The One Love Collection

by Lauren Blakely

  “Here I am,” I reply.

  “You’re leaving early?”

  “It’s five thirty.”

  She arches a brow. “That’s early for you, Flynn.”

  I shrug, taking off my glasses, wiping the lenses on a shirtsleeve, and putting them back on. They’re as clean as they were . . . well, before I cleaned them. “Anyway, you’re looking for me?”

  “I want to let you know I’m ready to accept my badge of awesome right now.” She pats her chest.

  “And to what do we owe the honor of your awesomeness today?”

  She thrusts an arm in the air, victory-style, as the elevator arrives. We step in together, and I press the button for the lobby. “I was on the phone a few minutes ago with none other than Bob Galloway. He has officially assigned a reporter at Up Next to do an in-depth feature piece on you.” Her voice rises high on the last word as she pokes my shoulder with affection.

  “Cool,” I say, checking my reflection in the elevator panel to make sure all the buttons are lined up on my shirt. You never know if you’ve misbuttoned something. Not that I did that in my senior year of high school before a speech. Not that I’ve ever forgotten that moment of embarrassment either. In my defense, buttons are hard.

  “Cool? That’s more than cool. That’s amazing.”

  “Right,” I say, nodding as I study the alignment. I bare my teeth next, making sure the choppers look sharp and lunch-free.

  “I talked to the reporter too. The piece is going to pivot a bit from what I pitched them, but I think it’ll be even better. Get this—it’s going to be about you as one of the next generations of business visionaries.” She rattles off more details on the piece, telling me the reporter is Sabrina Granger, my assistant has scheduled a meeting, and tomorrow is our first interview.

  I run a hand through my hair. Yup. Just the right amount of floppy mess.

  “It’s going to be a fantastic piece,” Jennica adds.

  “That’s great.”

  The elevator goes silent.

  Jennica clears her throat, catching my attention with the sound. I snap my gaze to her. Her hands are parked on her hips. “You’re barely paying attention.”

  “Visionary, check. Tomorrow, check. Sabrina, check. Piece will be great, check.” I tap my temple. “I listened.”

  “Hardly. You were distracted, and I’m willing to bet it’s because you have a hot date.”

  I scoff.

  She laughs, shaking her head. “Flynn Parker, you’ve been checking your reflection, and you’re making sure you don’t have lettuce in your teeth, even though it was five hours ago that we went to the salad bar for lunch, and you’ve probably also brushed your teeth twenty times since then.”

  I blow out a breath of air. “Minty fresh. Guilty as charged.”

  “Who is the lucky lady, and does she know you’re a certified dork?”

  “Correction. It’s not yet official. But the Adorkable Committee assures me the certificate should arrive any day.”

  “Excellent. We’ll frame it,” she says as we reach the lobby, and she shoves her bag higher on her shoulder. “Now, fess up. Who is the lovely you’re lettuce-free for?”

  I laugh, shaking my head. Jennica wouldn’t believe me if I said I didn’t know who she is. I hardly believe me. “She’s a bit of a mystery.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up, and she hums her approval. “A mystery girl. How intriguing. What do we know about her?”

  Let’s see. I don’t know her name, her occupation, her family background, where she lives, or any of the usual details. But I do know some key traits already. “She’s smart, independent, clever, and likes my jokes.”

  Also, she’s great in bed—or against the wall, as the case may be—and feels spectacular in my arms. But I keep those key attributes to myself.

  “Sounds like a keeper.”

  “Plus, she hasn’t proposed to me yet.”

  “There’s still time tonight for her to get down on one knee. And on that note, I need to get to the year-end open house at my daughter’s first-grade classroom. My husband is making me attend. The torture. Dear God, the torture of an open house.”

  “Have fun with Steve, and be sure to take Taylor out for frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity when you’re done.”

  “Her? How about someone taking me out for enduring an open house?”

  We say goodbye, and I head in the direction of The Dollhouse. When I looked up the description online, I immediately thought, Aha, it’s perfect for her.

  On the way downtown, I check my reflection in the subway window. When I exit in Tribeca and carve a path through the trendy streets, I peer into shop windows to make sure my glasses aren’t sliding down my nose. Jennica was right to note my distractedness—I am nervous, and that’s unusual, especially considering I don’t break a sweat when I deliver a keynote speech, negotiate with business partners, or go out on dates.

  But this date feels different. It’s like we’ve done things entirely backward. Like we’re assembling a jigsaw puzzle from the middle out. But we both seem to like it this way. She likes the intrigue as much as I do, and that makes me want to know her even more, learn what makes her tick, what excites her. But more than that, I want her to keep wanting to see me, the guy she called Duke, not the dude everyone wants a piece of.

  Then I’d know if it was real. Then I’d know it was about me, and not about anything else I might bring to the table. I almost wish I could keep up the ruse.

  Because it’s not merely that I’m tired of the random women, the catfishers, the gold-diggers, and the money-hunters. I can handle a woman hitting on me at a conference, a bar, or the gym because she’s figured out I could be a meal ticket. I can shake that off and move on. Other things are harder to let go. I know what it’s like to give my heart to someone thinking she wants it, but then learn she only wants all the zeros attached to my name.

  That was Annie.

  She was a math nerd too, and we went to college together. I had the biggest crush on Annie, with her big blue eyes and equally blue hair, and her badass coder attitude. She didn’t give me the time of day romantically, but friend-wise, absolutely. I was the guy she leaned on, the one she told her man woes to. Yeah, I was that guy, and then I finally found the guts to ask her out.

  But her answer was clear—I was friend-zoned forever. “But we’re so much better off as friends, don’t you think?”

  “Sure,” I’d said because some of her was better than nothing.

  We stayed buddies, keeping in touch even though we moved to separate coasts after graduation. A few years ago, she returned to New York and asked, ever-so-sweetly, if she could have a do-over on the “let’s just be friends” bit.

  Hell to the yes. I hadn’t forgotten why I’d liked Annie. She was cool and smart.

  We went out for several months, and it felt like sweet victory. Revenge of the nerds, indeed. Finally, the girl I’d wanted, wanted me too. And boy, did she ever. The praise flowed in. How good it was to finally be with me. The sex was plentiful, like she couldn’t get enough. Plus, she liked to sleep naked. Can you say kryptonite for a guy?

  The closer we grew, the more often she floated the idea of moving in, maybe getting engaged.

  I wasn’t opposed to bumping things to the next level, but my radar went off when she became not only overly interested in me, but keenly curious about my bank accounts. Where do you park all the money? Who manages it? What sort of investments do you have?

  “The kind that requires a prenup.”

  Yes, I told her that.

  Because I’m not stupid.

  “I can’t believe you’d want a prenup,” she said, like I was the jerk.

  “Annie, we’re not even engaged.”

  “But you’re well and truly saying you’d want a prenup?”

  “Um, yeah.”

  “I can’t believe you don’t trust me.”

  I certainly didn’t after that. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why I’d been ladd
ered up to the Let’s Be More Than Friends category. The more she pressed, the more evident it became. I hadn’t been promoted from the friend zone. I was skyrocketed into the green belt, and she watered the Flynn plant with compliments and nudity. A hungry ficus tree, I guzzled it up.

  I suppose in the end I’m simply grateful that she showed her cards before I fell any deeper for her.

  That’s why I wish Angel and I could keep up the masquerade. Because it’s honest. It’s freeing. I don’t have to worry about getting hurt. I don’t have time for another heartbreak. I have a company to run and employees to provide for.

  I do, however, have time for a fantastic night out or two or three, and that’s exactly what I want.

  As I glance up at the numbers above the storefronts, a window full of old-fashioned toys comes into view. There’s a spinning top, a hobby horse, and some wooden blocks that spell the name of the establishment. The Dollhouse.

  It’s one of those places that doesn’t need to rely on a flashing neon sign or scads of scantily dressed ladies out front to lure anyone in. It’s like a speakeasy. You need the secret language to enter, and the code is knowing this isn’t a storefront for old-fashioned toys.

  Smiling, I push open the door and head into a bar. One wall is lined with shelves holding rooms from dollhouses—sitting areas decorated with pint-size couches, sleeping dens with beds that would hold a teaspoon and pillows no bigger than a fingernail. At the bar, the napkin holders are actual upside-down doll-size tables, that would, I think, fit inside one of those little homes.

  Patrons sip drinks from teacups in shades of pastel blue and pink.

  It’s so retro, it’s beyond retro. It’s like a fiesta of quirkiness, and as I look around, I hope I’ll recognize the woman from the party instantly. But then, I’m not sure how I won’t recognize her. I ran my fingers up her legs, slid them between her thighs, felt her tremble, kissed her lips.

  I’ll know her.

  The hostess strolls over and asks me if I’m meeting someone. I survey the tables and the bar, hunting for caramel hair, green eyes, pink lips. There’s a sign by the taps that says: Lollipops for good boys and girls.

  My gaze drifts past the sign, and a smile tugs at my lips.

  Damn, I’ve got it bad already.

  “Yeah,” I say, and my voice sounds a little dreamy, a little dopey when my eyes land on a woman wearing a polka-dot skirt. I zero in on her hair, a warm shade of brown.

  The woman whose underwear is in my pocket.

  The woman whose scent has been in my head for the last twenty-four hours.

  It’s like a blind date fantasy come true.

  She’s even prettier now that I can look at all of her.

  The problem is, she doesn’t smile when she sees me.

  12

  Flynn

  If I were offered ten emotions and asked to point to the one for her expression, it wouldn’t be excited, angry, annoyed, or thanking-her-lucky-stars-that-I’m-a-handsome-devil.

  Too bad.

  The word I’d pick would be vexed.

  Like she doesn’t remember me. Her brow narrows and she studies me. It’s like the moment when a record scratches and all the good vibrations come to a halt. This wasn’t entirely the greeting I imagined—honestly, I was hoping she’d saunter over, wrap her arms around my neck, and kiss the hell out of me—but I tell myself to go with the moment.

  I head to the bar.

  “Hi,” I say, tapping the wooden sign on the taps. “I think I deserve a lollipop. Do you?”

  Her lips part, but no sound comes. She blinks. Shit. She doesn’t like me in person. What the hell? I’m damn cute. I’m a hottie.

  “I didn’t think we were meeting yet.” There it is, that voice from last night. Sexy and throaty, with honey notes.

  But she’s talking nonsense. She’s supposed to say, “Hi, Duke. May I have another?”

  Or something like that.

  “You didn’t think we were getting together?” I rub my ear. Maybe I’m hearing things.

  She narrows her brow. “I thought our meeting was tomorrow?”

  Did I get the location wrong? The date wrong? I thought we were damn clear on both, but I’ve been preoccupied. “I thought it was tonight. Isn’t that what we agreed on?”

  She shakes her head. “I’m pretty sure we’re meeting tomorrow. I just set it up.” She peers around me, looking for something, or someone. “I’m waiting for someone else now, but . . .”

  My brain sputters, trying to make sense of her flummoxed face. Did she make another date tonight? “Who are you waiting for?”

  She laughs, an embarrassed sound. “Just someone.” She waves a hand across her face. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be unprofessional. I’m really looking forward to interviewing you tomorrow.” She takes a beat and licks her lips. “And I can’t shake how much you look like someone else I know.” Standing up from the stool, she extends a hand and says, “I apologize for my confusion. I’m Sabrina Granger. Nice to meet you, Flynn. I can’t wait to chat with you for the story.”

  My brain clicks and whirs, and for a nanosecond, I think—or hope—I mixed up the names. Sabrina is the reporter interviewing me, but Sabrina can’t possibly be . . .

  Or can she?

  Those lips, that hair, those hazel eyes . . .

  The universe has just dropped an anvil on me, Acme-style, flattening my excitement. This is the whoopee cushion, the hand buzzer, the “kick me” sign on my back. That would be fitting, after all, in this gin joint. Perhaps the toy storefront was more of a promise of what’s to come for me—a game where I don’t win.

  This can’t fucking be.

  “You’re the reporter?” I ask heavily, still hoping against hope I’ve gotten it wrong somehow.

  She nods. “I’m Sabrina Granger.”

  All at once, awareness seems to dawn on her, and she gasps, “Oh, hell. You’re . . .” She points at me, like I have the plague. “You’re . . .” She gulps and doesn’t finish.

  I laugh incredulously, sketching air quotes. “Yes, I’m just someone.”

  Her eyes widen to moon pies. “I can’t believe,” she begins, her words coming out staccato. “I thought. My brain. Cognitive dissonance,” she says. She knew I was Flynn, but she also figured I couldn’t possibly be her mystery guy. Newsflash—I’m both the winner and the loser of the masquerade contest. “I thought you were . . . but I didn’t think you could be.”

  I sigh so damn heavily it’s going to require its own weight class. “I didn’t think you’d be the reporter, Angel.”

  She flaps her hands around. “I assumed I had the times wrong for my interview, rather than you were my . . .” She lets her voice trail off like she can’t bring herself to say what we are.

  I pick up the dropped words. “Your duke? Your dirty Prince Charming? The guy who made you forget where you were?” I toss out, repeating her request from last night. One I followed to the O.

  She drops her face in her hands, moaning in frustration. “I can’t believe this,” she mutters, shaking her head. Her shoulders rise and fall. She raises her face like a cat poking its ears out from beneath a blanket. “Say you’re kidding.”

  “I wish I were. But nope, I’m Flynn Parker, the guy from last night. The guy from tomorrow. The guy who texted you. The guy who has your panties. And, evidently, the guy you’re interviewing.”

  She shushes me then leans her head back and sighs, raising her eyes to the ceiling, talking to the roof. “I came here to meet the guy from the party—the guy I had this crazy-amazing connection with—and it turns out he’s the man I’m interviewing for my first big break at a magazine I’m dying to work for. The universe seriously loves to laugh at me.”

  I nod, signaling the bartender for a drink. “And I can’t believe the first woman I had a crazy-amazing connection with is now off-limits since she’s writing a critical piece on my company during an important time in our market rollout.”

  Her lips quirk up into a delicious
grin, as pink splashes across her cheeks. Her blush is magnificently alluring. It reminds me of how her skin flushes when she comes, how the color crawls up her chest when she nears the edge.

  The memory is like a serving of lust, and my response to it is instant and hard.

  “What can I get you?” the goateed bartender asks as he arrives.

  “Something strong,” I tell him, since I can’t very well ask for the drink I really need—The Boner Killer.

  “Coming right up.”

  “Do you want something?” I ask Sabrina.

  She shakes her head and points to her cup.

  When the bartender leaves, I gesture to Sabrina, unmasked. “If it’s any consolation, you’re even prettier like this.” My eyes roam her face, cataloging cheeks I held, eyes I stared into, lips I bruised.

  Her expression softens. A faint smile tugs at her mouth. “You too,” she whispers, and for a moment, I can see how this night would have unspooled. A drink, a conversation, a laugh. The laughter would have led to kissing, the kissing would have led to stumbling out of here, hailing a cab, making out as the city blurred by, then a hot, sweaty night at my place that went by far too fast.

  That can’t happen anymore, yet the promise of a night like that is powerful. I tap the bar, drumming my fingers as I soak in the ambiance of this quirky joint. “I’m not surprised you like this place. I bet you had a dollhouse when you were younger.”

  A faint smile plays on her lips. Those lush, sweet lips. “That’s how I learned to sew. For dolls.”

  I laugh, wishing this conversation was the prelude to our evening. “Yep. Pegged it.”

  “The first time I took needle to thread, I made a terrible frock for a four-inch-high blond toy woman.” She dips her hand into her purse, and fishes around. She grabs a swath of fabric and holds out her hand to show me a green paisley triangle. “Here it is. I keep it with me, like a good-luck charm.”

  “That is awful, and I say this as someone who made his first robot out of cardboard, so it was equally abysmal.”

  Tucking the dress away, she asks, “Do you make better robots now?”

  I shake my head. “I gave up the robot trade in high school. Decided to make radios instead.”