The One Love Collection Read online

  “No pun intended,” Jamie chimes in from her spot on the other side of the desk, her silver laptop flipped open, too. I hold up a hand and mime high-fiving her, and we do a shoulder shimmy in tandem. Yes, we’ve got this down pat. Sometimes we even swing our imaginary lassos in unison when we’re roping a most excellent point.

  “I don’t know if my toes have ever curled, Nicole. But you’ve given me a lot to ponder. Thank you. I always love your advice,” Rachel says.

  “And I love that you listen to the show. Now we’ll wrap up this week’s edition of Making and Breaking the Rules: Your Guide to Dating and Mating.” But before we run through the closing credits, I have something to ask of my army of women listeners.

  “Ladies,” I say, in a serious tone. “Soldiers on the dating battlefield. Comrades in bras. Let’s all say a prayer tonight. A prayer for Rachel.” I bow my head. “If you’ve been lucky enough to climax with a partner, I ask that you send some of your orgasmic energy to Rachel in Murray Hill. Sisters in sexy times, we so desperately need all of your collective focus and energy on the great mountain ahead that Rachel seeks to scale, whether with her current partner or a brand new one.” I look up, and Jamie still has her hands steepled together in plaintive prayer. “And just remember—sex is good, love is great, and when you bring them together they’re even better.”

  How’s that for a tagline?

  After we play the credits and hit end on the recording session, I raise my eyebrows at Jamie in question. “Don’t even tell me you had ten orgasms last night like you usually do.”

  Jamie laughs as she rises and walks around the desk. “Just two last night,” she says, in her cheery, chipper tone that matches her bright blond hair and blue eyes, as well as the big, fat, sparkling diamond on her left hand. Ah, to be so young and hopeful.

  I had a ring on my finger once upon a time.

  I gather my notebook, laptop, and phone, and head for the door, leaving Jamie behind since she works on the next show. As I head down the hallway of Hanky Panky Love, the dating division of the lifestyle media giant I work for in a role that's expanded from columns to also include the radio show, a masculine voice calls out to me.

  “Hey, Nicole.”

  A smoky, sexy, masculine voice, I might add.

  Ryder Lockhart stands in the doorway of the studio next to mine, his arm resting on the door. That’s one lucky door.

  If someone needed a photograph for a catalog of the casual, cool, confident male, Central Casting would serve up this man. The white button-down shirt that hugs his delicious biceps is peeled up at the cuffs, revealing strong and worshippable forearms. The front can’t hide how flat and firm his abs are. I must thank the maker of that shirt in my daily prayers. His black jeans are neatly pressed and fit just so yummily on his hips. For the record—yummily is not an adverb, but it should be. I’ll work on my campaign to Merriam-Webster, starting tomorrow.

  His eyes are full of naughtiness as he meets my gaze. “Clearly you haven’t tried the Wheelbarrow with the right man,” he says.

  I tap a red manicured nail against my bottom lip as if I’m considering this. “You think that’s the issue with the Wheelbarrow? Not the fact that I’d be upside-down during nookie?” I ask ever so innocently.

  A lopsided grin shimmers across his fine lips. Yeah, they’re yummy, too. He simply suffers from an extreme case of handsomeness.

  “I do, indeed, think that’s the biggest hurdle. There are certain advantages for the fairer sex when it comes to that position, but it requires a partner who knows exactly how to hold on properly,” he says in that deep, gritty voice. He could read the phone book and make it sound like foreplay, which means everything he says makes you feel like a cat in mating season, even if he’s talking about changing the toner in the copy machine. I’d probably have a dirty dream about toner if he did.

  But his filthy-fantasy-inducing voice is only one-quarter of the assets he possesses for wooing the ladies. The other three quarters? A thick head of soft and wavy light brown hair, cheekbones carved by the gods, eyes that inspire dreams of tropical waters, a body handcrafted by his own rigid discipline, and a brain shaped and chiseled by Stanford.

  Fine, that was more than four quarters. Well, what-the-hell-ever. He’s got more than his fair share of chickadee-charming tools. It’s my job to notice this stuff.

  Balancing my laptop and notebook on my hip, I shove my copper-colored hair off my eyes. “Is that your way of inviting me to take your wheelbarrow out for a ride around the garden?”

  His lips curve up in a mischievous grin. “Nicole, don’t you know? You can ride this ride any time.” That’s where his teasing ends. “But holy smokes, the end of your show.” He clutches his hand to his chest as if he’s in pain. “Were you about to cry, too?”

  “Oh, it was awful, wasn’t it?”

  “So sad,” he says, shaking his head. “Almost makes me want to take on the job for Rachel myself.”

  “How thoughtful of you.”

  “I’m considerate like that.”

  “You’d be a Good Samaritan of orgasms, then?”

  “Perhaps it’s my true calling,” he says, in a completely serious tone.

  “Patron Saint of the Big O?”

  He snaps his fingers and points at me. “Yes. That’ll go on my new business cards. Maybe I’ll even make house calls to administer my special brand of medicine.”

  I make a stop sign midair. “You’re the worst. Seriously the worst.”

  “But I’m the best at Ping-Pong. Are you all set for the match later this week?”

  “I’m always ready for the matches,” I say, then pretend to whack a white ball with an imaginary paddle. We play on our company team in a tournament-style game that raises money for local kids’ charities. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise—Ping-Pong is a game that, if played well, is great for your ass. “Incidentally, I have a tip on the guys at RBC that we’re playing against. One of them has a powerful but ridiculously wide swing. So much that his teammate is constantly jumping out of the way.”

  Ryder’s baby blues spark with strategic understanding. “Which means if we time it right when hitting to the teammate, we might find that the ball clatters to the floor while he’s trying to avoid getting whacked by the guy next to him.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Brains and beauty,” he says as he roams his eyes down my body.

  He’s not hitting on me. It’s just his way. I give him a demure little curtsy as thanks. “Likewise.”

  “Also, for the record, there are many ways to bring a woman pleasure with the Wheelbarrow. If you’re not enjoying it, he’s doing it wrong.” He steps closer to me, and I catch a whiff of his cedar cologne. He raises his index finger and moves it close to my lips as if he’s going to shush me. “And don’t let me hear those pretty red lips ever knock the Crouching Cowgirl again.”

  I roll my eyes. “It. Hurts. The. Feet.”

  “Boohoo. I bet it doesn’t hurt the—”

  I pretend to zip his lips and throw away the key. I shoo him into the booth where he records his show. “Go dispense your manly wisdom.”

  When it comes to on-air work, Ryder is basically, well . . . me.

  But with a dick, and with the priorities that come with said appendage.

  The funny thing is he was hired about a year ago, and his show was supposed to be a funny but earnest forum to offer dating advice to dudes. Lately, though, his show has been all about getting laid. It’s still funny, but it’s just different. A little crasser, if you will. Maybe it sounds like my show is about getting horizontal, too, but it’s not. My goal is to maximize women’s opportunities—for dating, mating, cohabitating, and, eventually, procreating.

  “By the way, your show was great,” he says, his tone stripped of bravado now. He smiles, and it’s all genuine. “I always enjoy listening to it.”

  I blush. “Thank you. Same to you.”

  “Keep up the good work.” As Ryder heads into his studio, I
linger a bit in the hallway, shifting my laptop to my other hand, checking out the man through the window.

  I like to think of myself as a woman of many talents. I know how to run at the mouth on air, I can craft a snappy column on the dos and don’ts of the most popular fetishes, I can dole out excellent trash talk at sporting events, and I’m also a top-notch appraiser of men.

  Picture an art appraiser. That crusty old fellow in tweed and elbow patches, wire-rimmed glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, cataloging the brushstrokes, the signature, the type of paint in a Van Gogh.

  He wonders if it’s fake or real?

  Is it real or fake?

  That’s me when it comes to men.

  I flip open my spiral-bound notebook with dogs in spacesuits on the cover. I uncap my pen and scribble some quick notes.

  Nice jawline. Check.

  Strong arms. Check.

  Height. Check, check, check. Because, you know, height is some kind of Holy Grail.

  Charming and likable. Check-a-rooney.

  The Stanford pedigree makes him especially appealing, though. Empirically, of course. I’m only jotting down thoughts for my ongoing research into the male species.

  I head to my office to work on my latest column on the best knots to use in your scarves for binding your wrists together in front, behind, or above the head, as well as for tying to the bedpost, a chair, or the fridge.

  Fridge bondage. It’s a thing. Who knew?

  When I’m done with my tips for avoiding freezer burn in the process, my mind drifts back to checklists, attributes, and the best features a gal could want in that special someone.

  And to Ryder Lockhart.

  2

  Ryder

  I adjust my tie, smooth a hand over my crisp light blue button-down shirt, and survey the crowd.

  If you could call the half-dozen or so attendees here today a crowd.

  More like a Chia Pet’s early hair covering. A few sprouts that barely cover a bald man’s head. I sigh, wishing for the days when I strode across the stage, grabbed the mic, and commanded a standing-room-only crowd of utterly rapt dudes, eager for my heartfelt and passionate advice.

  As the Consummate Wingman, I can claim credit for more than forty-five marriages and engagements that have led to easily a dozen kids. I’ve been invited to countless weddings, been the first person toasted at most of them, and I’ve happily raised my glass in return to celebrate all those satisfied clients—men who needed a little help talking to the ladies.

  That’s what I gave them. A boost of confidence, born from my once-upon-a-time belief in happily ever after back when I was Manhattan’s very own Hitch.

  Wait. Excuse me. I think my lunch is coming back up. Happily ever after is a cycle of bullshit, love is a medley of lies, and marriage is a thing that can only go wrong.

  But hey, that’s between you, me, and the lamppost because right now I’ve got to be the guy who can help hitch any man’s wagon to his dream woman’s star. I suck in a breath, square my shoulders, and walk into the room, imagining I’m shushing the crowds who are wildly applauding their hero.

  Like I used to do.

  In reality, I’m greeted by a few clammy-handed, barely audible claps from the twenty-something guys.

  And that’s how the next hour of this seminar on dating and mating in the modern age goes. Did I mention it’s being held in an exercise room at a gym on 14th Street? Yup. A couple hours ago, this room hosted a crew of sweating fitness warriors, squatting and lunging. Now, I’ve got the last slot of the night. No more keynotes at posh hotels. No more swanky, elite sessions at the Yale Club. No more client list a mile long.

  The beanpole man in the front row, parked on the metal folding chair, raises his hand and clears his throat when I call on him.

  “Fire away. Hit me with your question,” I say, mustering the most enthusiasm I can dredge up.

  His voice is reedy thin. “Is it true that I shouldn’t post on Instagram right after I do it with a woman I met online?”

  The beaky-nosed guy next to him shakes his head. “The new rule is wait an hour. Same goes for Facebook, Twitter, and checking Tinder for other chicks.”

  I groan as I scrub a hand over my jaw. This is like teaching remedial math. “Actually, gentlemen, I appreciate the sharing, but allow me to dispel some of that misinformation. Shockingly, you will find that checking any form of social media shortly after sex is a pet peeve of most women.”

  An auburn-haired, goateed man in the second row furiously jots something down in a notebook. Perhaps I’m getting through to him.

  “The same holds true for passing out after sex, recounting the act of intercourse as if you’re a play-by-play announcer, mentioning your mom during a post-coital snuggle, asking the woman you slept with to make you a sandwich, and calling her an Uber within the first fifteen minutes of finishing.”

  The guy with the goatee raises a tentative hand. “Same for Lyft?”

  I laugh lightly and slash a hand through the air. “Yes, and for the old-fashioned yellow cars known as taxis, too.”

  He nods and mouths a thanks as he lifts his pen to his notebook.

  I pace across the wood floor. It’s streaked with sneaker marks. “Want to know the biggest post-sex pet peeve of all?”

  All the men raise their faces. Eager acolytes.

  “Asking her if she came. Because if you can’t figure out whether she took a trip to the stars or not, then guess what the answer is.”

  “Um,” the beanpole stammers.

  “She might be shy about it,” the beaky-nosed one offers.

  “She might be quiet,” a dark-haired guy suggests.

  “What if she’s one of those women who is just really subtle when she comes?” another dude asks.

  Screw remedial math. This is kindergarten. “Seriously? Shy? No. She’s not shy. If she comes, you will fucking know. When a woman comes, it’s like an earthquake. Do you miss an earthquake?”

  “No?” Beanpole asks.

  I shake my head. “No indeed. The earth’s fault lines don’t split open subtly. The earth is not quiet when it rattles land masses.” I start shaking from head to toe. I drop my mouth open in a huge O in my best approximation of the exquisite torment of a woman’s pleasure. “If she’s not doing that, it means you’re not doing your job.” I point at each of them as if they’re all culpable. “It means you’re huffing and puffing, but the wolf didn’t blow the house down. Got it?”

  I take my time meeting the gazes of the guys, making sure they’re clear on this point. If I can’t get them down the aisle anymore, then maybe I can help them identify a motherfucking female orgasm. Lord knows, the men of the world need some help—I had a caller yesterday on my show who presented with the same fucking dilemma, and I gave him the same advice. “The house falls, she came. The house is still standing, she didn’t.”

  The pen moves at lightning speed, and my money is on goatee-man as the first to find the G-spot.

  “Here’s the bottom line. Do you want to get laid?” They set a world record for nods. “Then, if you want to get laid again, you will make sure she comes.”

  The room goes silent, and that’s when I realize my mistake. I’ve dropped the “get laid” bomb. That’s basically the worst combination of two words that a dating coach can utter. I scrub a hand over my jaw and try desperately to reroute myself. “What I mean is, if you want to have a healthy, lasting, long-term relationship with a woman, it would be great if you treat her like a queen in and out of the bedroom.”

  I flash a winning smile, showing off my straight, gleaming choppers. I look like a million bucks, and I have the pedigree to back up all these statements.

  Correction: I had it.

  Now I’m the guy coaching the Tinder-using crowd on how not to fuck up a hookup.

  3

  Nicole

  My girls are shocked.

  As we round the trail curving along the reservoir in Central Park, Penny nearly stumbles on a twig
, while Delaney shouts, “You’re kidding me.”

  Penny’s little dog, Shortcake, stares up at her mistress with a look of utter concern on her furry features over the near-fall. “I’m okay, sweet little darling,” Penny coos to her butterscotch Chihuahua mix as she regains her footing. Then to me, Penny says, “You’re not joking?”

  Admittedly, during our morning jog might not have been the best time to drop my giant-pumpkin-sized news. But sometimes you have to rip off the Band-Aid. Especially if it’s a plan of the life-changing variety. “I’m completely serious. This is something I’ve always wanted,” I say, as my Irish Setter mix Ruby jogs by my side. The calmer I am about my news, the more likely my friends will understand. And I need them to understand. Their support is like air to me.

  Penny smooths a hand down her red pullover as we continue our run on this September morning. “Always meaning in the last twenty-four hours?”

  “It does seem like your sense of always might be a tad off, considering this is the first we’re hearing about it,” Delaney says, her brown eyes trying to drill a laser hole in me. It’s a tough feat while running, so she’s unsuccessful.

  “Always as in always. But lately, I’ve been thinking more and more about my long-term portfolio approach, and it seems like the time is now.” My heart speeds in my chest. I wonder if its pace is from the run or from the admission. But I pride myself on keeping cool and collected in matters of the heart.

  “Portfolio?” Delaney scoffs at my word choice.

  I smirk since I chose that word for effect. “I have a vision for how I want my future to unfold, and I want to take the necessary steps and make the best investments to ensure it happens.”

  Penny snorts. “I cannot believe you’re using asset allocation strategies.”

  “Would you say you’ve been considering this massive, life-changing plan for longer than a week, longer than a year, or so long we need to tackle you for never breathing a word to us before?” Delaney tosses out, as her arms swing neatly by her sides. She’s the only dog-free member of our pack. I’ve always hoped she’d adopt a small little mutt from Penny’s Little Friends Animal Rescue, because I think a dog is pretty much as close to a soul mate as one can ever get. Plus, we’d all be perfectly paired then, girl and mutt. No such luck. But Delaney finally opened her home to a four-legged creature a few months ago when she adopted an orange, six-toed cat named Crazypants.