The One Love Collection Read online

I work open the top buttons on my shirt when I hear the footsteps. A flurry of nerves spreads inside me. Partly because I hope to hell Felipe’s not coming in here, hunting me down like the Robe Police.

  Mostly, though, I’m nervous because I’m flying blind from here on out.

  I’ve no clue how Delaney is going to respond. But the woman made the path to forgiveness crystal clear. Say you’re sorry. Make it believable. Mean it.

  The evidence from our calls in the past week points to our rekindled chemistry—so I need to lean on that for my apology.

  I slide another button out of its hole.

  A soft rap sounds on the door, then someone pushes it open wider, and soft feet pad into the tiled room.

  “Hi Mr. Pollock, so glad you—”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, meeting her brown-eyed gaze. She frowns.

  I slide open another button. “I’m sorry for the callous way I ended things.” I reach the hem of my shirt. “I’m sorry for the juggling comment. That was cold and cruel.”

  Her lips purse, like she’s trying to ask a question. As I move to the tie and unknot it fully, leaving it undone around my neck, I keep up the words—I’ve always loved words, and shaping them into just the right argument to make a point. Now, I need all the letters of the alphabet to let this woman know I want her to look beyond the idiot I was eight years ago. She prizes honesty, so I give her more of the bare truth. “I was a stupid, twenty-two-year-old cocky, conceited jerk.”

  She blinks as I pull my shirt from the waistband of my slacks. “What on earth are you doing here?” She waves wildly at my unbuttoned shirt, like I’m a brainteaser about two trains in opposite directions entering a one-way tunnel at twelve o’clock.

  “I’m your ten a.m. massage, and I’m here to say I’m sorry.”

  “You booked a massage?” she asks, like that statement makes the train puzzler even more confusing.

  I nod. “I sure did. A massage and an apology for the way I cut you out of my life.”

  She runs a hand through her hair, still processing the riddle of me. And, for the record, two trains can enter that one-way tunnel without colliding—one goes in at noon, the other at midnight.

  She parks her hands on her hips. “You know, Tyler. That really hurt,” she says, and I can hear the pain in her voice. The sound of it hooks into my heart.

  I nod. “I understand why it would, and it was something I thought I had to do. But I can see now that I could have handled it a lot differently. In so many ways.” I hope she can hear the honesty in my voice as I pull the loose tie from around my neck. Her eyes follow my every move, drifting down to the green silk in my hands. She nibbles her lip, a tell if I ever saw one. “Your favorite color. I wore it for you,” I say, trying to get our flirt on again.

  “I love ties.” Her words tell me one thing, but her delivery says another. She bites out each word like they cost her something. “And I can’t believe you had the audacity to wear my favorite color.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Audacity is my middle name. Besides, why would I wear anything but your favorite color?”

  She snaps her gaze away from me. “I can’t even look at that tie right now.”

  I shrug and toss the tie on the stool in the corner of the room. “Out of sight. Out of mind.”

  Slowly, she turns back to me. “Good.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “It’s out of my mind, too.”

  Time to put something else in her mind then.

  And so, I undress for her. Because sometimes you’ve got to give it your all. Show a woman you’re willing to bare your heart for her.

  And, let’s be honest, your body.

  Look, you’ve got to play to your strengths when you’re negotiating. You need to know what your opponent wants. And sometimes you need to give them what they can’t resist. I’m in excellent shape, fit as a fucking fiddle, and I work out hard. Delaney used my body as her playground once upon a time. She loved getting naked with me.

  Let’s do this.

  Off goes one sleeve, then the next. I toss it behind me. My hands reach for my belt.

  “Tyler,” she says, but her voice hardly sounds like a protest. She sounds half turned on, half pissed.

  I focus on the first half. Glass half full and all. “And I listened to you. You said I needed to do it properly and to mean it. So, I’m taking a chance, like I did when we met in college and I kept asking you to go out with me,” I say, unhooking the belt buckle.

  She arches a brow. “Like that time you showed up at the snack bar, plopped down next to me, and asked what it would take to get me to finally go out with you?”

  “And you said, ‘An ice cream sundae with chocolate sprinkles.’ The snack bar didn’t carry sprinkles, so I went out and found some. And then you said yes.”

  She shakes her head, like she’s all discombobulated. “That was different than this,” she says, waving her hand up and down my body.

  “But do you want me to stop? I could get chocolate sprinkles this time, too, if that helps.” I yank the belt from the loops and let the leather fall to the tiled floor.

  Her lips part, and she stares—simply stares at my hands poised above my zipper. No answer comes, so I trust she wants me to do the opposite of stop—she wants me to keep it up.

  I slide open the button on my pants.

  She inhales sharply. “What are you doing?”

  “Showing you I’m sorry. Meaning it. And asking you out one more time.”

  Her eyebrows knit together. A tiny smile tugs at her lips. But then she erases it, pointing at me. “You can’t just come in here and strip.”

  “But isn’t that what I’m supposed to do before a massage?” I tilt my head like I’m trying to remember. “I’m pretty sure fully clothed is not the proper attire.”

  “You know damn well that fully clothed isn’t the proper attire. But you also know stripping isn’t how it’s done, either.”

  I furrow my brow again. “How else would I get down to the appropriate state of undress then?” I ask, tossing the question back at her.

  She heaves a frustrated sigh. “Mr. Pollock. You’re completely ridiculous.”

  “Yes, I am. But I was a persistent bastard in college, and I got you to go out with me. I’m hoping it will do the trick again.”

  And the rest goes quickly. I unzip my pants, push them to my hips then down, and her eyes pop wide.

  “What. The. Hell?”

  I shrug casually, then shove the pants to my ankles and step out, leaving them on the floor.

  She squeezes her eyes shut for a second, opens them and lets her gaze drift down to my boxer briefs. Black and snug. I’m not sporting a raging boner. C’mon. I’m apologizing. It’d be a little tacky if I was pointing in her direction. Not right away, at least. But she is fine as sin, and as sexy as she’s ever been in those black yoga pants and a black V-neck T-shirt. A thin silver chain with a turtle charm hangs around her neck, and her blond hair is pulled into a ponytail. A tremor of lust rattles me as I remember how she liked me to pull her hair.

  And the one-quarter in my shorts turns into a semi.

  Her eyes stray to my chest, like she’s taking me in.

  Good.

  I’m not saying relationships should be built on the physical. But it can be one hell of a fantastic foundation. The way she looks at me tells me she likes what she sees. And I like the way she stares with heat in her dark eyes.

  “You’re so fucking gorgeous,” I say, because I can’t not.

  Her hands flutter and seem to dust across her breasts. They’re not big. They’re small but firm and perfect. Perky, too. “Thank you,” she answers, but she’s not giving in yet. So I keep going.

  “And you said I need to mean it. Here goes. I’m stripping for you, but I don’t want your brain cells to evaporate. I just want you to say yes.”

  I strip off my boxers, let them fall to the floor, and stand naked in front of her. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lips. She looks at me, and yeah, I do
have a hard-on now. No semi anywhere—the full monty deserves a full monty. Her chest rises and falls, and I love that I can tell she’s fighting with herself.

  She purses her lips, then she brings her fingers to her forehead like she’s shocked I did this. Like she can’t even process it. “I don’t know what to say,” she says, taking time with each word. “You’re naked at my work, and I can’t even think.”

  “I’m supposed to be naked.”

  She lifts her head and points wildly to the massage table. “You’re supposed to be naked under the sheets, not standing here at full mast, showing off your rock hard body and perfect dick. I can’t think straight when you look like this.”

  I rein in a grin.

  She inhales sharply. “I mean it. I can’t think at all.” She turns on her flip-flopped foot, yanks open the door, and strides in the hall.

  Oops.

  That wasn’t part of the plan. Time to improvise, since I’ve got no choice but to follow her. I don’t want her to get away from me again.

  “Give me a chance, Delaney,” I say firmly. I won’t beg. But I will speak my mind. I cup a hand over my dick and walk into the hall.

  Double fucking oops.

  This time the coast isn’t clear. It’s stuffed with people, who all catch a glimpse of my Garden of Eden attire, my hand mimicking Adam’s fig leaf.

  A short, muscular, forty-something woman wanders out of the ladies’ room and snaps her head toward me, her eyes widening.

  A masseuse sporting a long braid down her back steps out of a massage room, calling over her shoulder, “Yes, come see me again tomorrow.” Then she sees me and asks, “Are you my ten a.m.?”

  I’m about to answer with a no when Felipe rounds the corner and halts in his tracks. His eyebrows rise, and he clasps his hand over his mouth gasping, “Oh my.”

  I raise my other hand in a casual wave. “Like I said, not a fan of robes.”

  As his eyes roam my body, he utters, “I’m not a fan of robes anymore, either.”

  The muscular woman waves her hand, like she’s calling for attention in class. “Honey—” The woman levels a sharp gaze at Delaney. “You need to give that man a chance.”

  Delaney smiles tightly, nodding a thanks that I’m sure is hard as hell for her to give. Especially since I have more supporters.

  The masseuse with the braid pipes in. “If not, I’ll take your chance.”

  With her jaw set hard, Delaney gives a quick, “thanks for the feedback” wave, then spins around, smoke seeming to billow from her nose. She sets a hand on my chest and pushes me back into the Rainfall Room.

  She slams the door behind her.

  7

  Delaney

  This stunt.

  This crazy, ridiculous, over-the-top stunt.

  This goddamn parade of flesh.

  I just . . . can’t even.

  Can’t even stand how ballsy he is.

  Can’t even comprehend what the hell I’m supposed to think, feel, or do.

  He waltzed out naked in front of my employees and customers.

  And now he’s nude here with me.

  I stand in the massage room, my arms crossed over my chest as I lock my gaze with Tyler’s.

  Let me state this for the record—I didn’t drag him back in this room because of that body. I’m not that shallow. But it's impossible not to notice his finer features.

  His shoulders are deliciously broad, his arms are muscular, and his chest operates like a magnet for my hands. I cross my arms tighter to resist the force of attraction.

  Don’t even get me started on those magazine-spread abs. A six-pack is my shrine. I want to touch it, lick it, and rub my head against it like a cat rolling in catnip. Meow, indeed.

  I dig in my heels. Push my toes against the soles of my shoes, like I’m holding firm with my feet alone.

  And let’s not forget his legs. His thighs are toned and look powerful. His calves are strong. He even has seductive knees, and hell if I know how that’s possible. Knees aren’t so sexy, but connecting those thighs to those calves, they are a mild aphrodisiac. My mouth waters as I take him in, and sadly I can’t even see his ass.

  That’s what is so freaking unfair. I meant it when I said I can’t think straight. How could I? He’s naked. N-A-K-E-D. In front of me. Asking for a second chance.

  This is the definition of “rock and a hard place.”

  Because it’s him.

  Tyler Nichols is more than the opening act, the closing act, and the main attraction of my dirty dreams. He’s the one who got away. He’s the guy I loved more than sprinkles. He’s the man who made me feel beautiful, adored, and cherished.

  Speaking of all his parts . . .

  Even though my eyes are locked with his, I got more than a peek of his cock. The man has a magnificent dick. Long, thick, proud, with just the perfect left hook to it.

  It looks great soft. It looks glorious when it’s unapologetically hard.

  But none of this would matter without the face. His eyes are like chocolate, his cheekbones could be carved by sculptors, and his lips are so damn kissable. His brown hair is thick, soft, and a little bit in need of a cut. The slightly unkempt style makes me want to drag my fingers through it.

  And yes, my ode to his body might sound like I’m obsessed with the surface. But what I can’t get out of my head is that he pulled this off. He wanted to apologize properly so much that he stripped to his full birthday suit here at my spa, giving a preview of most of his parts to my staff and customers in the hallway.

  And I honestly don’t know whether to slap him or grind my body against him.

  I can’t be completely mad because it’s just so over the top, and that’s what I used to love about him.

  Even so, the pissed-off part jostles its way to the front of the line, pointing out the insanity of him strutting around as naked as the statue of David. I narrow my eyes, uncross my arms, and push my hands to his chest. “Are you crazy?”

  He nods and wiggles his eyebrows. “I might be.”

  “You think after eight years, you can just wander in here, do a little Magic Mike mea culpa, and that’s it? That’s all it takes to get me back?”

  “I’m not asking you for a shot. I’m asking you to have a drink.”

  I push harder at his chest, so his butt hits the edge of the massage table. “I know that, Tyler Nichols. I’m clear on what you’re asking. And what is really driving me crazy now is one thing.”

  “Is it the sheer amount of naked skin in front of you?” he asks gesturing to his body. “I don’t like robes, sweetheart. You know that.”

  An image of him in college, walking down the dorm hall covered by nothing but a white towel cinched around his tight waist flashes before my eyes. I’d stayed in his room the night before, and he joined me in the shower the next morning. He washed my hair, lathered it up, and then gave me one hell of an amazing scalp massage. I believe I purred the whole time. Then, after he rinsed the shampoo from my hair, his hands mapped a winding path down my body, over my breasts, across my belly, and between my legs. As the water beat down, he slipped his fingers across me, then inside, then there, right there, as he stoked the fire in me, making me pant and moan and bite his shoulder when I came. After the shower, I scurried down the hall ahead of him. When I reached the door to his room, I glanced behind me and all I could think was how unbearably hot he was with that towel hanging low on his hips, his skin glistening post-shower.

  He walked with swagger.

  With confidence.

  With ridiculous sexiness. And he was mine. Every part of him—that body, that face, his bold, daring mouth—and his mind, too. When he reached his room, I wiggled my eyebrows. “I’m so glad you don’t wear a robe.”

  “Yeah, why is that?”

  “So I can ogle you as you strut down the hall in nothing but that towel.” I pressed my teeth into my lips, savoring the sight of him. “Do you have any idea how sexy you are?”

  He shook his head
, cupped my cheek, and brought his nose to mine. “No. Why don’t you show me?”

  It’s a wonder we ever made it to class with the way we couldn’t stop touching each other.

  But yet, we somehow juggled it all.

  I’m not sure if it’s the past or the present, the memory of that morning shower or the moment right now with him in the nude. I don’t know which one compels me more, or if both drive me. But my hand is on his chest, and my heart is in my throat, and my body crackles.

  I push hard on his pec. He stays rooted to his spot. I push again, though there’s nowhere for him to go. He stands stock-still. Then I grab his nipple and I pinch.

  He lets out a small yelp.

  “I seriously can’t believe you.” I do it again.

  He winces, but maintains his ground. “Believe me.”

  “What are you thinking, coming to my business naked? Have you lost your mind?”

  “I’m completely sane,” he says, and I twist his nipple once more for good measure.

  He grabs my hand, covering it with his bigger one, tugging me even closer. I gasp. The feel of his hand on mine sends a charge through me. I’m not just touching him now. We’re touching each other, and all at once, the drive to hurt him melts away. Fact is, I never wanted to hurt him. I only wanted to have him. And now that I’ve sorted out my shock, my annoyance, my frustration, my I-can’t-believe-you-had-the-nerve-ness, I’m simply done with it.

  With his hand on mine, I give in.

  “You’re crazy,” I say, but it’s hardly a protest as I spread my hand wider, no longer pushing him away. Instead, I dig in. I press. And then I drag my fingers down over the hard wall of his pecs.

  He feels like coming home.

  I wanted to shut him out to protect myself. It’s a natural human response. We are programmed to fight for survival, and he represented pain, a threat to my well-being, the spiked bat that would hurt me.

  But I’ve been trained to look at both sides of a situation. To handle either aspect of a debate. To argue the pros or the cons. Those skills rise up in me once more as I consider the other side of his stunt. Yes, he might have embarrassed me. But on the other hand, he’s the one who let down his guard and showed me, in his own very Tyler way, how vulnerable he could be.