You're Not the One (9781101558959) (16 page)

Instantly I can feel my reservations vanishing as I imagine Nate and me doing sun salutations together every morning, going out for fresh juice afterward, wearing all that fabulous gear to show off our amazing yoga-honed bodies. My mind starts running off with itself. . . . Just think, we could go on those weekend retreats, or we could go live on a beach in India and spend our days going, “Ommmmm.”

Not that I particularly want to go live on a beach in India and go, “Ommmmm,” but even so.

“That sounds great.” I nod, smiling dreamily.

“It does, doesn't it?” He grins, and we fall silent and stare doe-eyed across the table at each other, like a couple of loved-up teenagers. Truly, it's horribly embarrassing.

Bloody fantastic, though.

The rest of the evening slips away in a hazy blur of delicious food, ice-cold champagne, and flirtation. We skip coffee and dessert, as Nate doesn't indulge in either; instead he asks me back to his place for a nightcap. By the glint in his eye, it's pretty obvious he's not talking about a cup of cocoa.

I feel a frisson of excitement as he asks for the bill.

Although the chocolate profiteroles with hot sauce did sound to die for.

“You OK?” he asks, stroking my hair as I lean against him in the backseat of the cab on the way back to his penthouse.

“Yeah, fine.” I nod. I can feel the hardness of his thigh pressing against mine through my flimsy silk dress. It's only a few hours since we were in bed together, but it already feels like eons ago.

“Sleepy?” Tracing his fingers underneath my hair to the nape of my neck, he moves them slowly down to my collarbone.

I swallow hard. “No,” I reply, trying to keep my voice even. This feels like the longest cab ride ever. Filled with champagne and the anticipation of what lies ahead, I feel as if every red light takes forever, every block an eternity. I move my hand to his lap, feeling the hardness beneath. He flinches slightly and his breathing grows heavier. “Are you?”

“No, me neither.” He reaches his hand down into my dress and I feel a shiver run down to my groin.

God, this is so surreal, both of us having this perfectly normal conversation, while at the same time not being able to keep our hands off each other.

It's also the biggest turn-on.

“So if we're not feeling sleepy, what shall we do?” I ask innocently, while untucking his shirt and sliding my fingertips underneath his waistband.

“Hmm, I'm not sure,” he says, still playing the game. “We could watch a DVD.”

The breath catches in my throat. “What movies do you have?” I manage. My entire body is pulsating and it takes every drop of self-control not to demand he have sex with me there and then, in the backseat of the cab.

I know.
What the hell's wrong with me?

“Oh, I'm sure I've got something that you'd enjoy. . . .” He trails off, his breath hot and ragged against my ear.

“Really?” I say thickly.

“Really,” he gasps, his voice trembling.

Then suddenly we're pulling up at his building, and Nate is paying the taxi, and we're walking in through the revolving doors and across the lobby. I'm so heady with desire I barely notice the doorman, or the ride up in the elevator. All I'm aware of is Nate's body standing close to mine, the warm, musky smell of him, the sound of his breath, short and urgent against my neck.

Now the door is sliding open and we're walking into the apartment and saying good night to the doorman, and it's just the two of us, alone at last.

“You know, I'm not really in the mood for a DVD.” I turn to him, feeling as if my whole body might explode at any moment.

“What are you in the mood for?” He looks at me, daring me.

I can't do it. I can't play this game anymore. “This,” I say, and pulling him toward me, I kiss him. Last night I was so drunk on red wine the sex was all a bit hazy. Caught up in the whirlwind of seeing him again, of being with him again, it all seemed to happen so fast.

But now I'm getting a glorious rerun, just in case I missed anything, I muse, feeling a shiver of delight as, kissing me back, he pulls me to the floor.

Afterward we just lie there, dozing. Bathed in a warm glow, I rest my head on his chest, listening as our breathing slows to normal. For a while neither of us speaks, then turning his head, he kisses me gently on the cheek and says quietly, “I've got something to show you.”

“Oh, I think I've seen everything,” I say, raising an eyebrow and smiling.

He clicks his tongue reprovingly. “No, you haven't.” He grins, pulling himself up.

Naked, he disappears for a moment while I lie on the white carpet, warm and contented. I stretch out like a cat and let out a yawn. I feel sleepy, spent, satisfied.

“I just found it today,” he says, reappearing. “I thought I'd lost it years ago, but it just turned up out of the blue.” Propping myself up on my elbows, I gaze at him as he bends down to kiss me. “Kind of like you, huh?”

I look at him in confusion. What is he talking about? Then I notice he's wearing something round his neck. A pendant.
Half a coin
.

My heart leaps and I feel a shock wave of amazement, incredulity, excitement . . . and something else. This must be more than just coincidence. This must be fate.

“Well, it's funny you should say that.” Rolling over, I throw out my arm and reach for my bag, which is lying discarded on the floor, along with my clothes. With my fingers, I fumble around inside, until finally I find it. My half of the necklace. “Look.” Triumphantly I loop it round my neck and we exchange looks of delight.

“Hey, I wonder if they still . . .” Leaning toward me, he gently reaches for my necklace and puts it together with his. The two halves click into place, like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

“It's a perfect fit,” I murmur.

“Are you talking about the necklace or . . . ?” He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

“Nate!” I giggle, and swat him playfully.

“What?” he laughs, then pauses thoughtfully, tracing a finger across my shoulder. “You know, now I've found you again, I'm never letting you go.”

“Yeah, right,” I tease, but inside I feel a burst of happiness.

“No, I'm serious.” His blue eyes search mine and he looks at me for a long moment. “You're never going to get rid of me.”

“Well now, there's a coincidence.” Reaching up, I pull him down toward me. “You're never going to get rid of me either.”

T
he rest of the week slips away in a dreamy montage of romantic dinner dates in some of the finest restaurants in New York, a horse-drawn carriage ride in Central Park, an amazing bouquet of fresh white lilies delivered to work....

It's everything a girl could ever dream of and more. What's even more wonderful is this time it's not happening to someone else, to some random celebrity I read about in a magazine on the subway, or a friend of a friend I hear about over drinks with my single girlfriends, but to me.
Me
. Lucy Hemmingway.

I mean, who would have thought that only a few days ago I was trundling along in my normal life, doing normal things like moaning about my cellulite to Robyn and doing my hand-washing, and then—
boom
—I'd bump into Nate again and everything would change? Not that my life was terrible before—it wasn't at all. It's just . . . well, put it this way, I'm not thinking about cellulite or hand-washing anymore.

Now I'm too busy smiling as yet another slushy text beeps up from my phone, or lying giggling in his arms after we've had sex for about the millionth time.

As for my cellulite . . . the funny thing is, I don't think Nate even notices it!

Cocooned in our own little world called Nate 'n' Luce, population two, it's like no one and nothing else exists. In fact, it's all I can do each morning to drag myself away from his penthouse and catch the subway downtown to work. I want to be like John and Yoko and just lounge around in bed for a week, though my reasons are
slightly
less honorable. Well, ten years is a
lot
of lost time to make up for.

Saying that, as soon as I enter the gallery, I automatically switch into work mode. Wafting around in a heady, romantic state might be wonderful, but it's all-consuming and you can't get anything done, and there's loads to do, as this Friday is the opening. Falling in love and having your first New York gallery opening to organize all in the same week is a bit intense, but I rise to the challenge.

By Friday everything on my list has been ticked off with my brand-new highlighter pen. Compile guest list:
tick
. Send out invitations:
tick
. Write promotional material:
tick
. Book caterer:
tick
. Hire waitstaff:
tick
. Hang paintings ready to exhibit:
tick
. Now all we need is for the event to be a success, I tell myself, feeling like a bundle of nerves as the first guests start arriving.

“Welcome to Number Thirty-Eight,” I say with a smile, crossing their names off my list. “Please feel free to wander around and enjoy the artwork, and if you have any questions, my name's Lucy and I'd be delighted to help you.”

Panic:
tick
.

Twenty minutes later the gallery is buzzing. It's a hot, muggy evening in New York and the doors have been thrown wide open. People are milling around inside and spilling outside onto the pavement.

It's a diverse crowd. Magda has put together an eclectic guest list, from somber-looking artists dressed in Birkenstocks and Elvis Costello glasses to some of New York's glitterati, including several pubescent-looking models, the odd actor, and lots of older men with impossibly white teeth and impossibly skinny wives who are dripping in diamonds and designer handbags. And who all look suspiciously like they bought their face at the same place as Magda, I notice, watching them air-kissing with their strangely swollen lips.

“Wow, you clever girl, this is amazing!”

I glance up to see Robyn bounding toward me, her hair flying loose, a large smile sweeping across her face. I've barely seen her all week, as I've been at Nate's, and it's great to see her. She's wearing an embroidered caftan and a pair of fisherman trousers, both of which are tie-dyed, and the longest, dangliest pair of earrings I've ever seen.

“And you look amazing! I love your hair!” Flinging her arms round me, she gives me a breathless hug. “The color looks great on you!”

“Thanks.” I grin. In honor of the occasion I popped into a salon during lunchtime and changed the color of my hair from a boring chestnut to a spicy black currant.

“Has Nathaniel seen it yet?” she asks excitedly.