One and Only Boxed Set Page 2

  Right at that moment, the door to my apartment swung open and my neighbor from across the hall burst in. He wore a suit and tie and a worried expression.

  I looked up at him from my hands and knees. “Nate! Help!”

  “Emme, what the hell? Why are you screaming?”

  “Fire! In the kitchen!”

  He moved past me with long, quick strides. Scrambling to my feet, I followed behind. The rabbit was still engulfed in flames on the counter. Without a word, Nate went straight for the extinguisher under the sink and sprayed the poor creature with huge clouds of white. When the fire was out, the two of us stood next to each other, staring at the mess on the counter.

  “Jesus, Em. What did the bunny ever do to you?”

  I flattened a palm over my chest. My heart was beating way too fast. “I think I’m having a heart attack.”

  “You’re not having a heart attack. Do I even want to know how this happened?” Nate gave me a sidelong look.

  Closing my eyes, I took a deep, slow breath and exhaled. “Probably not.”

  “And yet I’m oddly curious.” Nate, maddeningly calm as usual, returned the fire extinguisher to the cabinet and closed the door. “Fire is one calamity from which I haven’t had to rescue you. And there aren’t many of those left.” He straightened and leaned back against the sink, crossing his arms over his chest. Not a speck of dust on his black suit. Not a hair out of place.

  Smoothing back the wayward strands that had escaped my bun, I opened my mouth to defend myself, but wasn’t sure how to do it. Rescue seemed too strong a word for the way Nate occasionally helped me out, but I will admit to calling him whenever I saw a big spider in my apartment or heard a strange noise in the night or locked myself out. And he always answered the call, even if he had to come home from work to resc—

  Ahem. To help me out. I wasn’t the kind of girl who needed or wanted to be rescued.

  “It was an accident,” I said, brushing dust off my skirt.

  “I assumed that much. You’re a little crazy, but not that kind of crazy.” His smile widened and he cocked his head. “And why, exactly, were you crawling on the floor?”

  My face got hot, but I lifted my chin and defended my knowledge of kindergarten fire safety. “You’re supposed to crawl when your house is on fire. Everybody knows that.”

  He burst out laughing. “I see. And where were you planning to crawl?”

  “Into the hallway to pull the fire alarm,” I said, like it was obvious. “So I could save everyone, including you, I might add.”

  That made him laugh even harder, which made me feel even smaller next to his six-foot frame. “Thank you for that. Can I ask why you didn’t simply use the fire extinguisher?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t think, okay? I forgot it was there.”

  “Ah. Well, next time you play with matches, try to remember it.”

  “I wasn’t playing with matches,” I said irritably. “I was trying to burn something, and set the rabbit on fire by mistake.”

  “What were you trying to burn?”

  I ignored the question and went to the upper cabinet where I kept my wine glasses. Taking two out, I set them on the island and reached for the bottle of wine on the counter behind Nate. He didn’t move out of my way, and I came close enough to smell him.

  Nate always smelled good, even when he’d just come from the gym. It was totally unfair—if the universe was going to give a man the kind of good looks it had bestowed upon Nate Pearson, the chiseled jaw, blue-eyed movie star kind that melted hearts, willpower, and panties with a single glance, then it could have at least given him overactive sweat glands or something. But no. As far as the male species went, he was about as perfect a specimen as you could imagine, at least physically. Yet another example of how the universe favors some people more than others.

  Not that I had anything against Nate, other than the fact that he was a divorce attorney and thought it was insane that people spent a fortune on their weddings—including my fee—when half of those marriages were going to fail. Needless to say, we disagreed on things like marriage, love, soul mates, and wishing on stars. Actually, we disagreed on almost everything. But I’d never been one to shy away from conflict, and both of us liked a good argument.

  That said, I didn’t particularly feel like arguing about this. Nate was not going to understand my feelings.

  “Well?” he prompted.

  “Let’s just say I had a bad day,” I told him as I poured us some wine.

  “Don’t tell me—the mother of the groom refuses to wear beige.”

  “Very funny.” I handed him his glass. “Are we ever going to have a conversation where you don’t make fun of what I do?”

  “I doubt it.” He took a sip. “Thanks. Now what were you trying to burn? And don’t bother lying because you’re horrible at it, and you know I’ll get the truth out of you anyway.”

  It was true. I swear, the man could talk the bark off a tree. I steeled myself and gave in. “A wedding invitation.”

  A grin tugged at his mouth. “Only you.” This is his favorite thing to say when I get myself into troublesome situations.

  “It wasn’t just any wedding invitation,” I said defensively.

  “Do go on.”

  “It was for Lucy and Richard’s wedding.”

  He gasped dramatically. “Lucy the Traitor and Richard the Turd are getting married?”

  “Yes! And they had the audacity to invite me!” Thinking about it made me angry all over again. “Talk about rude. They don’t really want me there. They did it to spite me. To shove it in my face.”

  “I see. And burning their wedding invitation was going to make you feel better?”

  “I don’t know. I just got so mad, I needed to express it somehow. Don’t you ever get that mad?” I asked him, although I knew the answer. Nate could always keep his cool. He probably didn’t even sweat in the sauna.

  “Nope. I don’t give anyone that sort of power over me.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I know, I know. Feelings are bad.”

  “I never said feelings are bad.”

  “You just don’t have them,” I prodded.

  “I have them. But I’m careful with them—not like some people I know who hand them over at every opportunity.” He gave me a pointed look over the rim of his wine glass.

  “I don’t hand them over,” I said in a huff.

  “You’re at least buy one, get one free.” He took a drink, enjoying this a little too much.

  “Well, how am I supposed to turn it off? When I feel something, I feel it deeply.” I paused and took another drink, then studied the toes of my shoes. “My sister says I’m not balanced, that I lack inner peace.” I peeked up at him. “Do you think that?”

  “Normally, I think all that stuff is a bunch of BS.” A smile tugged at his lips as he glanced behind him at the charred rabbit. “But in your case, I think it might be true.”

  I bristled. “Sorry I’m not as perfect as you.”

  “No one is.” He countered my dirty look with a wink. “Look. Did it ever occur to you that maybe the invitation was sincere? Maybe they thought you’d want to come.”

  “Are you being serious right now?”

  He shrugged. “You told them you didn’t care about their relationship. You told them you were happy for them.”

  “I was lying, Nate! I didn’t want them to see how hurt I felt. How stupid I was.”

  “You weren’t stupid, Emme.” Nate shook his head. “You trusted people you shouldn’t have. It happens all the time. Have you seen my car? My flat screen? My wristwatch collection? All paid for with disappointment and broken trust.”

  I frowned. “That doesn’t help. I feel like a fool.”

  “So you’ve learned a lesson. Don’t be so trusting next time. Don’t get so carried away.”

  “I guess.” But somehow his advice didn’t make me feel any better. Why wouldn’t I trust someone who claimed to care about me? Who said he love
d me? Who gave me every indication, at least outwardly, that he was happy? How was I supposed to know who to trust and who would disappoint me? My eyes filled with tears. Embarrassed, I tried to blink them away.

  Nate tapped me on the nose. “Hey. Cheer up, Calamity. It’s Friday night. Let’s do something fun.” He finished the wine in his glass and set it on the counter.

  “No date tonight?” I asked, surprised. Rare was the weekend night Nate wasn’t out on the town with a beautiful woman—or several—on his arm. I’d seen them leaving his apartment the next morning on multiple occasions. He definitely had a type: tall, bombshell brunettes with long legs and big chests. Needless to say, I did not fit the bill, which was just as well. I didn’t want a man who was “careful” with his feelings. I wanted a man who was generous with them. And I liked being different from all those one-nighters. Our friendship felt special.

  He shook his head. “Originally, I was going to have dinner with my mother, but she wasn’t feeling well enough to make the drive down.”

  “Oh. Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “Nothing serious. Anyway, lucky for you, that means my evening is free. Do you want to go out? Or come over and watch a movie? I’ll even watch Skyfall.”

  We both loved Bond flicks, but Nate considered every Bond actor other than Sean Connery a personal affront. I happened to prefer Daniel Craig. “That’s big of you.”

  “What can I say? I’m that kind of guy. And I don’t like to see you so upset.” He grabbed my head and wobbled it side to side. “So let’s do something to put a smile on that face. Preferably something that does not involve fire.”

  I tried to push his hands away, but I was laughing. “That could have happened to anybody.”

  “Nope. Only you.” He started for the door, and I trailed at his heels. “Come over whenever.”

  “You’re telling me you’ve never started a fire in the kitchen by mistake? Not even a small one?”

  Reaching the door, he pulled it open and tossed a rakish grin over his shoulder. “I set my fires in the bedroom, Calamity. And they’re never small.”

  My stomach flipped as the door shut behind him, his words setting off a stirring deep inside me. Relax, you silly fool. He’s not flirting with you—he’s bragging.

  Back in the kitchen, I got some paper towels and started to clean up the mess on the counter, shoving the thought of Nate in his bedroom from my mind.

  But the fluttery feeling in my belly lingered.

  Two

  Nate

  I made sure the door to Emme’s apartment locked behind me. As of yet she had not called me to save her from a masked intruder, but no sense inviting disaster. Emme did that well enough on her own.

  Still smiling at the thought of her crawling frantically toward the door to “save” me, I let myself into my apartment across the hall. Like Emme’s, it was open and spacious, lots of dark wood and exposed brick, and nearly an entire wall of old-fashioned, multi-paned windows, arched at the top. Her apartment and mine were actually mirror images of each other, with the kitchen at one end, above which was a loft bedroom, and the rest of the living space open all the way up to the exposed ducts and pipes and beams reminiscent of the building’s industrial history. But other than the bones and layout, our lofts were completely different.

  Mine was masculine but sophisticated—leather upholstery, chrome finishes, sturdy-legged tables and chairs with hard edges and straight lines. This was not a frat-boy man cave with fucking futons and bean bags and plastic cup rings on the coffee table. At thirty-five, I was over that shit. This was a classy-as-fuck bachelor pad. I had framed art on the walls, expensive rugs on the floor, and guests drank good booze out of real fucking glasses they could set on stone coasters while they relaxed on deep, comfortable couches.

  Emme’s apartment was nice, too, but her style was much more girly and dramatic. A pink velvet sofa. Curvy tables and chairs. Fluffy cream-colored blankets and pillows and rugs. Gold accents. A crystal chandelier over her table. I’d never seen her bedroom, but I imagined it was much the same—a big bed covered by a puffy, ruffled down comforter and heaped with pink and ivory pillows she had to tunnel through to get in. She probably had a crystal chandelier up there, too. I once teased her that her apartment looked like it had been decorated by Marie Antoinette. She punched my shoulder, but secretly I think she took it as a compliment.

  Inside my loft, I saw the leather bag containing my laptop and a few files sitting right where I’d dropped it on the floor. I’d just gotten in the door from work when I’d heard Emme’s screams and took off running. Given the girl’s propensity to overreact, I thought maybe she’d found a gray hair or broken a nail. One time I heard her shrieking and shouting obscenities at the top of her lungs, and went over there only to find her rolling around on the living room rug in agony trying to zip up her skinny jeans.

  But I’ll admit to a fearful adrenaline rush tonight as I’d fumbled for my key to her apartment and raced across the hall. Those screams had sounded real, and I’d had this anxious feeling all day I hadn’t been able to shake, like something was going to go wrong. I’m not a superstitious person by any means, but I don’t believe in ignoring gut instincts. I might not talk about them, but I have them, and they’re usually spot on.

  Emme had given me a key to her place because she locked herself out so frequently. She had one to mine as well, but the only time she’d used it was to water my plants when I traveled. I’d never locked myself out. How hard was it to check that you had your keys before you shut the door?

  Loosening my tie with one hand, I headed up the stairs to my bedroom. While I changed out of my suit and into jeans and a light gray sweater, I wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t come home when I did. Would she really have pulled the fire alarm?

  Probably.

  I shook my head, laughing a little as I hung up my suit pants and jacket—trousers from the hem on a felt clamp hanger so the wrinkles would fall out (I fucking hate wrinkles).

  After sniffing the white shirt I’d worn to work, I decided it could use a cleaning, so I tucked it into the bag destined for the dry cleaners. In the bathroom on the other side of my closet, I checked to see that my neatly-tended scruff wasn’t veering too close to mangy hipster territory and ran a hand through my dark hair, pleased to see I hadn’t grown any additional grays since this morning. Lately, it felt like they’d been cropping up overnight. Going gray didn’t worry me because I was getting older—I had no problem with aging. I had the job, the apartment, the car, the social life, the bank account. But I was vain as fuck and liked to look good. The minute I thought the gray was cramping my style, it’d be gone.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, I filled a martini glass with crushed ice for Emme and let it chill on the counter, then poured myself a few fingers of bourbon. I was about to text Emme to ask what kind of takeout she felt like having when she messaged me.

  Emme: Do you have enough vodka?

  Me: Enough for what?

  Emme: For my bitterness, my jealousy, my fat ass, my broken heart, and my vengeful soul.

  Me: Maybe not for your vengeful soul. But for all the rest, yes.

  Emme: Good. There in 20.

  A minute later I got on Grubhub and decided to order Chinese from The Peterboro without asking her. She loved the crab rangoon at one of our favorite local places, but if I asked her, she’d probably squawk about having to watch her weight, which was ridiculous. I thought she looked better with a few more curves on her, anyway, but I couldn’t tell her that.

  Occasionally I wondered what the fuck the guys she dated were saying or not saying to her to make her anything less than one hundred percent confident in her skin when she was so confident about other parts of her life—her job, style, her family relationships, her opinions. But then I’d remember the kinds of guys she chose—nothing but douchebags and assholes, none of whom were worse than fucking Richard the Turd, and that’s saying a lot. The entire time she was with him, I wanted
to tell her what a weasel he would turn out to be.

  I’ve known a million guys like him, guys who lie and cheat and don’t give a shit about anyone but themselves. (I swear to God, half of them are lawyers in this city. And their pants are always wrinkled.) But I never said a word because it wasn’t my place, and she wouldn’t have believed me, anyway. The last time I tried to give her dating advice, our conversation went something like this:

  Me: What do you see in that guy?

  Her: Potential.

  Me: Potential is not sexy.

  Her: Relationships take time and effort. It’s not only about sex. You wouldn’t understand because you are not a relationship person; therefore, you are not qualified to give advice on them—not that I asked for it.

  But I didn’t need to be a relationship person to smell Richard’s bullshit. It stunk to high heaven. It was amazing to me that someone as smart and sexy as Emme would fall for a guy like that.

  But what could you expect from a woman who thought Daniel Craig made a good James Bond?

  After ordering the food, I wandered over to the windows with my drink and looked out at the city while I waited for her knock. It was kind of surprising to me how much I liked spending an evening with her, given that our relationship was not now and had never been sexual, and sex was usually the way I preferred to connect with women. Our friendship was pretty unlikely on all levels, really. I didn’t generally gravitate toward needy women, preferring those who were independent, maybe even a little aloof or reserved, those looking for short-term pleasure rather than long-term connection—the total opposite of Emme. That woman was a no-holding-back, no-poker-face-whatsoever, here-have-some-feelings Seeker of The One. I always teased her that she wore her heart on her sleeve and a sign on her heart that said HOMELESS—PLEASE HELP.