Nothing Like Love

by Abigail Strom

  And the only one he’d had eyes for.

  It was the last thought that decided him. He’d be breaking his rule, but he wanted to see if there was still a spark between the two of them—or if he’d bollixed that up last night.

  Half an hour later he was standing in the doorway of the grandest function room in the Ritz-Carlton. A surprising number of people were there, considering the circumstances—and Simone was one of them.

  Zach made his way over to the table where she sat with a few of the bridesmaids and their escorts. When she saw him her eyes widened in surprise.

  “Zach! What are you doing here?”

  There was an empty chair next to her, and he took it. “I was invited.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “In case you didn’t notice, the wedding was short one groom. I think you’re off the hook.”

  Her dress was chartreuse satin, and it clung to her slender curves in an extremely pleasing way. Her short dark hair had been curled, and the soft corkscrews drew attention to her wide cheekbones and enormous brown eyes. Whatever sheer lip gloss she’d used on her wide, full mouth made him think about the kind of kisses that went on for hours.

  “I didn’t have anything else on today, so I thought I might as well stop by and ask you for a dance.”

  There was a band on the dais at the end of the room, but they were still setting up their amps and instruments. Simone looked at them and then back at him. “There’s no music.”

  Her friend Kate spoke up. “You could go get a drink at the bar. The band will probably be playing by the time you finish.”

  Simone glared at her. “I’m not sure I feel like dancing.”

  “You always feel like dancing.”

  “What about Jessica?”

  “I don’t think she’s coming. But you’ll see her if she does.”

  Simone looked back at him, and he got up from his chair and held out a hand. “What do you say? Beer, wine, or something stronger?”

  Simone took his hand and let him help her to her feet. “Something stronger.”

  “So what’s the story with your friend and her gay fiancé?” Zach asked a few minutes later.

  The mahogany bar with its brown leather stools was in a quiet alcove, and except for the bartender, they had it to themselves. They took seats at the far end so Simone could keep an eye out for Jessica.

  Simone had ordered a Manhattan and he’d made it two. Now they clinked their glasses together and took their first sips.

  “I wish I knew,” Simone said ruefully. “I could tell Jess was upset about something, but I had no idea Tom was gay. None of us did.”

  “I got the impression from what she said at the altar that your friend herself knew.”

  Simone nodded. “I think so, too.”

  “But why would she be willing to go through with a sham marriage? That’s a thing I can’t understand.”

  Simone raised her glass to take a sip. As she lowered it one of her green satin straps slid down her shoulder, and she used her other hand to push it back into place. “Maybe she thought it would be simpler to know it was a sham up front.”

  Zach raised an eyebrow. “A sham up front? What do you mean?”

  “Well, come on. Aren’t a lot of marriages shams, in one way or another? Not all of them, of course . . . but more than we’d like to admit. If you marry a gay man, at least you go into the thing without unreasonable expectations of romantic love.”

  “Unreasonable expectations of romantic love?”

  “That’s right.”

  This conversation was fascinating. “You think it’s unreasonable to expect romantic love in a marriage?”

  “I think it’s unreasonable to expect romantic love to last. It’s an illusion, plain and simple—designed to make sure we propagate the species.” She leveled her eyes at him. “What about you? You’re not married. If you believe in romance, why are you still single?”

  “Maybe it’s because I believe in romance too much. I’m waiting for my soul mate, and I won’t settle for anything less.” He paused. “I can’t believe I’m hearing a repudiation of true love from a professed fan of Shakespeare.”

  “Are you kidding? No one knew better than the Bard that love is capricious, arbitrary, fickle, and blind.” She grinned at him. “Look at the play we’re doing now. Shakespeare obviously believed that love makes asses of us all.”

  “That’s your interpretation of A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

  “You bet. Demetrius loves Helena first, right? Until he decides he loves Hermia . . . for no apparent reason. Then Puck’s love potion switches him back to Helena. You can’t get more arbitrary than that.”

  “All right, Miss Oliver, I want some backstory. Where does all this cynicism come from? I sense a rocky romance in your past.”

  Simone tilted her head back to drain her glass, and Zach watched the muscles of her throat move as she swallowed. She set the empty glass on the bar and touched her tongue to an amber droplet on her lower lip.

  Zach shifted on his bar stool.

  “No rocky romance,” she said. “No romance at all, in fact. That’s the advantage of knowing what men are good for and what they’re not.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What aren’t we good for?”

  Her eyes gleamed with equal parts mischief and challenge. “True love. The long haul. Happily-ever-after.”

  “And what are we good for?”

  “Sex, friendship, and carrying large pieces of furniture.”

  Zach laughed in spite of himself. “And you think the Bard shares your attitude?”

  “Absolutely I do. He had no illusions about romance. ‘Men have died from time to time, and the worms have eaten them, but not for love.’”

  It was hard to believe that such determined pessimism didn’t have its genesis in past disappointment, but if there was a story there, Simone had no intention of telling it. Better to change the subject.

  “That reminds me. How is it that you’ve memorized so much Shakespeare? I’ve been acting and directing his plays forever, but what’s your excuse?”

  Simone looked away from him, signaling to the bartender for a refill. Zach held up his glass for another as well.

  After a moment she spoke again. “I’m dyslexic.”

  She said it casually, but Zach had a feeling the emotion behind that experience was anything but casual. He also had a feeling that Simone was not a person who appreciated overt expressions of sympathy.

  He matched her casual tone. “I see. And?”

  “I wasn’t diagnosed until my junior year of high school, so I spent most of my childhood thinking I was stupid . . . and trying to find ways to compensate. I discovered books on tape at the local library, and I’d spend hours listening to whatever we were reading in English class, learning pages and pages by heart.”

  Zach stared at her. Other than her offbeat fashion sense, there was nothing childlike about Simone. She was an intelligent, funny, sexy-as-hell woman. But now he had a sudden image of her as a teenager—a teenager with an undiagnosed learning disability, listening to books on tape in an effort to memorize the words she had trouble reading on the page.

  The image made his heart ache, but Simone wouldn’t appreciate that response. Still going for a neutral tone, he said, “That must have been rough on you.”

  She shook her head. “It was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  Unaccountable woman. “How so?”

  “You of all people should understand.” She declaimed solemnly, “‘They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps.’”

  He quoted the following line. “‘They have lived long on the alms-basket of words.’” He paused. “You fell in love with Shakespeare.”

  She smiled. “I started with Twelfth Night. It was like getting lost in a dream . . . or getting drun
k on words. Do you know what I mean?”

  “My first was Romeo and Juliet. I haven’t been sober since.”

  “Is that why you became an actor? Because of Shakespeare?”

  He nodded. “I played Mercutio in school and that was it for me. I knew what I wanted to do when I grew up.” He put his elbow on the bar and rested his head on his hand, studying her. “But what about you? Weren’t you interested in going onstage?”

  She shrugged. “It never occurred to me. Dyslexic, remember? Too many bad memories of trying to read out loud in English class. And while reading and writing were always a struggle, drawing and design never were. Art was my thing. And since I never wanted to be in the spotlight, I figured out early on I could have more fun behind the scenes.” She leaned her elbow on the bar to mirror him, resting her cheek on her hand as she looked at him. “You, on the other hand, probably always craved the limelight.”

  He pretended to be insulted. “Me? Not at all. I was always modest and retiring. The movie star thing was a sheer accident.” He paused. “If you don’t mind my asking, why did it take so long for your dyslexia to be diagnosed? Didn’t your parents notice you were struggling in school?”

  She straightened up and took her elbow from the bar. “I do.”

  He was confused. “You do what?”

  “Mind you asking.”

  Damn. “I’m sorry, Simone. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “That’s all right. But I’ve dallied with you long enough. I should be getting back to my friends.”

  She slid off her bar stool. Once she was standing beside him, he was reminded of how petite she was. From his vantage point she seemed small enough to take home in his pocket.

  He settled for putting a hand on her arm. “Don’t go. What about the plan you hatched in the taxi cab? You said if you ever felt at a psychological disadvantage with me, you’d take off your top.”

  That made her smile. “Maybe another time.”

  “Or you could ask me something personal. That would make us square.”

  She looked at him for a moment, her smile lingering at the corners of her mouth. Then she got up on the bar stool again and leaned toward him.

  “Who called during dinner last night?”

  He’d been prepared for inquiries into his childhood, his career choices, and possibly his sex life. On the surface, this seemed a much easier question.

  When one of Simone’s eyebrows rose, he realized he’d been staring at her for several seconds without answering.

  “A friend,” he said finally.

  She nodded sagely. “Male?”

  “No.”

  “Old and ugly?”

  He smiled. “No.”

  “Former or current?”

  “Former or current what?”

  “Girlfriend.”

  He shook his head. “Neither. Purely platonic.”

  “Hmm. I don’t know if that makes me feel better or worse.”

  “Better or worse about what?”

  “About being rejected last night. I’ve been telling myself you passed up the possibility of a hot one-night stand because you got a call from a girlfriend or an old flame. But if you could be sidetracked by a platonic friend, then I couldn’t have been very tempting.”

  His heart slammed into overdrive, and the extra blood flow headed straight for his groin.

  It was a few seconds before he could speak. “Do you want the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “The truth is, I can’t think of a time I’ve been more tempted . . . or a woman I’ve found more tempting.”

  His heart was pounding, and the flush in Simone’s cheeks made him certain that hers was, too.

  Those eyes . . . a rich, warm brown that made him think of melted chocolate, fringed with lashes that brushed her cheeks like tiny black fans. Eyelashes couldn’t be that long and thick without cosmetic assistance, and yet they suited Simone so perfectly it was easy to believe they were homegrown.

  Her face was exquisite. The delicate architecture of her cheekbones, her jaw, her temples . . .

  And her mouth. God, he could write a sonnet about her mouth. Full and soft, and so expressive the slightest quirk could speak volumes.

  He’d been with his share of beautiful women. Women who were photographed on red carpets, women who were celebrated for their looks on the pages of fashion magazines and tabloids.

  But of all the women he’d known, Simone’s beauty was the most complex. Comparing Simone to the supermodel he’d dated last year would be like comparing her set for A Midsummer Night’s Dream to painted cardboard.

  The silk panels she’d created could be both transparent and opaque. They could reveal and conceal at the same time.

  Simone was like that, too. Her beauty was in her layers—creativity, humor, intelligence, sexiness. Layers that revealed and concealed at the same time.

  His hand rose of its own accord and he ran the backs of his fingers down the side of her neck. Her eyes widened, and he was so attuned to her he could tell when her pulse sped up.

  “What about tonight?” he asked, his voice husky. “Where do you think tonight could lead?”

  She didn’t say anything for a minute. They stared at each other, and the electricity between them seemed to crackle in the air.

  But then, suddenly, the mood was broken. Simone looked over his left shoulder and gasped. “I don’t believe it. She actually came.”

  He turned his head to see Jessica in the doorway. She’d changed out of her wedding gown and into a plain blue dress. Her eyes were red but her chin was up, and she looked groggy but game.

  When he turned back to Simone, she’d already slid off her stool.

  “I’m guessing that duty calls,” he said.

  She nodded. “It’s my turn to put friendship over a one-night stand.”

  He didn’t know if she felt as much regret as he did, but he respected her choice. “Your friend is definitely worth it. She’s got guts.”

  “I’m sure your friend was worth it, too.” She tilted her head to the side as she looked up at him. “Look at us, all noble. Sacrificing hot sex for friendship.”

  His body tightened. “I wish you’d stop talking about how hot the sex would have been. You’re not making this any easier.”

  “True enough. And anyway, we both know sexual chemistry is a total crapshoot. There’s at least a fifty-fifty chance that the sex would have been lousy, and then all we’d have is the memory of a big buildup and an even bigger letdown. This way we’re setting ourselves up with a permanent might-have-been. The sex will stay imaginary . . . where it can be as hot as we want.”

  She stepped in close and rose up on her toes, laying her hands against his chest as she looked into his eyes. Then, as his body hummed with anticipation, she slowly brought her mouth toward his.

  At the last minute she changed course and pressed her lips to his cheek. Her scent, something subtle and spicy, enveloped him in a sensual haze.

  She pulled back and smiled at him. “Be good, Zach.”

  Then she hurried away to join the other guests gathering around the jilted bride.

  “Damn,” he said softly, watching her.

  His cheek still tingled where she’d kissed him.

  The dream started off the way it always did: with a memory.

  He was at Oxford, and a cloudless morning sky glowed above the ancient buildings and crisp green grass of the quadrangle. Zach was on his way to a history lecture with a fellow student when he saw her.

  She was tall, graceful, and elegant, with long chestnut hair rippling down her back. She smiled at him as they passed each other. It was only a moment, but Zach turned to the student walking with him and said, “That’s the girl I’m going to marry.”

  It didn’t work out like that. He and Isabelle became friends but nev
er dated, and any chance they would ended when she married up-and-coming politician Nigel Pearson. A year later Zach left England for Hollywood.

  But in his dream, his youthful declaration was always followed by a fairy-tale wedding scene: Isabelle in a dress fit for a princess, gazing up at him with her heart in her eyes.

  He’d had this dream a hundred times. But this time, something was different. Isabelle was too short, for one thing—the top of her head barely reached his sternum.

  Her veil was also wrong. It was opaque instead of transparent, hiding her face completely.

  He lifted it out of the way and saw Simone.

  She frowned at him. “This is the stupidest dream I’ve ever been in,” she said. “Have you seriously been carrying a torch for this woman for fifteen years?”

  “It’s not stupid,” he tried to say, but Simone was turning invisible, and he wasn’t sure she could hear him. “It’s not stupid,” he said again, louder. “It’s romantic.”

  “Romantic my ass,” Simone said faintly . . . and then she was gone.

  Zach opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, disoriented. It took him a moment to remember that he was in a hotel room in New York City and not at his flat in London.

  He sat up in bed and scrubbed his face with his hands. He didn’t dream about Isabelle as often as he used to, but when he did, the dream was always the same . . . or at least, it had been until tonight.

  What the hell was Simone Oliver doing in his dreams? He’d only known her a few weeks. And when this production was over, she’d go on with her life here in New York while he went back to his in London.

  It was Monday morning, and he’d be seeing Simone that evening at rehearsal. He’d been toying with the idea of asking her out on a proper date ever since the wedding on Saturday, even though Simone had seemed to favor leaving things the way they were.

  Now he was starting to think she was right.

  The dream had been about ambiguity. Haziness. Uncertainty. His subconscious was telling him not to blur the lines of a working relationship—especially when there was no possibility of a romantic relationship.