can snag a few minutes when he comes home just with him. I’ve learned to treasure those moments here and there when I get to talk to him, to know him, to learn more about him. The times when it’s only us.

  That’s the funniest thing of all about attraction. It can be so torturous, but you can look forward to it so much. It’s an exquisite kind of torment.

  It can drive you in everything, including how much I’m looking forward to tomorrow night.

  2

  Simon

  “Looks like squirrel is on the dinner menu,” Abby calls to me as I leave the bedroom, looping a wine-red tie around my neck.

  “I mentioned he was an inventive chef, but I’m not sure he’s that inventive,” I tease as I round the corner into the kitchen. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I told you it’s a Brazilian restaurant I’m trying to back. Not a rodent one.”

  She shakes her head, her honey-colored hair curling over her shoulders. It’s long and shimmery; sometimes she wears it in a French braid, sometimes in a twisty thing, sometimes in a ponytail, and sometimes down. Not that I’m paying close attention to her hair. I couldn’t tell you she wore it pinned up earlier today when she’d first arrived at my home, and all I could think about was her neck and how her skin might taste if I brushed my lips along the column of her throat. Or that she had it pulled back in a loose ponytail yesterday, making her look younger and even prettier. Or how the day before that she ran a hand through her wild, wavy hair and I couldn’t help but wonder how those soft strands felt to touch.

  No, I don’t notice every little detail about Abby Becker. Not at all.

  “I’m talking about the eagles. You already forgot about the eagles?” She points to the screen of her iPad as I join her at the kitchen counter, adjusting the silk knot of my tie.

  “I could never forget the eagles,” I say, and it’s true. I’ve checked them out a couple of times during the last few days, though Abby’s done most of the eagle viewing. She’s a tiny bit obsessed with nature documentaries. I don’t mean obsessed in a bad way. They’re her thing, and so they’ve become Hayden’s thing, since Abby spends so much time with her, taking care of her when I work. Last week, Abby discovered a webcam the American Bald Eagle Association had focused on a pair of bald eagle mates in a nest high up in a poplar tree in the National Arboretum in Washington D.C. Two baby eagles hatched a few days ago, and Abby and Hayden have been logging in regularly, watching the mom as she sits on the tiny birds, as she grooms them, and as she feeds them.

  “Mr. Eagle usually brings fish deliveries, but tonight he brought Mrs. Eagle a squirrel,” Abby says, her amber-flecked eyes sparkling with excitement.

  “Must be a special night. Because you know the saying?”

  “Which one is that?”

  “Nothing says true love like a squirrel.”

  “It’s the complete and absolute proof of his devotion,” she says with a laugh. “I took a screenshot to show Hayden in the morning.”

  On the tablet, a huge bald eagle is feeding her two babies, tugging at the meat between her claws with her beak and dropping it in hungry mouths. It’s ridiculously adorable and completely badass at the same time. Hayden will love it. She conked out early tonight. Another swimming lesson late in the day did the trick, sending her to the land of nod ahead of schedule.

  “This is Mother Nature at its finest, capturing these animals doing their thing.” Abby parks her chin in her hand and watches the evening feast in the poplar tree, wonder in her eyes. I lean closer. My shoulder is next to hers, a mere sliver of space between us. No, this is not the fulfillment of all my dreams about Abby, but I can’t deny that being this near to her is borderline arousing. Could be because it’s been a while. Could be because she smells like vanilla and sunshine. But it could also be because I’ve been wildly in lust with her for precisely seven months longer than I should.

  It was kind of a first-day thing for me. Wish I could say otherwise, but that’s the truth. Insta-lust. Trouble is, it’s morphed into a helluva lot more than lust in all this time she’s spent in my home, with my family, with my kid.

  Admiration. Fondness. The real deal.

  It’s turned into exactly what I cannot have.

  A big thing for the nanny.

  If I could roll my eyes at myself, I would. Maybe even kick myself. But I can’t, so I zone in on the screen instead.

  The mama eagle drops a piece of food into one eaglet’s beak, then the other.

  “I guess we call that mouth-to-mouth squirrel delivery, and it is pretty awesome,” I say, because you’d have to be heartless not to find this webcam footage fascinating. The big bird gathers the babies underneath her when the feast is over, keeping them warm. I point to the uneaten portion of the dinner. “They have enough left over for a few more meals. She should really put that in Tupperware.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Eagle is at the market, picking some up right now. It’s important to keep it fresh,” she says in mock seriousness. Then she turns to me. “Want me to let you know when they go back for seconds?”

  “Absolutely. Please send me a full report on the next eaglet feeding.” I look at my wristwatch. “I need to head to my dinner. I should be back by eleven.”

  “If you need to stay later to entertain Gabriel, it’s totally fine.
I have a book, and my Italian app to work through,” she says, tapping her iPad. She already speaks four languages and is learning a fifth. When I interviewed her for the job, she told me she spent her junior year of college in Barcelona on a study abroad program. She grew up knowing Spanish, but wanted to master it, and she has. She offered to teach some basics to Hayden, and now my daughter is picking up a few new phrases. That’s one of the many perks of working with someone like Abby.

  “I’ll definitely be back on time,” I say, because I don’t want this dinner with the hot new chef everyone is wooing to last forever, and because I need to be considerate of Abby’s time. She works full-time for me, since I have primary custody of my daughter.

  Abby scowls as she circles her finger in the direction of my chest. “You’re not going to wear that, are you?”

  Her tone makes it clear the correct answer is no, but I have no clue if she means the pressed white shirt, or the silk tie.

  “And which sartorial item evokes your displeasure?”

  “The tie,” she says crisply. “It’s all wrong.”

  “Why, may I ask?”

  “It’s too Wall Street.”

  “I did work on Wall Street for a decade.”

  She nods several times. “It shows. That tie makes it abundantly clear you’ve spent plenty of hours with Standard & Poor’s,” she says with a smirk. “Not like you’re an I-left-Wall-Street-to-back-hip-eateries investor.”

  And folks, this is reason number 547 why I can’t shake this desire. Because she’s so goddamn direct, and it’s a fucking turn-on. After my ex’s falseness, Abby’s honesty is refreshing and downright alluring.

  “Which tie should I wear then?” I ask, and for a moment, I nearly let myself believe I’m asking like a man seeking input from the woman he’s with. As if she’s going to step closer, undo the tie, and toss it on the couch. As if she’s going to run her hands down the front of my shirt and say Skip the dinner—have me instead.

  I’d miss the dinner in the blink of an eye. I’d have her all night long, again and again, and send her soaring in pleasure.

  But I can’t let my brain hop too far from my reality.

  We’re not a couple. We’re not together. She’s my daughter’s twenty-six-year-old nanny. I’m her thirty-four-year-old employer. Abby is bright and beautiful and funny and smart and so fucking sexy, and she’s only giving me advice on clothing because she’s one of the most upfront and caring people I’ve ever met, not because she’s playing house.

  “No tie,” she answers, her eyes fixed on my attire.

  “None at all?” I ask, because I like the fact that she’s looking at me, that she’s thinking about me.

  She purses her lips, drawing my attention to them, all shiny and glossy. She shakes her head. “You don’t need to be a tie guy anymore. Besides, I like the tieless look.”

  “Why’s that?”

  She straightens her shoulders and gestures to me. “It says confidence. It says you’re so cool you don’t even need neckwear.”

  I narrow my eyes, adopting a debonair simmer. “Guy. Tieless Guy,” I say in my best over-the-top-suave James Bond tone.

  She laughs. “Perfect. Though I’d have pegged you more in the Chris Hemsworth type of role.” She quirks up the corners of her lips. “You’re a dead ringer.”

  Oh, yeah.

  That is a compliment.

  And I’ll gladly eat it up.

  “On that note, I should go.”

  “Good luck tonight,” she says, upbeat and cheery. Her eyes meet mine, and for a few seconds they linger. Neither one of us says anything. I just enjoy the view of her gorgeous face.

  That gorgeous, untouchable face.

  I repeat that word silently. Untouchable. She’s off-limits to me.

  Her tone shifts to something softer as she adds, “And if the eagles get hungry again, I’ll send you a message, Simon.”

  My breath hitches, just from hearing her say my name like that. I swallow, my throat dry. How can I be so wound up at the thought she might send me a text about a bird of prey eating? I know the answer, of course. It’s as old as time.

  I want her.

  I pop into Hayden’s room. She’s sound asleep under the covers, her wild brown hair fanned out over the lavender pillowcase. I press a soft kiss to her forehead and run my fingers lightly over her hair. “Good night, little dolphin.”

  I step away, quietly close the door, and return to the living room, grabbing my phone.

  “See you in a few hours,” I say to Abby, who’s settled into the couch with her iPad.

  “See you later, Guy, Tieless Guy,” she says, and waves goodbye from her spot amongst the soft pillows. She looks good curled up on the couch, like she belongs here. Like she’s mine and she’ll be staying the night.

  I’d like to smack myself right now, because it’s so cliché—the single dad who’s got it bad for the nanny.

  I shake my head in the building’s mirrored elevator and mutter, “Get it together, man.”

  I might want her, but I sure as hell can’t have her. Something I remind myself of later that night, when a text from her lands on my phone.

  3

  Simon

  Gabriel points to the angel food cake. “This tastes like a sweet pillow melting in your mouth, does it not?”

  “Like a blueberry pillow,” I add since the cake is covered in blueberries and blueberry sauce.

  He brings his fingers to his lips and kisses the tips. “It is home, plus flare. That’s what I want. I want this feeling in Gabriel’s on Christopher,” he says, since he’s already picked a spot in the Village for the new restaurant he wants to open—his first in Manhattan, coming on the heels of his wildly successful eateries in Miami and Los Angeles. He’s French and Brazilian, and his creations are a fusion of both cuisines.

  He turns to the men in his entourage, and says something in French, his native language. It’s rapid-fire, and makes me wish I fully understood what he’s saying, rather than just a word here or there, especially when his goateed business manager says something to me about wine. Eduardo is soft-spoken, so the question is mostly lost. Gabriel steps in, and repeats what he said.

  “Sure. More wine,” I say, sliding over the glass, because more wine is always the right answer in the food business. The restaurant we’re at tonight is a few blocks away from the one he wants to open.

  Gabriel pours more of the cabernet, sets down the bottle, then flips his long, wild hair off his shoulders. This man is a rock-star chef in every sense of the word. The hair, the tattoos, and of course, the talent. As for me, I can boil water extremely well and order takeout or delivery even better, but I’m excellent at sniffing out talent. And Gabriel is the real deal.

  The trouble is, after his victory on a popular reality TV cooking show, nearly every big restaurant investor in town has sniffed him out, too, and wants the chance to back his first Manhattan establishment, especially since it’ll be the flagship for a much bigger business expansion into cookware, cookbooks, and more. That’s why I’ve spent the last few weeks buried in paperwork, developing the proposal that I hope will win his business.

  We chat for a few more minutes about New York and food. “Manhattan needs your panache, Gabriel,” I tell him, as my phone buzzes faintly in my pocket. I can’t look now, since I want to give them my full attention. Besides, if there were an emergency with Hayden, Abby would call rather than text. “We’ve been sorely lacking in the sort of style you’re known for, not to mention your daring in the kitchen.”

  “That makes me sad for your city,” he says, his lips pulling into a playful frown.

  “Exactly. But just imagine how happy you can make the taste buds in Manhattan.”

  He tosses his head back and laughs. “I can hear them crying out for me now. Gabriel,” he says, mimicking a host of adoring fans calling out his name. The thing is, he does have fans, and not only because he’s masterful with a skillet and a knife. Women flock to him at his restauran
ts and his events, and I don’t think they’re after his lasagna recipe.

  By the time the meal ends, I’ve got a good feeling that I can land this deal. We’ve skirted the subject of terms, but tonight’s not the time for that. Besides, he knows my track record when it comes to investing, and what I bring to the table in capital as well as experience.

  I take a final bite of the cake, then set down my fork, leaving the dessert half-finished.

  “That is a sin,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me.

  I laugh. “True. My daughter would tell me there’s always room in the dessert drawer.”

  Gabriel eyes the remaining slice of cake on the table. “Now, as your punishment for not finishing your dessert, you must take the extra piece home for your little girl.”

  I adopt a serious look. “Punishment accepted. And thank you. She’ll be thrilled.”

  “Sweets are the way to a woman’s heart,” he adds.

  Eduardo says something in French, and Gabriel laughs, translating as he taps his chest. “He tells me, isn’t that my mantra?”

  “And is it, Gabriel?” I toss back.

  “I’ve been known to make a woman swoon with my crème brûlée,” he says, shrugging sheepishly.

  An idea strikes me—to take the extra piece to Abby.

  I haven’t taken dessert home for a woman in ages. My ex was one of those anti-sugar people, so treats were verboten. I never took any home for Miriam. She’d have scoffed at the offending item, and told me precisely how many calories were in a piece of pie, a slice of cake, a tart. She knew how to suck the fun out of dessert, of food, and come to think of it, of life in general.

  On the crowded sidewalk outside the restaurant, we say good night. I shake hands with Gabriel, Eduardo, and the others, then hail a cab and let them take the first one. I grab the next taxi right behind it, and on the ride home I finally check my phone.