The One Love Collection Read online

“Tell me,” I say, settling into the couch, loving that we’re just . . . chatting. Besides, she’s more than a foot shorter than me, so I don’t have a clue what she’s about to say.

  She counts off on her fingers. “For starters, plenty of legroom on planes. Plus, I’m always getting carded, which is totally flattering, and I can also wear any height heels I want. And, some large shirts can double as dresses.”

  The last one cracks me up. Then she says something rapid-fire in French. I furrow my brow. She quickly translates. “Good things come in small packages.”

  Oh, how I want to make a flirty comment about her being a good thing, or a dirty comment about big packages, and maybe even something filthier about . . . coming. Instead, I zoom back to languages. “Even for you, that’s quick to learn French, though. It took me several years in school to learn it.”

  She takes a breath as she points at me. “Um, Simon. I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think you know French.”

  I heave a sigh and drag a hand through my hair. “Guess I’m rustier than I thought. I get the feeling Gabriel’s guys would be more keen if I could speak better French.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “You really think it would make a difference in the deal?”

  I tilt my head, considering her question, then I nod. “I do, because it would impress them. Make me stand out. It would show them a commitment to their particular brand of . . .” I’m about to say cuisine, but instead, I opt for, “their brand of je ne sais quoi.”

  She flashes an appreciative grin then leans forward. “Would you like me to help you?”

  More time with Abby? I barely have to think on that one, but I pretend to contemplate, stroking my chin. “Hmm. Well, let’s see. I’m terrible. You’re good. That’s a no-brainer.”

  “Good. I love teaching. I’m excited to help you.”

  I can’t even begin to explain how excited I am to be her student. But I’ve got to keep that to myself. I focus on the details instead. “But I insist on paying you.”

  She scoffs. “I insist on not taking your money.”

  “You can’t teach me for free.”

  “Don’t think of it as free. It helps me to work on my language teaching skills. Fair trade?”

  Deal-making is my stock-in-trade, so I press on. “I’d really like to pay you, though. I value your time, Abby.”

  She shoots me a smile. “I know you do. But the offer is only for free, not for pay.” She arches an eyebrow playfully. “Take it or leave it.”

  I shake my head, impressed with her negotiation skills and how she’s bested me. “You’re quite the deal-maker.”

  “I drive a hard bargain,” she jokes.

  You absolutely fucking do. “Yes. Very hard,” I say, teasing, even though in some ways I’m not teasing at all.

  “Want to start tonight?” She sounds eager.

  “You don’t have anywhere to be?” I ask. Then, because I can’t help myself, I toss out, “Like a hot date?”

  It’s borderline ridiculous how I’m fishing for information, but my need to know outweighs my wish to be nonchalant. Besides, I threw in the towel on the pursuit of cool when I had a kid. Dads aren’t expected to be cool. Ergo, I can fish.

  She laughs loudly. “No hot date tonight. Nor yesterday. Nor tomorrow.”

  A smile tugs at my lips, then it spreads wider when she adds, “And not the next night, either.”

  And that, ladies and gentlemen, is news worth prying for. Abby is thoroughly single, and I pump a virtual fist.

  Not that I’m going to ask her on a date. But hell, if I can’t have her, no one else should. Yeah, I know that sounds unfair and possessive. So be it. I have a caveman inside of me. I might hide him most of the time under the crisp shirts in my Upper East Side lair, but he’s here, and I don’t want anyone else to get his hands on this woman.

  “Good,” I say, before I can I catch myself.

  We spend the next hour on the couch, and I can’t complain at all about my life at the moment. Just being near her is like a shot of endorphins. Add in the fact that she’s patient, fun, and focused as we work on French, and I’m a happy camper. Plus, I’ve learned a few new phrases, including how to correctly pronounce what I’d intended to ask Eduardo. Do you want to develop a new plan tomorrow?

  “Voulez-vous aménager un nouveau plan demain?” I say, and Abby smiles and claps softly.

  “Très bien,” she says, her lips curving up. “Or use développer instead of aménager. Overall, either is much better than voulez-vous nager nu dans l’été.”

  She repeats my initial attempt, saying it the way I did, with the pronunciation so off that my question turned into a big gaffe.

  I flub my lips and hold out my hands. “What can you do?”

  “No more skinny-dipping invitations,” she says, wagging her finger. “Besides, skinny-dipping is way overrated.”

  My ears perk. So does another part, which sits up and takes notice as she talks about nudity. “What makes you say that?”

  “Because . . . water.”

  I frown in confusion. “You don’t like water?”

  She laughs. “I assure you, I adore water. I just think that the role of it in, you know . . .” Her tone suddenly becomes shy.

  “Foreplay?” I supply, and I really shouldn’t go here. But I’m doing it anyway.

  She blushes. “Yes, that.”

  “So skinny-dipping as foreplay is overrated? And why is that?” I ask, because she went there and I’m absolutely following her.

  She raises her chin, no longer shy as she says, “Because water is not a lubricant.”

  My eyebrows shoot into my hairline. Abby has a dirty mind. Abby has a naughty side. Holy hell, I want to get to know this side of her so much. “You’re probably right on that count. But there are other ways to get wet in the water,” I say, before I let good judgment wrest control of my mouth again. And I better regain control before I fucking flirt straight into the land of filthy innuendo, because I don’t know if I can return from it, or if I want to.

  “I have no doubt there are better ways,” she says with a naughty grin, and there’s something teasingly seductive in her tone that makes me think she likes this tango, too. I’d like to go back in time and thank the me from an hour ago for incorrectly using the French verb for swim on a business call.

  “But if skinny-dipping is overrated, are showers, too?” There’s more gravel in my voice than before. She has to hear it. She has to be aware of this game we’re playing.

  She nibbles on the corner of her bottom lip. “I think showers and certain activities in them would have a top-notch rating,” she says, her eyes locked on mine. My blood heats, and there’s no way I can contemplate anything but the images flying through my mind. Her, in my shower, water streaking along her bare skin. Me, joining her under the steam, pressing her hands to the wall, angling her hips just so. Then having my way with her.

  “I think so, too,” I rasp, and a handful of words I want to add to my statement dances dangerously on the tip of my tongue.

  With you.

  Now.

  Let’s test this theory.

  I swallow roughly, far too tempted to say something suggestive. Somehow, I grab a lifeline and pull myself up from the slippery slope. “And merci. I’m thankful for the lesson,” I say in French.

  That does the trick. Forcing my brain to translate has knocked me back into reality.

  She returns seamlessly, too. “Very good. Your language skills are better than your French-braiding skills,” she teases as she shuts her iPad.

  I pretend to be insulted. “So not true. I can do French braids with my eyes closed.”

  She shakes her head. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

  “I’ll prove it to you.”

  She tilts her head, and her hand freezes on her purse. “Prove it?” she asks quietly.

  Somehow I’ve thrown a gauntlet I didn’t realize I was tossing. I do the only natural next thing—follow through. “Sure. Got one of
those hair tie things?”

  She nods slowly. “Yes, but . . .” Her voice trails off. Then she resumes the thought. “You really learned to French braid?”

  I nod. “Hayden insisted on it,” I explain then study her face. Her pupils are dilated, and she blinks. Ah hell, I’ve made her wary with my remark. “I don’t have to prove it. I was just teasing,” I say, giving her an out. Mildly flirty comments are one thing—hands in hair are another.

  A small grin spreads on her face, as she dips her hand into her purse and produces a black elastic band. “No, I insist. You were horrible last time. Have at it.”

  She drops to the floor, scoots over to me, and with her shoulder, she nudges my right knee.

  Hello, slippery slope. Funny to see you again so soon.

  7

  Simon

  Her other shoulder bumps my other knee. There’s no need to think—I widen my legs more and let her settle in between them. I’m seated on the couch, she’s on the floor, and she waits for me to braid her hair.

  As I stare at her lush, blond locks, the breath escapes my lungs. For a moment, it’s as if I’m hovering in a state of suspended want. Like this is the real line we’re crossing. Not me bringing her dessert, or touching the corner of her lips, or gazing at her face longer than I should. Not even sending texts about a pair of wild birds or making comments about showers and nudity.

  But this.

  Touching her hair.

  Fuck, I love her hair.

  I slide the tie over my wrist, then gather up some strands near the top of her head. “Confession,” I say in a quiet voice. “I watched a few YouTube videos after you taught me.”

  She leans back, and I can feel her smile. “Like I said, prove it.”

  “It’s on.” I focus on the task of separating her honey-blond hair into three sections, running my fingers through them like a comb. I lift the first strand and lay it over the middle one, then the left, gathering more hair into the next section.

  After I failed at her first French braid lesson, I took it upon myself to learn. I don’t like not being able to master basic skills. A man should be able to braid his daughter’s hair.

  And his woman’s hair.

  “How does it look?” Her voice sounds a little breathy.

  “Like it was braided by a man who learned by watching YouTube videos,” I answer.

  She laughs lightly and leans into me more, inching closer. My hands still for a moment. I feel like I’m in high school again. Like I have a crush on a girl, and I don’t know what to do, where to go next, what to say.

  The thing is, I do know. I just don’t know that I should. But I know what I want. There’s no doubt in my mind. I want to touch her, to kiss her, to feel her body press against mine. Even the chance to touch her like this is intoxicating, a rush of blood to the head. Her waves of hair are soft, and they feel spectacular falling through my fingers. I can’t picture a single thing besides running my hands through these strands as I kiss her, as I touch her, as she moves beneath me.

  Just like that, I imagine her in bed.

  Yeah, it’s not the first time. It’s not the hundredth, either. I’ve pictured this countless fucking times, but it’s a fantastic image. Her softness, her sweetness, her curves. I see her mouth falling open, her breath coming fast, her arms roped around me. I blink, trying to eradicate these images from my mind, but I’ve no doubt they’ll return later when she’s gone and I’m alone under the sheets.

  I continue the braid, trying my best to focus on the simple task as I move farther down her hair. I keep my eyes trained on the weave, one after the other, as if the act of braiding can erase all these other thoughts. She bends her head, exposing more of her neck, and I exhale hard.

  “Fuck,” I mutter.

  She tenses. “Is everything okay?”

  I close my eyes, stopping my moves, reeling in my desire. “Yeah. You just . . .”

  I stop myself. I can’t go there. Can’t say this. Can’t do this. But my God, I dream about kissing her neck. I want to smother her neck in kisses, brush my lips over her skin, and feel her melt against me. I want to do things to her that make her knees weak and her panties damp.

  “Just what?” she asks, her voice small, but desperate, as if she wants the answer as badly as I want to give it. The possibility that she feels the same sends a charge through me.

  “You just have nice hair,” I whisper, then I want to kick myself.

  You have nice hair? I mouth, grateful she can’t see me.

  “So do you,” she says. A wave of heat crashes into me, and I let it lead me on. Let it pull me closer. Let it be the force that bends my face close. I bring my nose to her locks, inches away, and I inhale. The heat turns to fire, twisting and curling in my veins.

  “Smells good, too,” I say, my voice husky. “Like coconut or something.”

  “My shampoo,” she answers, her voice a bare whisper in the quiet of my home. “You like it?”

  My throat is dry. I swallow thickly. Answer truthfully. “I love it.”

  I weave the remaining strands, grab the tie, and loop it around the end, finishing the job.

  “How does it look?”

  I run my index finger along the French braid, tight against her head. “I’d never be mistaken for a hair stylist, but I think it’s safe to say I can braid French better than I can speak it,” I say, going for self-deprecating humor. Laughing lightly, she raises her hands and runs her fingers along my handiwork.

  My eyes roam along her arms, her bare skin on display in her peach tank top.

  In this moment, I am a dirty old man, because all I want to do is take this twenty-six-year-old woman and have her as mine. I want to run my hands along her arms, lift her up, turn her around, and bring her down on my lap, telling her to straddle me. Then I would kiss the hell out of her. Learn how her lips feel, how her mouth tastes, if she’s as soft as I’ve imagined. If she melts into my arms the way I picture. I want to strip her naked and have my wicked way with her.

  I draw a deep breath, and my traitorous hand takes over as I cover hers where it rests against her hair.

  She gasps—a surprised, sexy little sound.

  I guide her fingers softly over the braid, as if all I’m doing is showing her that I pulled it off. As if I’m not trying desperately to find a way to touch her without letting on how much I want to touch her everywhere. How much I want more of her. All of her.

  My skin heats one million degrees as I curl my fingers over hers, bringing our joined hands along her soft hair. I swear she’s holding her breath as we travel over the braid, and her reaction emboldens me. My fingertips brush the edge of her cheekbone. I’m taking chances left and right—chances I shouldn’t take. But I don’t want to stop.

  She inhales sharply, and just as I’m about to knock some sense into my wandering fingers, she leans farther back into me and whispers, “Yes, you do know how to braid hair now.”

  My home is so quiet, I swear I can hear the vibrations between us in the air, humming faintly with possibility, like the moment before a storm when you can sense that the sky is about to burst open. I’m confident she feels it, too. I sense it in her shoulders against my legs, her breathy voice, her words.

  I can barely stand it anymore. The tension tightens, and soon it’s going to snap. Being this close to her and not taking her in my arms is insanity. I want to ask her what she’s thinking and if this feeling is as mutual as it seems with her between my legs and my hands in her hair.

  “Abby . . .” I say, but then I cut myself off.

  Soft footsteps pad against hardwood.

  I yank my hand away, and Abby scoots forward in a flurry. My heart hammers madly, and my skin prickles as I back up into the couch cushions, putting distance between us.

  But Hayden doesn’t even wander into the living room. The faint sound of water running tells me she simply got a cup of water in the bathroom.

  Still, my pulse thunders as if I’ve been caught stealing, and by my
own kid.

  I stand. “Better go check on her.” I stride across the living room and down the hall, poking my head into my little girl’s room. She slides back under the covers.

  A faint, sleepy smile spreads on her face. “Night, Daddy.”

  “Night, sweetie,” I say, and tug her purple blanket up higher. She’ll kick it off in the middle of the night. But I cover her anyway then drop a kiss to her warm cheek.

  I turn away from her bed, drag a hand through my hair, and take a breath, letting it spread through me. I remind myself I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve crossed no lines. But my heart pounds relentlessly, so I press my palm against the doorframe and will my pulse to settle down.

  Thirty seconds later, I return to the living room.

  Abby stands, slings her bag onto her shoulder, smooths her top, and flashes a too-bright smile. The moment has vanished, and all that wild possibility is not just drained away—it’s erased.

  An empty sensation takes root in my chest, but then I tell myself this is for the best. I shouldn’t have my hands on my kid’s nanny. Shouldn’t flirt. Shouldn’t braid her hair. I need her in Hayden’s life too much. I can’t risk that simply because I want her so fucking much. My longing for her shouldn’t occupy its own damn zip code.

  It’s becoming really inconvenient.

  “It’s late. I should go,” she says softly, a sweet smile pulling at her lips.

  I nod.

  “But let me know if you want to work on French again,” she adds, and it’s as if she’s tossing me a rope.

  I want to be a good guy who doesn’t cross lines he shouldn’t. I’d like to be the guy who can walk away from her offer.

  But I need to improve my skills. Hell, if I don’t learn a few more words, then the next time I try to speak in French, I’ll be asking Gabriel if he wants to cartwheel in combat boots or eat whipped cream off a steak. That’s enough for me to grab the end of the rope. I nod in Hayden’s direction. “She’s with her mom the next few days,” I say, even though Abby knows this, since she’s off.

  Her tone is upbeat as she says, “Let’s teach you French, then.”