The One Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  10

  Simon

  When the young zebra is separated from his family, she gasps and clutches my arm.

  When he evades a lion, she digs her nails into my bicep.

  And when he’s reunited with his striped friends and family, she clasps her hand over her mouth and turns to me. “Oh my God,” she whispers through her fingers.

  I calculate how big a check I should send to the Zebra Foundation because this hour-long documentary has turned out to be some kind of foreplay.

  It’s better than taking a woman to a horror flick in the hopes that she jumps into your arms. Not that I like horror films, and not that I’ve done that. But I had no clue the zebra’s tale of survival would elicit this sort of reaction from Abby, who seems to feel every moment of what’s happening onscreen deep in her bones.

  I just wanted to do something nice for her, since she took the time out of her day to help me. But honestly, that’s not entirely true. I didn’t want to say goodbye to her. Little did I know a nature documentary would lead to her busy little hands squeezing my arm in a dark theater.

  As the credits roll, she says, “My heart is still beating a hundred miles an hour.”

  “That’s faster than a zebra at top speed.”

  She smiles and takes a steadying breath. “That was so good. Thank you for taking me,” she says, and pride suffuses me. I love that she had the best time at this unexpected afternoon outing.

  “My pleasure,” I say, then my eyes stray to her hand, still wrapped around my arm. Some of the other moviegoers shuffle up the aisle, heading out of the darkened theater.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry,” she says and yanks her hand away.

  “I really didn’t mind,” I say softly. “Glad my arm could be of service.”

  “I don’t think I was even aware that I was gripping it like a lifeline during the film.”

  I was completely aware, and truth be told, it was my favorite part of the movie.

  “I was just so into it,” she says with a shrug. “I guess now you know why I like the eagles so much.”

  “I do. But I understood it before, too.”

  She tilts her head to ask, “Yeah?”

  I nod. “You kind of light up when you watch them. Just like how you do when you talk about the Museum of Natural History. There’s a sparkle in your eyes,” I say, gesturing to those gorgeous amber-flecked eyes.

  Her lips part. “I do?”

  “You do, Abby. It’s an innate part of you. Separate from languages, separate from your talent with kids. It’s part of what makes you tick.” Even as I say it, I worry this is where we’re in real danger—talking about who we are, what we love, what makes us happy.

  Maybe this is even riskier than my hands in her hair, or secret touches that hint of more. More dangerous than naughty little comments on skinny-dipping and lubricant. Perhaps this is the real fire—how I feel sitting here with her, our knees nearly touching, our elbows aligned, our gazes locked.

  Everyone else leaves, and we don’t move.

  She licks her lips, swallows, and casts her eyes down. When she raises her face, she speaks softly. “You’re right,” she says, and her voice sounds vulnerable.

  But inviting. Like she wants to talk, to get to know each other even more.

  I tilt my head, curious. “Why do you like shows about wild animals so much?”

  She seems to consider my question for a moment, then she answers, “For the same reason I like working with kids. It’s real. No falseness. No pretense. That, and I’ve always been at home with wild dogs. Three brothers and all,” she adds with a curve of her lips.

  I return her smile with one of my own. “I like that. No, I love that. And that’s what I loved, too, when you first showed me the Eagle Cam, and what I enjoyed about this film. They were never my thing before. Weren’t even on my radar. But because of you I pay more attention, and when I do it’s fascinating to watch what’s truly real.”

  She nods enthusiastically. “Did you know eagles can sleep with one eye open?”

  “Like a mobster?”

  “Exactly! They’re unihemispheric, I learned. They can sleep and be awake at the same time,” she says, her eyes sparkling as she explains. “They truly do keep one eye open, and the awake part of the brain watches for predators. Dolphins are the same.”

  I wink slowly, showing her one closed eye.

  She wags a finger at me. “But you didn’t put half your brain to sleep.”

  “No, but I’m working on my unihemispheric potential.”

  She laughs, then says, “See? The natural world has so many wonders, and they’re all real and true.”

  Real and true. I love the sound of those words. Especially because pretense was all I knew from Miriam during the last few years of our marriage, and especially the final months when she conducted her affair with a coworker. When her transgressions came to light, I was hurt. No surprise there. No one wants to be cheated on. But I wasn’t as devastated as I thought I’d be. I met her shortly after college, but we’d been drifting apart for a long time. Honestly, I’d already pulled away from her emotionally, burying myself in work rather than dealing with the reality that we weren’t right for each other anymore.

  Maybe that was what had made it so easy to say what I did when I saw the text messages between her and the guy she worked with.

  “Sleeping with your coworker, Miriam? That’s a bit cliché.”

  “Working so hard you ignore your wife? That’s a bit cliché,” she’d fired back.

  Neither one of us fought for the marriage. She was ready to leave. I was ready to let go of her. Now, a few years later, I don’t pine for her at all. I’m just glad she’s no longer my wife. I don’t want her brand of pretense in a relationship.

  I want this honesty, this openness—this realness.

  That’s what makes my longing for Abby so much tougher to manage. It’s rooted in who she is. She’s not fake. She’s not phony. She’s so fucking real and that makes me fall harder for her, and I wonder if she can tell. Seeing as I knew the show times for a zebra documentary, I’m not sure how it could be any more obvious that I’ve got it bad for her.

  But I’ve played hooky for long enough. I need to catch up on work so I can devote my attention to Hayden come Monday morning when I have her for the week, as I usually do. She’s with me most of the time, but we try to stay flexible, and Miriam plans to bring our daughter back early so she can jet to the nation’s capital for business. She’s a lobbyist, and her job suits her since she loves to make people’s lives miserable.

  The lights flicker on in the theater. An usher enters to pick up popcorn buckets and candy boxes.

  Abby stands, smooths a hand over her yellow sundress, and grabs her purse. “Thank you for taking me to the movies,” she says sweetly, but I swear the only words I truly hear are taking me.

  God, how I want to take her. I want to take her to dinner, and I want to take her to my bed.

  She walks up the aisle, and for those few seconds, I don’t fight my lust. I check her out the entire way. Her legs are smooth and toned, but not too muscular. I bet they’d feel spectacular wrapped around me. Her hair glides down her back, and I want to rope my hands through it when I’m not practicing a braid. And then, there’s her ass. I think—no, I’m sure that I could worship it. Plant kisses all over it, then spin her around, cup my hands on those luscious cheeks, and yank her close to me.

  Fuck, now my dick is imitating an iron spike, and I might as well get a megaphone and announce that I’ve got a very big thing for her. In case that wasn’t self-evident. When we reach the lobby, I find myself wishing I’d bought Junior Mints, just so I had a box of candy to cover up the salute in my jeans. And I don’t even like mints.

  Out on the busy street, Abby doesn’t notice. Or maybe she just doesn’t say anything. I hail a cab quickly, and we head uptown.

  “We can drop you off first,” I say, since she lives on the west side, and I’m on the east. That mea
ns the ride is up for her, and then all the way across town too, for me. New Yorkers never do this. We hate going up and over, but I’ll gladly take the inconvenience for another few minutes with her. Then, it hits me. “Wait. I didn’t even ask if you were heading home.”

  “I am. But then I’m going out,” she says as the cab stops abruptly at a light. The radio plays faintly from the front seat, and the divider is mostly closed.

  “Ah, well. Have fun,” I say in my best chipper tone, and in this moment I couldn’t be more aware of the barriers between us. She’s going out because she has complete control of her own free time. I’m heading to work on a Friday evening so that my weekday mornings will be free to spend with my kid.

  I wouldn’t change a damn thing. My daughter is the love of my life. But I’m also keenly aware that this simple fact makes me the wrong choice for Abby. My time is limited. My attention is already spoken for.

  “I will have fun,” Abby says. “I’m seeing Harper and Nick, and Spencer and Charlotte. We’re all going to play pool, even though I’m terrible.”

  My ears prick. “I’m awesome at pool,” I say, because it’s true and I can’t resist dropping in this tidbit. Maybe I want to impress her. Hell, I definitely want to impress her.

  Her eyebrows rise. “You are?”

  “Paid for a few classes in college as a pool shark.”

  Her jaw drops. “No! You never told me that!”

  I shrug casually as the driver speeds up, trying to race through a light. He veers into the next lane in an attempt to stay ahead of the traffic. “Don’t I seem like a pool hustler?”

  She narrows her eyes and grips her purse strap, as if that will help her hold on as this guy drives more dangerously than he should. “No. Not at all.”

  “I played at night and won some money in a few games,” I say with a big grin as the cab swerves again and we cross into Chelsea. The car cuts so quickly, Abby jams her hand against the divider to hold on.

  “You okay?” I ask her.

  She nods and lowers her voice. “He’s a little aggressive behind the wheel.”

  I clear my throat and lean forward to talk to the driver through the small window. “Hey, man. We’re not in a rush, so let’s just be a little more steady as she goes.”

  The driver grumbles something that sounds like yes, and I lean back against the black leather seat.

  “Thank you,” she says, with a small curve in her lips. “You’re my hero.”

  Oh hell. Those words. Her lips. The look in her eyes. I blurt out the next thing that comes to mind. “I can help you play.”

  “You can?”

  The cab veers into another lane, sending Abby shooting closer to me. Suddenly, she’s inches away, her face close to mine, her hand on my shoulder. I don’t know how this has happened, but we’ve gone once again from a simple conversation to the cusp of more.

  I lick my lips once, my gaze drifting briefly to her hand. “I’ll teach you sometime. I’m a good pool tutor.”

  She nods and curls her fingers tighter. “I bet you are.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe me?”

  “I do,” she says softly, her eyes vulnerable and honest. “I do believe you.”

  And I don’t care about the driver right now, or whether he’s going to Frogger it up the rest of the avenue. I definitely don’t give a shit about how little time and attention I have to spare. I barely care about anything but what my heart and body want right now.

  This woman, who won’t let go of her hold on me.

  “Believe me,” I whisper, then raise my hand and gently finger the strands of her hair.

  She leans closer, and I move to her, and then she grips the collar of my shirt.

  “Simon,” she whispers. Her voice sounds beautifully desperate—like how I feel with her.

  There are no more decisions to be made.

  I inch closer, our faces nearly touching. I can feel her breath on me. Our noses brush, then I slant my mouth to hers. Our lips touch, and it’s like a world that was ordinary has now turned extraordinary.

  I cup her cheeks, holding her face as I deepen the kiss. More lips, more tongue, more teeth. More Abby.

  My entire body is alive. My heart pounds, my brain fires, and I’m wildly turned on. I’ve gone to bed many nights drifting off to the fantasy of this kind of hungry, frenzied, unexpected kiss. In my dirty dreams, the kisses turn into much more, and I touch her, taste her . . .

  Take her.

  But hell, a kiss is more than enough because this feels like the way kissing was meant to be—her hand clutching my shoulder, mine on her face, our lips caressing. Heat pulses through me, and at last, at long fucking last, the woman I’ve longed for wants me exactly the same way.

  The yellow cab shimmies along the asphalt, and I’m lost in a kiss I barely saw coming, one I’m powerless to stop.

  11

  Abby

  This man can kiss. His lips taste so good as he kisses me with a tenderness and a hunger that’s entirely new in my experience.

  This kiss vibrates and spreads through my entire body, as if I’ve been shot full of liquid beauty, like gold and silver flow through my veins. He slides his tongue across mine, and I want to grab him, straddle him, and just kiss the daylights out of him, even in this crazy, dangerous cab.

  I hardly care that our first kiss isn’t on a moonlit balcony or under the stars. This kiss was inevitable, especially after the last few nights, all these days, and then this afternoon. All our moments have been marching to this as Simon kisses me with such reverence that I want to melt into him. I rope my fingers through his soft hair, and I truly can’t believe I’m making out with Simon Travers in the back of a cab after we watched a documentary on zebras.

  I wish I could say that alarms sound, telling me how risky it is to kiss the man I work for. But all I hear is the rapid beat of my heart, leading me closer to him.

  Simon runs his thumb along my cheek, and that soft touch makes me tremble. Somehow I wriggle closer, my breasts pressed to his firm chest. He groans. It’s carnal and masculine, almost like a warning. But neither one of us heeds it. We simply can’t stop. We’re those people. The kind who go crazy in public. I feel insane right now. Crazy and wild and reckless.

  His hands are on my face, then my hair, and then the back of my head. He is all heat and passion. The way his lips sweep over mine, the way his tongue explores my mouth, and most of all, the way he holds me—it all makes me want to grab those strong shoulders of his and slam him down on top of my body. I want to feel him slide my wrists over my head, pin them, and then smother me in kisses everywhere. I want to let go beneath his mouth, arch into him, urge him to explore my body the way he seems to want to.

  The car jerks to a stop.

  Abruptly, we separate, but only slightly.

  He blinks and breathes out hard as he glances around. We’re all the way in Columbus Circle. Holy shit. We kissed for blocks upon blocks.

  My lips miss his. I thread my hand into his hair. “We shouldn’t do this,” I say, though it hardly sounds like a protest as his hair falls through my fingers.

  His eyes float closed, and his mouth is open, his breath coming in harsh pants. “We definitely shouldn’t do this,” he says, his voice low and smoky as he sighs deeply at my touch.

  “You’re my boss,” I say, pointing out the obvious.

  “You’re my—”

  Whatever he was going to say next is cut off when he brushes his lips against my forehead, then over my face, dusting my cheek, my eyelids, my jawline.

  My skin sizzles. My stomach flips. I want to live inside this kiss. “Don’t stop,” I murmur as his lips mark me.

  He travels to my neck, and I tilt my head to the side. He layers kisses all along the column of my throat, the delicious mix of his rough stubble and his soft lips sending sparks to my very core. My body is hungry, eager for him, and I’m going to need a new word for want because what I feel for Simon is so much more than that.


  It’s yearning. It’s non-negotiable. I have to have him.

  “I don’t know that I can stop with you, Abby,” he whispers, and my name falling from his lips is exquisite and sensual.

  In it, I hear his complete and utter need for me, and it’s thrilling—because it matches my heart. It matches my body, too.

  His lips return to me, and we give in once more to the desire that’s thrummed between us for months. I used to think these feelings were all in my mind. Then, in the last few days, I knew they were returned. Funny how once we left the confines of his house, it only took a couple of hours for tutoring to turn into wine, food, and conversation, then to grabbing him in the dark theater.

  My God, what was I thinking, putting my hands all over him during the movie?

  This.

  I was thinking I wanted this.

  His stubbled jaw brushes against my face, and I love the feel of it, the whiskery burn it’ll leave on my skin. My hands roam along his arms, traveling to his biceps, so firm and strong, and immediately I’m awash in images and possibilities. Sliding under him. Those strong arms anchored above me. Running my hands along his muscles as he moves in me. The images blaze hard and hot.

  A wave of neon heat rolls through me, lighting me up all over, settling between my legs where I truly do ache for him. This man isn’t just turning me on. He’s turning me into a woman who wants only to be taken.

  He kisses deeper, harder, rougher—like he needs me desperately. God, I need this kiss, too. I’m so far gone, and I’m sure he is too, judging from the groans he makes as he devours my lips. His hands travel all over my body, exploring my waist, my shoulders, and my neck. His hands dive into my hair, his fingers threading tightly. It feels incredible. He clasps my head possessively, and I’m a blur of sparks and sensation.

  This is more than touching—more than kissing. It’s like a claiming, the way his lips consume mine, how his hands grip my head. I can’t get enough of him, and he can’t get enough of me, either. That realization crashes into me beautifully. Seductively. Flooding me with so much heat.