The Only One: A One Love Novella

by Lauren Blakely

  When I reach the brick-front eatery on the corner of two cobbled streets, I’m more impressed than I want to be. His restaurant is so cool and hip and sexy, with a dash of old-fashioned charm in the hanging wooden sign.

  I narrow my eyes and nearly breathe a plume of fire onto the entryway. He probably charms the female patrons with his witty words, his panty-melting grin, and his fucking amazing food.

  Then takes them to his bed and runs his tongue…

  Stop. Just stop.

  I clench my fists then take a breath, letting it spread through my body. I remind myself I’m here for business. I’m here for the dogs. This is my chance to raise a lot of money for a cause that matters dearly to me.

  When the hostess greets me and I tell her I have a meeting with Gabriel, a part of me hopes that he’s grown a paunch, acquired a receding hairline, or perhaps lost a tooth in a barroom brawl.

  But as he strides toward where I wait by the door, the saying take my breath away means something entirely new.

  Oxygen flees my body.

  The twenty-four-year-old guy who dazzled me when I gave him my virginity a decade ago has nothing on this man in front of me.

  He’s as beautiful as heartbreak. With cheekbones carved by the masters, eyes the color of topaz, and hair that’s now shoulder-length, he’s somehow impossibly sexier. My fingers itch to touch those dark strands. My skin sizzles as images of him moving over me flicker fast before my eyes.

  I try to focus on the here and now, but the here and now makes my heart hammer with desire. Everything about him exudes confidence, charm, and sex appeal, even his casual clothes. He wears black jeans, lace-up boots, and a well-worn V-neck T-shirt that reveals his lean, toned, inked arms. He had several when I knew him—now his arms are nearly covered in artwork, and they’re stunning. His ink is so incredibly seductive.

  He holds out a hand and flashes me that grin that makes me want to grab the neck of his shirt, yank him close, and say kiss me now like you did all those nights before.

  Instead, he takes my palm in his then presses his lips to the top of my hand, making my head spin. Then he speaks, his accent like an opiate. He’s French and Brazilian, and I don’t know which side dominates his voice. I don’t care, either, because the mixture of the two is delicious. “I’ve been looking forward to seeing you, Penny.”

  Oh God. Oh shit. He’s excited to see me.

  My stupid heart dances.

  I swallow, trying to tap in to the section of my brain that’s capable of language. I part my lips, but my mouth imitates the Sahara. I dig down deep, somehow finding the power of speech, and manage a parched, “Hello.”

  So much for playing it cool.

  “Shall we sit down?” he asks, his delicious voice as sensual as it was that summer.

  Yes, and tell me you’re sorry. Tell me you were trapped in a cave, that spies stole your phone, that you were offered the job of the century in Nepal and you couldn’t bear to see me again because then you’d never have taken the gig. You had no choice, clearly. Seeing me would have made it impossible to resist me.

  Because that would be him eating his goddamn heart out.

  Instead, I’m greeted with another enchanting smile as he says, “It’s so good to meet you. I want to hear all about your charity and to see if we can work together for your event. My business manager believes this could be a great partnership for us both.” He gestures to a quiet booth in the far corner. The lunchtime rush hasn’t begun. I sit, then he slides across from me.

  As I begin to share information with him about Little Friends, a fresh, cold wave of understanding washes over me.

  He doesn’t recognize me, and I honestly don’t look that different than I did ten years ago.

  Which means…he doesn’t remember me.

  Chapter Two

  Gabriel

  As I head to the kitchen to grab a plate I’ve already prepared for her, something in the back of my mind nags at me, like someone is poking me, trying to tell me something. Maybe rustle up a memory best forgotten. It’s on the tip of my tongue. The edge of my fingers.

  Pressing my hands to the steel counter, I close my eyes and let my mind slip back in time. A beautiful face flashes past me, and I wish I had photos of her. She took many, and was supposed to send them to me, but I never heard from her again.

  I open my eyes and shake my head. There’s no way that woman at the booth is her. Surely, she would have said something. She doesn’t use the same name. She uses a variation of it that the woman I’d known swore she’d never use. Penny. “Penny doesn’t fit a Wall Street analyst. But Penelope does,” she’d said.

  But that was ten years ago. Maybe she changed her mind. She might very well go by Penny now.

  Except Penny—the woman at the table—isn’t a Wall Street analyst.

  I snag the white-and-blue dish and return to the booth. I present it to Penny—the woman who manages an animal shelter and does not run reports on stocks—with a flourish. “Try it. It’s a specialty sandwich. I made it just for you.”

  Her eyelids flutter. “For me?”

  I flash her a smile. “Of course I made it for you. I want you to experience what I can do,” I say, and she blushes. The prettiest shade of light red splashes across her cheeks, so I quickly add, “What I can do for your event, of course.”

  She drops her gaze to the plate, regarding the mini sandwich. “It looks amazing.”

  “It tastes even better,” I say, leaning back in the booth. I’m not short on confidence in the cooking department. Even so, I want her to love it. “It’s a variation on a Bauru, a traditional Brazilian sandwich. Roast beef, French bread, pickled cucumbers, but with a few new ingredients to give it a special flair.”

  She picks it up and takes a small bite. Her eyes sparkle as she chews. And yes, she looks sexy eating my food. I can’t think of much that’s more sensual than a beautiful woman enjoying what I’ve concocted for her. And Penny is a most beautiful woman. Long, lush hair. Warm, inviting eyes. A red mouth ripe for kissing.

  As I watch her, I do more than look—I study her face. That gnawing reminder reappears in my brain, a little voice telling me I know her.

  That faraway face glimmers once more in my mind. Penny’s hair falls in soft waves, curling at the ends. But hers is darker than the hair from the image in my mind, and so much longer. Hair changes, I know. But still, I try desperately to connect the two women—to make sense of the images in my mind. The woman I’m picturing—the woman I had to banish from my thoughts years ago—was so young, so fresh-faced, with lighter hair that hit her jawline and an innocent smile that knocked me to my knees. This woman is more…sophisticated. It’s an alluring look, though, one that captivated me from the second she walked into my restaurant.

  I didn’t get her last name when my business manager set up this appointment. Just Penny. But she reminds me so much of the woman I met in Spain and spent the best three nights of my life with.

  If she’s one and the same, why didn’t she say something when she arrived? Maybe because Penny’s not Penelope. She’s not in the same line of work. Banking and charitable work aren’t exactly the same field.

  She nods several times as she finishes, then points to the rest of the sandwich. “This is absolutely incredible. I could eat it every day and never tire of it.”

  I beam, soaking in her praise like sunshine as I try to figure out the mystery of her. “Thank you. I’m glad you like it.”

  “No, I don’t just like it,” she says, shaking her head adamantly. “I love it. It’s a…” She pauses as if she’s searching for the words. “A heavenly sandwich.”

  And my grin extends to the next state. “I couldn’t be more pleased that you feel this way.” But my mind returns to Barcelona as I remember the woman there heaping praise like this upon a dessert we shared. “It’s divine,” she’d said that day. I shove aside the fleeting memory. “It would be perfect for your picnic event, wouldn’t it? We need an amazing dessert, though.”<
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  She doesn’t answer right away. She almost seems reluctant when she utters a yes, then follows it with, “It would be. And we do.” Something in her tone sounds wistful, and it tugs at my memory once more.

  I simply must know if I’m seeing double.

  “Have you ever been to Miami?” I blurt out. Maybe I met her there at my other restaurant, and my mind is fooling me that she’s the woman I couldn’t find at that fated time ten years ago.

  She frowns in confusion. “Yes, but many years ago.”

  I lean closer to the table, soften my voice. “Forgive me, but you look so familiar…”

  Her eyes widen, and something vulnerable seems to flash in them. She brings a hand to her hair. “I do?”

  I nod vigorously. “Yes. So much. It’s eerie.”

  She swallows. “We all remind each other of others, don’t we?”

  “Perhaps we do,” I say. I’m not sure what to make of her answer so I return to the matter at hand, telling her more of what I would make for her charity fundraiser. My business manager, Eduardo, alerted me to this opportunity the other day when it landed on his desk. With my new restaurant opening a few months ago, I’ve been looking to make a splash in Manhattan. Reviews have been amazing and business has been robust, but I know that fortunes can turn on a dime. Hell, do I ever fucking know that. “And I would make the most fantastic desserts for you, too,” I say with a wink, because that reminds me of the afternoon I met the girl in Barcelona—we’d both been eating dessert at a street-side café, where we’d started flirting. “Desserts are my specialty.”

  “What would you make?” she asks, then she murmurs oh God when I tell her what I’d create for the sweetest course. The soft sound she makes stirs something in my chest, then sends a rush of heat below the belt. That sense of déjà vu sharpens, and a reel of images snaps before my eyes, like puzzle pieces fighting to connect.

  I scrub a hand over my jaw, arching an eyebrow. It’s driving me crazy. “Are you sure we’ve never met?”

  Her eyes seem to twinkle. She shifts closer, her top sloping farther off her shoulder. My eyes follow that move, catching on to the ink there. Jesus Christ. It’s so fucking hot I want to run my tongue over it, like I do the rest of her.

  “I think the question is—are you sure we’ve never met?” Her tone is playful and it reels me in, like she did that first afternoon. The mere possibility that she’s one and the same thrills me.

  I drag a finger along my lower lip as I remember what it was like to kiss that girl. How she seemed to melt when I touched her. “You look exactly like someone…” I angle my shoulders closer, zeroing in only on her, as the noise and the clatter of the kitchen behind me seems to fade away. “Someone I knew once, years ago.”

  Her lips twitch in the hint of a smile. “And who is this girl you once knew?”

  “She was—”

  “Hello there, handsome.”

  Before I can finish and tell her “someone I desperately wanted to see again,” the moment collapses when Greta speaks. I turn to the curvy blonde I see nearly every day. A box of produce is balanced on her hip. “Hello there, Greta,” I say. “Have you brought me all sorts of goodies today?”

  Greta pats the box. “Only the best for you. I have strawberries and cantaloupes and some peaches too,” she says in a purr, making everything sound like innuendo. She’s just like that. She’s a flirt, but it’s never been more than this with her—this playful banter.

  “Mmm, peaches,” I say, then cock my head to Penny. “Do you like peaches?”

  For a moment, I picture sliding a slice of a peach between those lips and watching her lick it, bite it, savor it.

  In a cool tone, she answers, “Who doesn’t like peaches?”

  “It’s a sin not to like peaches. May I have one now, please?” I say to Greta, and she hands me one, leaning close enough to show a peek of her cleavage.

  “A peach for you, Gabriel,” Greta says, letting my name roll off her tongue. She mouths, “See you later, handsome,” just like she always does.

  “Merci,” I tell her, then she saunters into the kitchen with the daily delivery. I turn my focus back to Penny, whose expression is hard to read. I gesture in Greta’s direction. “Greta handles my produce.”

  Her lips curve up, but she’s not exactly smiling. “I bet she does.”

  I furrow my brow because the comment sounded almost…salty. “Excuse me?”

  Penny seems to transform her expression in an instant, smiling as she says sweetly, “I bet she does a great job.”

  I take the knife on the table and slice open the peach, cutting it into chunks. “She does. But back to what I was saying—you look so familiar. Every single thing about you,” I say, trying once more. “Penny…” My voice trails off as I grasp at her name, waiting for her to supply Jones.

  “Penny Smith.” She’s all business as she answers, and there goes my hope. “And yes, I understand how that can be. But I assure you, Gabriel, we’ve never met.”

  “C’est la vie, then,” I say with a shrug. “But we know each other now, and I look forward to working with you, Penny Smith.”

  “I’m delighted that you’re free for the event. I think we can raise so much money to help the local animals by working together, don’t you?”

  “I absolutely do.” I offer her a slice of the fruit. “Try it. I promise you won’t regret it.”

  “I’m sure I won’t regret it, either, since I don’t believe in regret when it comes to peaches,” she says, her tone dry.

  I tilt my head, trying to make sense of her comment as she grabs the slice from my fingers then pops it in her mouth. A small, sexy murmur slips from her lips as she bites the fruit. I can’t stop watching her eat. I can’t stop looking at her. I can’t stop staring.

  When she finishes, she says, “Yes, the peaches seem to have been handled well.” She scoots out of the booth and extends a hand for me to shake. “I’m so glad you’re on board. I’ll have my assistant, Lacey, follow up.”

  Quickly, I push to my feet and take her hand. “Wait. Are you going?”

  She nods crisply. “Yes. I need to leave. You’re sure you’re free the date of the event in the park?”

  I nod. “I’m sure.”

  “You don’t have anything else planned?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t.”

  “The other restaurant we had booked for this cancelled a few days ago. The chef at least called me and told me, though.”

  “That was good of him to give you notice. But I assure you, I will be there. That is, if you want to work together.”

  “Absolutely. I need you,” she says. Then, as if she’s correcting herself, she adds, “We need you.”

  “I’m glad to be able to do this. But we should talk again. About the menu. Go over it. Review it,” I say. My words come out more nervously than I expect, but the prospect of her walking away feels strangely unsettling.

  “We could chat on the phone,” she offers.

  That won’t do. “Let’s talk over dinner. Tonight.”

  “Don’t you need to cook?”

  I gesture to our surroundings—the tables and chairs, the kitchen behind me, the hostess stand. “I don’t do all the cooking anymore, since I’m running the business, too. But I will still work all day and prep the sauces and plan the specials. I have an amazing sous chef who’ll cook tonight.”

  She offers a small smile. “I can’t tonight. I’m busy.”

  “Tomorrow?” I won’t back down. I need to see her again.

  “I have plans then.”

  “The next night?”

  She takes a breath, then gives a half nod and says, a touch reluctantly, “Sure.”

  “Where do you live?”

  She points north. “Upper West Side.”

  “What is your favorite food?”

  “Spanish,” she says, her eyes locked on mine and full of meaning. The look in her amber eyes is a challenge. But I like challenges, and I’m up to this on
e.

  “Excellent. I know just the place to take you,” I say, and give her the name of the restaurant I have in mind. “Eight p.m. Friday. Can you be there?”

  Something sad passes in her eyes, then she answers. “I’ll be there.”

  I hold up a finger to tell her to wait and rush to the hostess stand to grab a piece of paper and a pen. I write on it and hand the paper to Penny, the dead ringer for Penelope, but that’s all. “My number. If you’re running late.”

  “I won’t be late.”

  “If you were, I’d wait for you.”

  She purses her lips, as if she’s holding back. “I’ll see you Friday.”

  “Do you want to give me your number?”

  “I’ll text it to you,” she says and she leaves, but she doesn’t send me her number.

  I spend the rest of the day bouncing between the kitchen here and the offices of my company a few blocks away, and I can’t get Penny out of my mind. I can’t stop thinking about her lips, her eyes, her voice, and the way they’re playing with my head, like a dream.

  She feels like one—wispy, beautiful, just out of reach. The kind you want to be real, but when you wake up, you’re merely clutching to the hem of a cloud as it floats away.

  Chapter Three

  Penny

  “No clue,” I say, slicing a hand through the air. “He had no clue.”

  Delaney gives me a side-eye stare, complete with a fully arched eyebrow. “Sounded like he actually had a pretty good clue and you denied it,” she says as Shortcake trots over to a chocolate-brown mastiff in the dog park at West 87th and the Hudson River. We lean against the fence inside the park, and I wave to Mitch, the mastiff’s owner, a wiry guy with glasses and dirty blond hair. The guy waves back.

  My tiny dog stands tall on her hind legs and bats the big dog’s face as best she can. To help her out, the mastiff bends his top half down to the ground, his hindquarters in the air. It’s the perfect giant-meets-the-pipsqueak playing position.

  I point at my girl. “I want to be just like her.”