The Only One: A One Love Novella

by Lauren Blakely

  “Oh yes. My family is all fine,” he says, reassuring me as he thanks the waiter and I do the same. “I just meant there were things I wanted that didn’t happen. Jobs that fell through.”

  “There were?” I ask, and a wave of relief rolls gently through me as we eat and talk.

  He nods as he lifts his fork. “Yes. And I didn’t take it well. I thought everything was supposed to happen how I wanted it to. But I have to remind myself that I’m lucky to have what I have now, and I try to give back to my family. To do what I can for them. If things had unfolded in a different way, perhaps I wouldn’t be able to do that. I have to believe that we’re on the path we’re supposed to be on,” he says, his delicious accent wafting over me, intoxicating me, along with his words of loyalty, and family, and the fickle finger of fate. “I have to believe in fate, too.” He takes a beat, holding my gaze. “Do you? Believe in fate?”

  Fate.

  And like that, I tumble back in time.

  “Do you believe we were meant to meet, my Penelope?” he asked the last night we were together, moonlight streaking across his warm skin through the open window in his room.

  “I do,” I said, breathless from the lovemaking, from the way he absently ran his finger along my hip, down my thigh, making me shiver even after he made me come again and again.

  “I believe in it with you,” he said, then he climbed over me, pinned my wrists above my head, and smothered my neck, my throat, my breasts in kisses, making me squirm in pleasure, making me moan with need. When he raised his face, his eyes full of lust, he dropped his lips to my mouth and kissed me madly. Then he whispered against my lips, “I will see you again. I have to.”

  A clattering of dishes from the kitchen snaps me back to the present. I set down my fork and bring a hand to my temple, pressing my fingertips hard against my head as if I can push away the dizzying reminders of all that we had, all that we wanted, all that we planned.

  I meet his gaze, and his eyes seem so honest, so truthful, as he asks me about fate. Here with him, right now, I’m not sure how I could believe in anything else.

  Even if it scares the hell out of me. I hate that I like him. I love that I like him.

  Which one do I want to win out?

  Love or hate?

  But really, there’s only one answer.

  “I suppose I do believe in fate,” I say, and a ribbon of warmth unfurls in me, flowing from head to toe. It feels delicious and mutinous at the same time, because it reminds me of how easy it was to fall under his spell, since it’s happening again. I try to center my thoughts on my mission for being here with him tonight—to understand why he’s an ex, not to serve up my whole truth.

  Nicole had said that ex-boyfriends are in the rearview mirror for a reason.

  For ten relentless years, Gabriel has been my benchmark. In that time, I’ve dated, I’ve fallen in love, I’ve nearly become engaged. But even so, a part of me has held back. A portion has been hobbled by fear—fear of being used. Stood up. Cast aside. Is there something unlovable in me? Is there some part of me that could make a man leave me standing all alone by a fountain again?

  I’m not the dewy-eyed girl who fell for him at twenty-one. I’m older, wiser, and experienced enough in the world to know what I want—I want the one. And if I don’t put what I had with Gabriel to rest, I’m not sure I can ever be in a place to have that.

  How can I move forward if I’m still plagued with questions from the past?

  After the waiter refills our drinks, I take the sangria and down a hearty gulp, seeking liquid courage.

  Gabriel lifts the other glass and I watch him, all the sounds of the restaurant blending into a distant soundtrack as the voice in my mind rises above the rest. Like a chorus to a song, growing louder, the words repeat in my brain. Tell him, tell him, tell him.

  He never takes his eyes off me. His gaze is intense, as if he’s memorizing me. A flurry of nerves spreads inside me, but it’s mixed with something else, too. A strange new hope that I can speak the truth and not reopen the wound. That I can say what I need to and not regret it.

  But words slip through my fingers under his stare. His eyes darken, and I swear he roams his gaze over every inch of my body—my arms, my breasts, my neck, and even my hair. Then they linger on my shoulder, and they don’t seem to stray from the flowers marked on me. My tattoos remind me of desire. They remind me of femininity. They remind me of strength. Of the girl who had the courage to spend a summer in Europe after college even when her parents didn’t want her to. The girl who only knew enough Spanish to get by when she boarded the plane, but who learned enough in her travels to speak to nearly anyone. That girl was bold enough to talk to this man at a café on the streets of Barcelona.

  And later, many months later, she was courageous enough to walk away from a job she didn’t love and to take the leap into one she’s still passionate about.

  Maybe that strength was forged years ago when I was in Europe, or perhaps when he left me at the fountain.

  “Those are absolutely beautiful,” he says, staring at the deep pinks and rich purples on my skin. His voice is rough, like it was when he was kissing me, when he’d grow more and more turned on.

  “Thank you,” I whisper, my voice like a feather.

  “How long have you had them?”

  I raise my fingertips to the lily, tracing it. “The lily is new. Only a few months old. The others I had done several years ago.” I swear I can hear a rumble in his throat, like a low, needy groan as I touch the ink. The way he stares is almost unabashed, as if he’s not ashamed to look at me like this, with desire in his eyes. Because that’s what I see.

  There are no two ways about it.

  I want him still.

  And he wants me.

  This me.

  I don’t know why it didn’t register before. Maybe because I was still too shocked. Maybe I’m a fool with him. But this is a date. He asked me—Penny—on a date. He hasn’t once talked about the event like he’d said he wanted to. He didn’t ask me here to this romantic restaurant with its soft music and low lights to talk about work.

  My heart speeds up, and the hair on my arms stands on end.

  We haven’t spoken of the picnic, or anything else but each other. And now he looks at me as if I’m the next serving of this meal.

  The trouble is I don’t know what to make of the fact that he asked me out. Does it affirm that he’s a playboy who simply gobbles up women? Or does it mean I’m special? And is that what I want out of tonight? To be desired? For him to take this new me home? Or is it for him to know that I’m the same woman who fell for him and that I can’t get him out of my mind years later?

  The questions plague me, tugging my certainty in opposite directions. My bravado slinks away.

  Soon enough, the waiter clears our plates, and when he leaves, I say thank you to Gabriel.

  “No. Thank you,” he says.

  “For?”

  “For having dinner with me.” The sentiment sounds completely earnest. As far as I can tell, he’s been honest with me the entire meal. I can’t last much longer without telling the truth. I’m not this person. I want to be the kind of woman who is open and honest, even when I don’t know the score. I have to be true to me.

  “Dinner was amazing. All of it,” I say, and that’s the whole truth.

  “But if memory serves, you said you’re not satisfied until you have dessert.”

  Chapter Seven

  Gabriel

  As she eats the crème brûlée, that sense of déjà vu slams back into me, like a punishing wave. I try to keep my head above water and cling to the present, but I’m a man shuttled back and forth in time. I can’t shake off the past.

  I thought I’d succeeded, that I’d followed Tina’s advice and gotten to know Penny for Penny, and I have. To be sure, Penny is completely captivating. She’s hooked me, and I want to see her again, to talk to her again, to get to know her more.

  But as these thoughts
lead me on, I’m like a dog yanked behind by a leash. Someone is tugging me in the other direction.

  Even as I try desperately to maintain my footing in the most wonderful first date I’ve had in ages, I can’t hold on. I succumb to the wave, sinking under.

  * * * *

  I was taken with her the moment I sat down at the table next to hers at the café on a street corner in Barcelona. Her warm eyes met mine, and I wasn’t able to look away, so I didn’t. When her almond cake arrived, she arched an eyebrow, and said, “You’re admiring my dessert.”

  I laughed. “I don’t think it’s the dessert I’m admiring. But I have been hoping you’d want company to help devour it. May I join you?”

  She nodded and I moved to her table. She picked up her fork and said, “It’s made with caramel—my favorite. And it’s divine. By all means, let’s devour.”

  “I’m a big believer in the consumption of sweets.”

  “We have a saying in America. Eat dessert first,” she said.

  I lifted my fork and took a bite of the Tarta de Santiago. “I like this saying. Can you appoint me a temporary American?”

  She tapped my shoulder, something that shouldn’t have turned me on, but somehow it did. “There. Done. By the power vested in me, I’ve declared you able to eat dessert first.”

  “I must tell you a secret. I already possessed the ability,” I said, and she laughed, a pretty sound, like bells.

  And I was halfway to hooked. Maybe it was her confidence. She seemed a few years younger than me, but there wasn’t a shred of shyness or insecurity about her. Her wit was intoxicating, and so was her beauty.

  When we finished the almond cake with the caramel layer on the bottom, I was certain of two things—I didn’t want to let her get away, and I needed to see her again. “May I take you to dinner?” I asked.

  She said yes.

  But we didn’t wait till dinner. We spent the afternoon together, wandering around the city, strolling through the side streets, ducking into the churches and buildings and seeing the sights she wanted to explore.

  All the while, I learned more about her. That she’d studied European History in college, that she’d loved traveling across the continent these last few months, and that she was looking forward to her job on Wall Street at Smith and Holloway Bank when she returned to the United States.

  Mostly, she added. She was mostly looking forward to it.

  “This trip is my last hurrah before I enter the working world,” she told me.

  “Then let’s make sure you make the most of your last few days here. Would you like that?”

  “I would like that very much.”

  Then I kissed her in the moonlight and it felt like this was exactly why I was meant to work in Barcelona that summer. Later, when I told her I had a job in New York, I was more sure than ever that fate was looking out for me.

  * * * *

  “This is delicious crème brûlée, but what I really want to know is if yours is better,” Penny says, as if she’s throwing down the gauntlet.

  “Of course mine is better. Is that your way of saying you want me to make one for you?” I say, wiggling an eyebrow. If she’s going to flirt with me, then, hell, am I ever going to flirt right back.

  “I would never turn down a dessert like this,” she says, and I can picture her in my kitchen, cooking for her, bringing the spoon to her lips, saying try this.

  She’d dart out her tongue, lick a dash of the delicious concoction, and roll her eyes in delight. Then she’d tell me what else she wanted to sample. I’d grab her hips, push her up against the counter, and show her that my skills extend all through the house, from the kitchen to the bedroom, and any place else she wants to try.

  “Would you like to do this again, Penny?”

  Her lips part, and she doesn’t answer at first. She sets down her fork, spreads her hands over her napkin, then meets my gaze. “I would, but there’s something I need to…”

  “What is it?” I ask, wondering if there’s an issue with us working together on the event, if she needs to wait until it’s over for us to go out again.

  “It’s that—”

  A male voice breaks the moment. “And how was everything?”

  I grit my teeth but flash a smile at the waiter, though I wish he knew not to interrupt a conversation. “Everything was wonderful. We’ll take the check,” I say, and when he leaves I return my attention to Penny. That youthful vulnerability is back in her eyes.

  It’s knocking me off-kilter. I can barely focus on the moment, so I excuse myself for the men’s room, splash water on my face, grab a paper towel, and pat my cheeks dry.

  When I return, crossing through the tables, I stop in my tracks. Penny’s back is to me for the first time. She fiddles with her hair. All those long, lush strands are up in her hands, her neck exposed.

  A hush falls over my world, like the rest of Manhattan has gone mute, and the spotlight is only on her.

  I know it’s her.

  I’m positive.

  I’ve kissed that neck. Outside a dress shop in Barcelona, where I told her she’d look lovely in a red dress. I wrapped my arms around her from behind and dusted soft, tender kisses on the back of her neck, her feminine scent drifting into my nostrils. “You’d look so lovely in that, my Penelope. And even lovelier when I take it off you. Actually, just wear nothing with me.”

  She laughed and leaned into me, tilting up her face. “Maybe next time you see me, I’ll be wearing that dress and you can have your wish.”

  “Having you again is my wish. Having you tonight is my wish right now.”

  “Have me,” she whispered.

  Time no longer slides jarringly back and forth. The two warring trains that kept crashing into each other on the same tracks are now linked together. Penny is my Penelope, and I’m struck with a sense of wonder. A feeling of awe. Scrubbing my hand over my jaw, I try to decide what to do next. And whether I should feel mad, thrilled, frustrated, or hoodwinked.

  I’m sure she knows I’m the same person—same profession, same last name.

  I’m not sure why she didn’t tell me, but right now I want to hear her say it. Who she is to me. I want the words to fall from those lips I could never have kissed enough.

  I walk up to her, filled with a deep desire that had gone latent over the years but has been reignited in an evening. Gently, I set my hands on her shoulders. She flinches, but softens immediately as she turns to meet my gaze. I bend my head to her neck, about to ask “Did you ever get the red dress?”

  But she speaks up. “Gabriel, when I said there was something I needed to tell you, it’s this—you were right. You’ve met me before.”

  The fact that she went first thrills me. “I know,” I whisper, and she shivers as my breath ghosts over her neck. “You’re my Penelope.”

  “I am.” Her voice is filled with the same sort of hope that courses through me. I can’t help myself. I press my lips to her neck in the softest, barely there kiss. She trembles, and that’s all I need to know. “I’m Penny Jones.”

  I reach into my wallet, fish around for some bills, and toss enough and then some on the table to cover the check.

  I take her hand and lead her out of the restaurant. We walk a few feet away, stopping in front of a brownstone with a long, green set of steps, and a small iron fence running around the street-level front. A tree canopies us, and the road is blissfully quiet for now. The glow from a nearby streetlamp illuminates her face.

  Her face.

  I’m not crazy. I’m completely sane, and I knew it had to be her. Now I want to know what the hell is going on. “Why didn’t you say who you were the other day?” I ask, and that small shred of frustration bubbles back up. “You said you were Penny Smith.”

  She shakes her head, biting her lip. When she exhales, she answers, “I wanted you to realize it was me. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you. I wanted you to see me and know me in a heartbeat. Just like I knew it was you.”

&n
bsp; I grip her hand tighter, standing closer. “I knew it was you. My God, I knew it was you. Do you know how many times I looked around and wanted to see you?”

  Her mouth falls open. Her eyes turn to moons. “No. I don’t know that at all. How would I know?” she asks, full of disbelief. “You never showed up at Lincoln Center.”

  I drag my free hand through my hair and heave a frustrated sigh. “I’m well aware I didn’t make it to New York ten years ago. But why wouldn’t you say who you were now? The other day, sure, I suppose I can understand. But tonight? Not once?”

  With her eyes narrowing, she hisses, “Because you should have recognized me. You should have known I was the same girl you slept with,” she says, anger radiating off her. “I gave you my virginity, and you knew that. How could you sit across from me at your restaurant and not recognize me? Is it because you’re Manhattan’s sexiest chef? Or maybe because you were busy being the heartbreaker in the kitchen all these years after you ditched me?” She shimmies her shoulders, tossing off the nicknames like terrible insults. And her words sting. The names, which I never wanted but are far too true, are little stabs in my chest.

  “Oh, I knew it was you. Trust me. I knew,” I say, spitting out the words, annoyance getting the better of me. “I didn’t forget you, Penelope.”

  She arches an eyebrow. “Really? Is there room in your memory for one more? Because you broke my heart, so the name fits.”

  “Stop,” I say, holding up a hand before we veer too far in the wrong direction. “Stop saying those things. Don’t punish me for what I did before you waltzed back into my life. Because as soon as you did, I asked if we’d met. How many times did I ask you? But then you flat-out denied we knew each other. You were certain. Adamant. And you said you were Penny Smith. I chose to believe the woman I’d just met rather than continue questioning her. And you don’t look the same. Your hair is longer and darker, and your shoulder is covered in all those fucking gorgeous tattoos. Why shouldn’t I have believed you when you said we’d never met?”