The Only One: A One Love Novella

by Lauren Blakely

  Tina shakes the pepper at me. “Don’t date her because she reminds you of someone else. Date her for her.”

  “It’s not even a date.”

  Tina scoffs. “Spoken like the sexiest chef in New York. Now go, or you’ll be late, and she won’t like that.” She grabs my arm and she tips her head toward the speakers. “Retractable Eyes. The band.”

  “Where do they come up with these names?”

  “Admit it. You love them.”

  “They might have a way with notes and melodies,” I say, since Tina is nothing if not a musical goddess. I’ve found many crazy new bands to listen to because of her, and I love giving her a hard time about the wild names bands use today.

  I say good-bye, and as I head uptown, I hold tight to Tina’s words, as if I’m clutching them in my fist.

  Date her for her.

  Penny might remind me, in a double-vision kind of way, of my Penelope from years ago, but I’m seeing her tonight for her, not for the sweetest memory. Though she sent me a text yesterday evening that reminded me so much of the girl I knew for three magical nights.

  I should warn you in advance—I love dessert. This restaurant better bring it in that department.

  When I walk into Sabrina’s Restaurant, I’m early, and that gives me the chance to grab a spot at the bar and watch for Penny to enter. When the gorgeous brunette with the flower tattoos walks through the door a few minutes later, my throat goes dry.

  My blood heats, because she’s prettier than I’d thought she was the other day, and I want to catalogue every detail. I rake my gaze over her, from the black heels, to the snug jeans that make her legs look long and sexy, to the bare arms exposed by the strappy silvery tank she wears. Her wrists are covered in slim, metallic bangles, and her lush brown hair is pinned up on one side in a small butterfly clip, showing the delicate ink curving over her shoulder.

  I don’t need to discuss menus or events with her.

  I asked her out tonight because I haven’t been this drawn to someone I just met in ten years.

  I walk over to her, clasp one hand on her shoulder, and dust a kiss on one cheek, then the other. A soft gust of breath escapes her lips, and she shudders.

  I do, too.

  Chapter Five

  Penny

  “Wine?”

  Gabriel offers me the wine list, and I take it. There’s a part of me that’s dying to say, “Yes, let’s order a bottle like that last night. Remember how we didn’t even finish our glasses because we were dying to be alone? We got the check early and went to your room, and you brought me pleasure the likes of which I haven’t come close to having since. But hey, I didn’t call you The Yardstick for nothing.”

  Instead, I swallow my nerves and say, “Any question that starts and ends with wine should be answered with yes.”

  He smiles, a ridiculously sexy smile that makes me want both to pump my fist for having nailed a witticism and to lean across the table and kiss that fucking gorgeous grin off his face.

  Oh, wait. Let’s add a third option. I’d like to take a full dose of I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude so I can walk out in the middle of dinner and leave him here, flustered and confused, at the ridiculously romantic Spanish restaurant with its exposed brick walls and candles on the table. Except, I know I won’t do that, and it’s not simply because he looks like the cover model for Bon Appétit’s “Chefs I Want to Bang” issue.

  He’s so beautiful, it’s criminal. It simply has to be against the law to look the way he does. He has the type of face for billboards, the kind so handsome it should cause traffic pileups from voyeurs staring at his jaw, his lips, his see-inside-my-soul amber eyes. Then he has all that thick, dark hair—he was handsome with short hair, but he’s a god with these longer locks, the kind that my hands beg to touch.

  To top it all off, he’s dressed deliciously tonight—sophisticated, but edgy, too. The cuffs on Gabriel’s shirt are rolled up to his elbows, revealing his inked forearms, covered in swirls, lines, and stunning illustrations. Some are new, like the twin tribal bands below his elbow, but the vintage map of the world on his left forearm is so familiar that my chest aches from the memory.

  One afternoon, I traced my fingertip over the outline of Europe as we lay on a blanket in Park Güell at the top of Barcelona, surrounded by panoramic views of the city and Gaudi’s architectural masterpieces. The grass was cool and soft beneath us, and the air rich with the scent of earth, fragrant summer flowers, and desire.

  “I know this continent like the back of my hand,” I said, since I’d studied European History in college.

  “Show me all the lands.” He held out his arm as he challenged me.

  My fingers traveled over England, Germany, France, Austria, and Holland, naming each. There were no borders on him. I drew in the countries because I knew them well. I filled in the boundaries of Portugal as it met Spain, where he’d lived for the past few months. When he asked my favorite country, I showed him that, too, by traveling along the outline of a boot. His breath hitched as I traced Italy, and then he said, his voice husky with need, “Kiss me, my Penelope.”

  I can hear those words echo across time.

  “Do you have a favorite?” he asks, the wine list spread out in front of him at this tiny table.

  “Italy,” I murmur, before I realize the word has fallen from my mouth. I blink, startled back to the present, and I raise my face and meet his eyes.

  He tilts his head, his expression quizzical.

  I try to cover up my slip-of-the-tongue. “Italian wine, I mean. But I guess they don’t have it here, being a Spanish restaurant. I’ll say my favorite is sangria,” I say, then my lips curve into a grin. “Except you can’t order that with a chef.”

  His eyes twinkle. “Do you think I’m a wine snob? That I don’t like sangria?”

  My lips part to answer, but I stop. The truth is I don’t know. I assumed he would be against it, since sangria is such a punch bowl wine. I go for honesty. “I don’t know. I suppose I thought you’d want something fancy.”

  “Just because I cook doesn’t mean I dislike pizza, or sandwiches, or a simple sangria. Do you like sangria is the more important question?”

  Right now, I just need something, anything, to quench my thirst. “I love it. And I’d love a Tempranillo, too,” I say, naming a more sophisticated wine, lest he think I’m uneducated about the world he lives in—the finer things in life.

  But, oh shit. I just requested two drinks. God, I sound like a lush. Why don’t I ask him to thrust a glass in each of my hands, so I can double-fist and guzzle till I pass out?

  Thankfully, the waiter arrives, and Gabriel orders a glass of each. When the man leaves, my dinner companion shoots me a knowing grin. “We can share, since I like both.”

  Share.

  Like we did the dessert when we met at the café.

  Tingles spread across my bare shoulders, evoked both from the past and from the present. From the memory of the day we met and split a Tarta de Santiago almond cake with a caramel layer on the bottom, and the here and now as we share wine. When the waiter brings our two red beverages, Gabriel slides the sangria to me first. “I have a feeling it’s what you really wanted.”

  You’re what I really want.

  “Maybe I secretly craved the Tempranillo,” I tease.

  He gestures to both. “Ladies first, then. Have your pick.”

  I take a drink of the Tempranillo. It’s both sweet and sharp. “It tastes like cherry and black pepper,” I say, adopting a faux snooty tone.

  He laughs. “We have a wine connoisseur on our hands, I see.”

  Wrapping my arms around the glass, I pretend I’m hoarding the Tempranillo. “This is delicious, and I shall keep it all to myself.”

  He laughs, leaning his head back and running a hand through his hair. My eyes follow his fingers and their destination. This time I find myself wondering if his hair is as soft as it was then. In an instant, my imagination runs wild, and I want to know ho
w those strands feel when I curl my hands around his head as he moves his lips down my body. He brought me such highs with that mouth. That wickedly talented mouth.

  Oh, dear heavenly dirty fantasy. I press my thighs together as a pulse beats between my legs.

  “Your secret is safe with me,” he says, lowering his voice, and for a moment I tense, thinking he knows who I am and can tell that I’m still turned on by him. Will he mock me for toying with him, or toss down his napkin and announce he never showed up that day because he never cared for me?

  “My secret?” I ask nervously, cursing my body for having the audacity to be aroused this goddamn easily.

  His voice drops further. “That you’re the wine snob, Penny,” he says, clearly joking, and I breathe again, a big, deep breath that relaxes me.

  Laughing, I shake my head. “I swear I’m not a wine snob. I do, however, think wine is one of the three proof points that the world can indeed be a good place.”

  “And what are the other two?”

  “Music and dogs,” I answer. “Give me wine, music, and dogs, and I’m happy.”

  He furrows his brow. “But I thought dessert was one of your great loves. You did warn me in advance of tonight about your feelings for dessert.”

  “Oh.” I bring a finger to my lips, tapping them. “It seems I’ve miscounted. Four things.”

  He takes my Tempranillo and holds it up. “To the four proof points of a good world.”

  I reach for the sangria and clink my glass to his, and I’m happy—not angry—that we’re having a lovely time. Maybe I should be disturbed that I don’t want to kick him in the balls. But my high-heeled feet are flat on the wood floor, and I have no inclination to inflict bodily harm on the man who broke my heart.

  Perhaps the ice I thought had encased my heart when it came to this man is breaking.

  Gabriel

  When the waiter returns, we order our dinners. After he leaves, I turn my gaze to Penny, eager to know her better. Already, I like her for her. She’s fiery, but sweet. Confident, like when she issued her decree on the flavors in the wine, but playful and teasing, too. She keeps me on my toes, makes me laugh, and intrigues me.

  That’s why following Tina’s advice is easy. I slide right back into conversation without skipping a beat.

  “Tell me more about how you came to work in the charitable field,” I say, since I’ve always been curious how people find their way into their work. “Was it luck? Happenstance? Coincidence? Or a long and abiding love?”

  “I love animals,” she says, as if it’s the easiest answer in the world.

  “That’s the best reason.”

  “Sometimes I think we try too hard to find the perfect field, the perfect job. We try to figure out the color of our parachute. But really, the answers are here,” she says, tapping her heart.

  I nod, agreeing wholly with her. “I believe that, too. When you’re happy with what you do, it’s because it comes from who you are.”

  She beams, and her smile is infectious, genuine, and it feels like sunshine. “Exactly. My grandmother said true happiness comes from what you do when it’s aligned with your heart.”

  “Your grandmother is a wise woman. My mother used to say something similar. To do what you love,” I say, then return to the topic of four-legged friends. “Since you love dogs, does that mean you have a dog?”

  “I do. She’s great. I’m crazy about her,” she says, then she takes a drink. Her tone is sweet, almost as if she’s keen to tell me more but unsure if I truly want to hear about her pet.

  Setting one elbow on the table, I rest my chin in my palm. “Tell me about your canine friend.”

  “Her name is Shortcake,” she says, a note of pride in her voice.

  I smile. “That’s adorable.”

  “Because she’s little,” she says, holding out her hands to show a small amount of space.

  “And because you like dessert,” I add as I reach for my glass, letting her know I’ve been listening.

  “Strawberry shortcake is pretty damn good,” she says, and her smile widens. Like that, she looks younger. Her light brown eyes sparkle, and the grin makes her seem almost…

  I blink, momentarily transported to another place. I swear an image of Penelope slips over Penny, and the two seem one and the same. It’s as if I’m in two lives at once—this one here with her, and a past life with a girl I was falling in love with in hardly any time at all. I don’t know that I’ve ever believed in love at first sight, and that’s not precisely what happened with the mystery woman from my past. But it was as close as I’ve ever come, because the last night with her, I knew I was falling. That was why what happened next was so goddamn miserable.

  I straighten my shoulders, setting down the glass as I recall Tina’s advice. I fight like hell to stay in this moment.

  “Was it love at first sight?” I ask, and just to make sure I don’t take a trip to a decade ago again, I add, “With your dog?”

  Penny nods happily. “Shortcake insisted on being mine. When she came to the shelter, she stood on her hind legs, put her front paws on me, and wagged her tail. When I leaned down to say hello to her, she covered me in kisses.”

  “She’s not one for beating around the bush, is she?”

  “And it wasn’t just her sales pitch, either, to get me to take her home,” she says, radiating excitement. “She hasn’t changed one bit. She’s really like that. She’s incredibly affectionate, and she kisses me all the time.”

  Before I can think better of it, I say, “And you like that? Being kissed all the time?”

  This time, I’m thinking of her. The woman across from me.

  Chapter Six

  Penny

  Perhaps the ice has already cracked. Maybe it happened when Delaney pointed out that Greta was likely the flirt, not Gabriel. Maybe it began to dissolve when I walked through the door tonight and saw him waiting for me—the image I’d longed for years ago. Or possibly, the ice is melting because this man across from me is a man I want to know. And to know again.

  When he asks me about being kissed, my thoughts turn neon hot and electric.

  And you like that? Being kissed all the time?

  Fine, we’re talking about my dog. But we’re talking about lips and kisses. And no one has ever kissed me like Gabriel.

  That day in Park Güell, when he breathed out kiss me, we became lost like that. Tangled up in each other, mouths searching, tongues finding, breath mingling.

  “I could do this all day,” he said.

  “And all night?”

  “If you want me to, there’s nothing I’d rather do.” His voice was laced with desire.

  “I want you to kiss me,” I said, boldness and desire overcoming me as I moved my mouth to his ear, whispering, “everywhere.” We didn’t stay in the park much longer. In fact, I think we set a land-speed record, grabbing the blanket and running to his room.

  Somehow, I find the will to slam the blinds closed on that far-too-tantalizing memory, and try to remember what we were talking about before my mind ran loose. His job? Cooking? I’m not sure any longer, so I say, “Do you?”

  He drums his fingers on the table. “Do I like being kissed?”

  Oh God. My face flames red. I’m not even adding transitional thoughts anymore to my speech with him. I shake my head quickly, making a rolling gesture as if I’m cycling him back to the spot where I left off, though it was many moments ago when we’d talked about our jobs. “Do you love cooking?” I ask, the words coming out stilted because all I’m thinking about is kissing.

  He laughs. “That was an interesting segue.”

  I glance at my hands. Run my finger along the stem of the wine glass. Fold and unfold my napkin.

  Mercifully, he doesn’t ask if I’m nervous or embarrassed. Though the answer is both, and I swear I’d like to grab a paper bag, drop it on my head, and have someone yank me away from the table. Smack some sense into me. Because this is the definition of foolish. I can’
t fall into Gabriel’s orbit, and yet…that’s what I’m doing.

  “Just as you love animals, I love to cook,” he says.

  And there it is. An elegant simplicity to who we are. “That’s the best reason to do what you do,” I say, repeating his words because they ring true to me, too. “For love.”

  “I believe, too, that it is easy to be misguided,” he says, pushing the cuff higher on his shirtsleeve. “To think maybe we want to do something else. But as you say, the answer is often here.” He points to his breastbone. “Did you always know you wanted to work in philanthropy?”

  “I thought I wanted to be a—” I stop myself before I say banker. I don’t know if I’m ready to remove my armor yet. To reveal too much too soon. I swallow and correct myself. “I thought I wanted to work in business. But I knew after six months that it wasn’t for me. And you? Has the love affair with food been a forever kind of thing?”

  He laughs lightly. “I’m lucky in that regard. From the time I was a young boy, learning how to cook an egg at my mother’s side, I knew the kitchen was my home.”

  A pang of guilt stabs me, because I remember him telling me about his parents, his sister, his brother, and how they grew up with very little and someday he hoped to give them more. A confession starts to well up inside me, to fight its way out soon. When you asked me if we’d met, you were right. We did so much more than meet. Please tell me you remember everything like I do. And that you remember it fondly.

  And whether he does or not, I don’t want to pretend to be someone else—someone unknown to him. I want our history, not just the present. Nor can I play this game much longer when he’s being so open with me.

  “Though I’m lucky in that regard, not in others,” he adds, as the waiter brings the plates and sets down our food.

  “Why do you say you’re unlucky?” I ask, and now that guilt deepens because I can’t help but wonder if something tragic prevented him from meeting me again. Something terribly sad. My throat hitches, but I swallow it down. I need to know. “Is your mother okay?”