The One Love Collection Read online

  I’m about to ask when she wants to meet, but she’s faster. “Maybe we can meet at a coffee shop? Or the library?”

  That’s as good an answer as anything. It tells me all I need to know. We’re not meeting here. Lord knows, we’ve done enough here tonight. It’s too dangerous. It’s the fire zone, and if we take another step, someone will get burned.

  We’ll be safe out of my home. “Sounds like a plan.” Then I grin and repeat it in French.

  She smiles, her eyes twinkling, as she says “Très bien.”

  I walk her to the door and hold it open for her. “Goodnight, Abby.” My voice is quieter than usual, but rougher, too.

  She looks at me, parts her lips as if she wants to say something more, but then she simply swallows and says, “Goodnight, Simon.”

  And hell, if that soft, sweet voice of hers doesn’t stir up my desire for her once more.

  But I shove it away.

  When she walks down the hall, her hair falls in curls along her back. She undid the braid, and I miss seeing it more than I should.

  8

  Abby

  I take my first ever cold shower that night.

  I shiver under the water, and the chill seeps into my bones. My teeth chatter, and I’m dying to jack up the hot water and let it rain over me.

  I resist.

  I stay under the frigid stream, determined to win this battle with my lust.

  Soon enough, the coldness gobbles up all the red-hot desire in me.

  The Antarctica strategy worked. I’m officially a popsicle, but I’ve achieved my goal.

  I’m 100 percent turned off.

  With my tundra hands, I shut off the faucet, dry off, then wrap myself in a fluffy towel. When I’m done, I pull on a blue college T-shirt from one of my brothers and grab a pair of white underwear. Not the pretty lacy kind. The ugly cotton kind. The on-my-period kind. It’s not shark week, but my mission is sex repellent. Rooting through my drawers, I grab an old pair of workout pants, too. God, these gray sweats are hideous. I don’t even know why I own them.

  I cinch the drawstring tight and give my fingers the evil eye. Especially the index finger, that busy bitch.

  Don’t go there. Don’t even think about dipping below the belt.

  Returning to the world’s tiniest bathroom, I yank open the medicine cabinet and snag a tube of face mask. Spreading it all over my forehead, nose, and cheeks is like applying frosting on an anti-lust cake. I’m covered in light blue goop that smells faintly of tofu and lemon. Quite possibly, I’m approaching revolting levels.

  Excellent.

  Closing the tube, I appraise myself in the mirror. My handiwork is astonishingly effective. I’m chilled like a seafood salad, I look like the newest member of Blue Man Group, I smell like a vegan café, and I’m dressed like my brother.

  Mission more than accomplished.

  My own hand doesn’t even want to get it on with the girl in the mirror. That’s a victory, considering what my favorite late-night activity for the last several weeks has been—getting off to fantasies of Simon. I have a lovely series of go-to gifs in my brain featuring that very subject.

  Not tonight, though.

  When I slip under the blanket, I grab my iPad and consider practicing Italian. But that language is far too alluring. It’ll lead me back to him. Sliding my thumb over my eReader shelves, I quickly decide that’s no better, given the array of romance novels mixed in with my language books.

  I click over to Pinterest and, on a whim, decide to look up images of yellow raincoats, since that’s not sensual at all. I see kids in wellies, twirling polka-dot umbrellas, and small dogs wearing jackets while the sky pours, and I’ve definitely proved my own theory. Water’s not a lubricant at all.

  My hands stay above my waistline. Yay me. I’ve succeeded in the Refrain from Finger-Painting While Imagining Your Boss event at the Sexual Abstinence Olympics.

  “Gold medal for Abby,” I mutter, then I drift off. When I wake up, my pillowcase is caked with blue sludge, but I survived the night without diddling.

  I tell myself that it’s a new day and nothing naughty will happen when I meet Simon at one in the afternoon.

  I say it over and over again that morning as I go for a bike ride in Central Park for exercise (since I am convinced running was invented as a form of torture). I tell myself again as I head to a Spanish tutoring session at a management consultant’s office, and then as I take the subway downtown.

  I repeat it one more time as I arrive at Café Gitane in NoLita, a tiny, casual restaurant that serves French Moroccan dishes. But I’m jittery inside, as if I’ve had far too much caffeine. The nervousness courses through me, because last night we teetered on the precipice, so close to caving. I’ve no clue what to expect today or if the cold shower therapy lasts longer than twelve hours. Maybe I should have taken another dose this morning, because I don’t know how I’ll feel when I see him.

  The answer arrives in a heartbeat when I turn around. He walks toward me. Ten feet away, and my pulse quickens. Five feet, and my throat is dry. Two feet, and my stomach pirouettes.

  Simon is scrumptious in his jeans and light-blue, short-sleeved button-down that shows off his arms, roped with muscles. I would say I’m an arms girl, but I’m actually an everything girl. Give me strong arms, a firm butt, a nice set of abs, muscular legs, a great face, soulful eyes, soft hair, and a beautiful heart.

  I want it all.

  Nothing wrong with that.

  He has it all.

  “Hi, Simon,” I say, and I’m impressed I said those two words without climbing him like a tree. I can do this. I’m a rock star at resisting.

  “Hi Abby.” His lips curve up in a grin. “Should we grab a table?”

  “We can grab a table or we can sit at one,” I say with a goofy smile. It’s a terrible joke. But hey, whatever works, right?

  “I’ll opt for sitting,” he says, and we pick a table on the sidewalk.

  He pulls out a chair for me. That’s another point in his favor—he’s polite. But I already knew he was a gentleman. I stand no chance.

  “Thanks,” I say, sitting down, willing the organ in my chest to stop beating in overtime. Nothing naughty can happen at one in the afternoon.

  The sun is bright, the sky is blue, and we’re nowhere close to alone. Good. Sitting outside is the perfect antidote to last night. It’s protection from all those devilish hormones that threatened to derail me in the dark of his home. Here in the light of day, surrounded by New Yorkers scurrying along the sidewalk, I won’t be tempted. Even though he looks so damn handsome.

  “I thought this would be the perfect spot to work on your French,” I say, spreading the napkin over my lap.

  “I’ve heard great things about this place but haven’t had the chance to try it, so all the better. The avocado toast is supposed to be quite good, and so is the couscous with red peppers and toasted pine nuts,” he says, and I breathe a sigh of relief, because picking what to eat is now one less thing I have to think about.

  Fighting off the desire to throw myself at him is hard enough. Add in trying to order food and my brain would short-circuit.

  “Let’s get that,” I say. After we order, the redheaded waiter asks if we want wine.

  Simon meets my eyes. “Glass of white?”

  God, yes. A whole bottle please, and a funnel so I can down it quickly. “That sounds perfect.”

  The waiter clears his throat and asks quietly, “Could I trouble you for your ID?”

  Simon cracks up, looking away from me and covering his mouth. I laugh, too. “Told you so,” I say, then dip into my purse and flash my license at the waiter.

  The guy reads it, then smiles. “You look young, and I mean that as a compliment.”

  “I’m guessing you don’t want to see mine,” Simon deadpans to the waiter.

  A faint blush creeps across the guy’s pale cheeks. “Um,” he stammers. “If you’d like to show it to me. But it’s not necessary, sir.”
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  Simon shakes his head, laughing. “We’re all good,” he says, and the guy walks off.

  “And to think, having a drink with you didn’t even age me up in his eyes.”

  Then it hits me, what I just said. I’m having a drink with Simon. I’ve never had a drink with him before, since I’ve been with his daughter every other time I’ve seen him. This is the first time we’ve been together like this outside of his home, sans Hayden.

  The realization hits me hard.

  This is a first time.

  We’re at a restaurant.

  At a table for two.

  Try as I might to rationalize that one in the afternoon is an innocent time on the clock, when I take in the two of us at a sidewalk table, ordering wine and food, this feels distinctly like . . .

  Nope.

  Won’t go there.

  Can’t go there.

  Because nothing naughty can happen now . . . not with me drinking wine, and him looking gorgeous, and us far away from his home.

  Uh-oh.

  This has all the ingredients for a perfect dish of temptation.

  I force myself to catalogue this hour with him as one-on-one language tutoring, not a date with the man I long for.

  I break out my iPad, click on my French notes, and say, “Let’s get started.”

  He nods and flashes me the smile of his that shows off his straight white teeth. His eyes lock briefly with mine. “Tutor me, Abby,” he says, and my stomach executes a loop-de-loop, because he just made those three words sound sexy.

  I’m a teacher who wants the student, and I am so screwed.

  9

  Abby

  An hour later, he’s learned several new key terms to use in his conversations with Gabriel’s business manager, and we’ve practiced other phrases that will be helpful to him, too, like “terms of the contract,” and “return on investment.”

  “You’re a fast learner,” I say, and it’s true. While I don’t expect him to be holding entire conversations, he’s picking up new words quickly. “You definitely have a good base of knowledge.”

  “Thank you. And I have a good teacher,” he says and raises his glass of wine, clinking it with mine. “Here’s to not inviting business partners to swim naked.”

  “Exactly. My goal is no more verbal blunders for you,” I say with a smile, doing my best to keep it light.

  He finishes his glass and sets it down. “That is an admirable goal. How many more lessons do you think I need to achieve that?”

  Endless. As many as we can possibly arrange, because this last hour eating, and drinking, and dining, and talking has felt exactly like a date.

  Oops. I went there.

  I take another swallow from my second glass of wine. The drink has helped calm my jitters and so has the focus on French. “A few more,” I say with a jut of my shoulder.

  Crap. That was a flirty move. Must. Rein. In. Desire. To. Launch. Self. At. Simon.

  He leans back in his chair. “Then we should plan a tour of all the off-the-beaten-path French cafés and restaurants for our tutoring lessons.” He sweeps his hand out wide, as if he’s showing off a billboard. “Food and language.”

  Yes, that sounds perfect. Take me out for delicious meals and let me teach you how to speak a fucking sexy language, because you sound so hot saying “terms of the contract” in French.

  “That sounds like a fantastic plan,” I say, crossing my legs and hunting for a new topic that will be safer than this chatter about what the two of us will do. “So how did you get into the restaurant business? Were you just fed up with Wall Street?”

  He hums then answers, “I had a good run in finance, but it’s a soulless business, and a potentially obsessive one, too. I wanted to get out before I became soulless and obsessive, too.”

  “Were you starting to?”

  “I was on the path, veering in that direction. I worked too many late nights. Definitely before Hayden was born.” He sighs heavily, and his voice is tinged with regret. “Maybe even after,” he says, as if he’s admitting something difficult.

  “Were you a workaholic?”

  He shrugs and quirks his lips. Briefly, he looks away. “I was called that.”

  He doesn’t have to speak the words aloud for me to know who called him that. His ex-wife. My chest pinches painfully, and I wish he didn’t have an ex-wife. That I could wave a magic wand and she’d simply vanish into thin air. That’s a terribly unfair thing to wish, for Hayden’s sake. But even so, it’s what I feel—the desire to erase his history. To take away the hurt she inflicted on him. But then, his hurt brought him into my life. It’s part of who he is—the single father, doing most of the work raising his daughter.

  I run my finger along the edge of my glass then meet Simon’s eyes. “Do you think you are now? A workaholic?”

  His gaze locks with mine. “Do you?” His question is laced with worry, and I can tell he desperately hopes I’ll say no.

  Saying no is easy, though, because it’s the truth. The man works hard, but I don’t think he’s dangerously addicted to it. A reassuring smile tugs at my lips. “No. You’re not a workaholic at all. I also think you’re a great father to Hayden.”

  He matches my grin with one of his own. “I can’t tell you how much I love hearing that.”

  “Watching the two of you warms my heart. It’s the sweetest thing in the world to see you together. You’re crazy for her, and she adores you so.” He can’t stop grinning, and then he lowers his eyes, but the smile remains. “Did I embarrass you by saying that?”

  He raises his chin and shakes his head. His blue eyes sparkle. “No. You didn’t embarrass me. You made me happy.”

  Oh God. Oh hell. My heart pounds wildly, the relentless beating a reminder of how utterly foolish I am. It’s one thing to banish thoughts of sex, but talking about the things that endear him to me? That’s far riskier, because now my heart is swinging back into the zone of longing. This conversation has become just as risky as picturing him unbuttoning his shirt for me.

  And now I’m thinking about Simon undressing. Great. Before I drool on the table, I slam on the mental brakes and swerve the car in the other direction. Work, work, work. “Tell me then—if finance was soulless, is the restaurant business full of soul?”

  He runs a hand through his thick hair and smiles that wide, beaming grin that I adore. “Definitely. Great food ultimately needs to be made with both heart and soul, don’t you think?”

  “I haven’t thought about it before, but that makes sense, I suppose.”

  “Food is a sensory experience. It can be sensual, and it should be delicious, right?” he asks, his eyes locked on mine.

  My skin tingles from his intensity. So much for his career being a safer topic. “Of course. Like the lunch we just had. That was fantastic.”

  “My point exactly. Food like that, amazing, mouth-watering, eye-rollingly good cuisine, has to come from here.” He taps his breastbone. “It has to come from passion. From the artist inside the chef.”

  A grin spreads on my face. His enthusiasm is infectious, and my resistance to his charm is futile. I might as well wave the white flag now. “Have you never wanted to cook?”

  “I’m terrible in the kitchen. But I love good food, and I crave the rush of investing, so this is the perfect combination for me. I get to be part of a business I love and participate in a way that fits my skills. Plus, I can spend more time with Hayden. Though this deal has taken more hours than I’d expected.”

  I lift a hand, meaning to rest it on his arm and reassure him. To tell him he’s doing great, he’s managing with just the right balance. But I stop, returning my hand to the table as I answer, “You know, I’m happy to help if you need me. I love hanging out with Hayden.”

  “You already do so much. And you’re absolutely amazing with her. You must have been incredible with all your brothers.”

  “They were my little pack. I was their alpha dog,” I joke, though it’s true. “I’m the oldest
of four, and the only girl, so helping raise kids comes naturally to me. Even though I was the Chihuahua-size leader of a pack of German Shepherds.”

  Simon narrows his eyes as if he’s appraising me. He makes a so-so gesture. “Give yourself credit. I’d say you’re more of a”—he taps his chin—“a Fox Terrier.”

  Holy shit. Did he just put the emphasis on fox?

  I blush and try to think of something clever to say when the waiter arrives.

  I offer to pay, but Simon shakes his head and peels off a few crisp bills. “You all set?”

  I nod as I stand, shouldering my bag.

  Looking at the remains of our meal, a wave of disappointment smacks me. The time with him is over. We had our tutoring, we had our chat, and now we will go our separate ways. I’ve had such a good time with him, and I don’t want it to end. I want the afternoon to keep unfurling.

  We step away from the café, and I find myself wondering what he’ll do during the rest of the day, where he goes when he’s not with his daughter. He’ll probably work, but what if he doesn’t? What if he’s met someone? A lovely single mother who has a little girl, too? The thought horrifies me, and already I want to tackle that unknown woman and tell her to stay the hell away from him.

  As we walk toward the subway station, Simon clears his throat. “There’s a theater in Tribeca. It’s showing nature documentaries as part of a film festival.” His voice is dry, with a hint of nerves. He lifts his wrist and checks the time. “There’s a film on zebras.”

  Then he blinks and shakes his head as if he just heard himself. “Wow. Did that ever sound weird?” His words keep tumbling from his lips as if he’s never asked anyone to the movies before.

  His awkwardness warms my heart and makes me beam. He’s not seeing another woman. He wants to spend more time with me.

  “But would you like to go see a film about zebras? I have a free afternoon—”

  Before he can say another word, I clasp my hand on his arm and say yes. He wants what I want. “I would love to see a film about zebras.”