Nothing Like Love (12 page)

That’s when it started.

“You have to come to Ireland with us,” Louise said. “I know Zach said he could find someone else to play Hermia over there, but now that I’ve been onstage with you, I don’t want to act those scenes with anyone else. Please, Simone? Please, please, please?”

A few minutes later, it was Amy and Norbert.

“It’s not just Hermia,” Amy said. “If you’re there with us, everything with the set will go smoother, too.”

“Plus it’ll be
fun
,” Norbert added. “Are you telling me you don’t want to hang out in Irish pubs with us? What about the one Zach told us about, the oldest pub in Europe? It’s like a thousand years old or something. How cool would that be? To raise a glass where Irish warriors once did?”

Simone laughed. “I’m a modern girl, Norbert. A city mouse through and through. You history buffs can visit the thousand-year-old pub while I do my imbibing in midtown Manhattan.”

A little while later, Quentin got into the act.

“Everyone who loves theater and literature should visit Ireland at least once. It’s the birthplace of James Joyce, Jonathan Swift, Oscar Wilde, William Butler Yeats, Samuel Beckett, George Bernard Shaw . . .”

“Stop naming dead white guys. And I wasn’t an English major like you, buddy. I love Shakespeare, but that doesn’t mean I worship at the altar of great literature.”

“I’ve been to your apartment, and I’ve seen your copy of Yeats. It’s been read. A lot.” He raised a bushy eyebrow. “Your favorite passages are underlined.”

She made a shooing gesture. “Move away from me, old man.”

In honor of the coming trip, the bar in the lobby was well-stocked with Guinness and Jameson. A little while later, as Simone was doing a last shot of whiskey with Kate and Ian before they left for the evening, Kate saw fit to put in her two cents.

“You know,” she began.

“If you tell me to go to Ireland, I will kill you.”

Kate grinned as she leaned back against the bar. “Okay, so I’ve been talking with Quentin and Louise. I just don’t want you to miss out on an amazing experience.”

“If anyone should go to Ireland, it’s you. You’re a writer. You’re dreamy and romantic and poetic. You’re even a redhead.”

“As it happens, I’ve been to Ireland . . . and I loved it. And I hate to think you’d let an old phobia keep you from doing something you’ll remember for the rest of your life.”

“I have plenty of memorable experiences here in the naked city. I don’t need to cross an ocean in a metal death trap to chase another one.”

It was after midnight when Kate and Ian left, and the reception was winding down. Most of the cast was heading to an after-party, but Simone, suddenly exhausted, decided to go home.

She’d chatted with Zach over the course of the evening, but always as part of a larger group. Whenever she remembered her impulsive greeting at the hot dog stand, a twinge of embarrassment went through her.

Her pleasure when she’d seen him on the street had been so overwhelming . . . and that feeling after he spun her around and set her back on her feet, looking down at her from that strong, dependable, masculine height of his . . . it had been a definite
my man can handle anything
kind of sensation.

Which was not something Simone Oliver had ever sought out in her life.

And even if it had been, Zach Hammond was most definitely not her man. So that feeling had been all wrong on every possible level.

So while she hadn’t avoided talking to him tonight, she had avoided a tête-à-tête. She’d done a good job of protecting herself from heartache where Zach was concerned, and there was no point in blowing it now.

She was saying a few good-byes before heading out—and feeling relieved that Zach wasn’t in sight as she was doing so—when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

“Hey, there,” a familiar, deep voice said. “I hear you’re skipping the party tonight. May I see you home?”

A frisson went down her spine. Hoping her face wouldn’t reveal that fact, Simone turned to Zach with a smile. “No need,” she said lightly. “And my apartment’s in the wrong direction. The party’s further downtown.”

He looked down at her thoughtfully, his cobalt eyes curious. “I think I can manage a few extra blocks for a good cause. Unless you’re avoiding me for some reason?”

Yes, I’m avoiding you. Because being around you feels too damn good.

“Of course not,” she lied. “There’s just no need for you to go to any trouble when—”

He reached over her shoulder, pushed open the glass door that led outside, and waited for her to go through.

“After you,” he said.

She exited the theater with as much dignity as she could muster.

“Fine, you can walk me home. But you’re not coming upstairs.”

He smiled at her, took her hand firmly in his, and started down the sidewalk. “That’s a bit presumptuous, Miss Oliver. Who says I want to come upstairs with you?”

She should have pulled her hand away, but his grasp was so warm and strong and comforting . . . and it was only for a few blocks.

“Call it a hunch.”

“Hmm.” They walked in silence for a few moments, and then Zach asked, “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“No,” she said cautiously.

“When I saw you before the show tonight, you literally jumped into my arms. Now I feel like I have to hang on to you to keep you from running away. What changed between then and now?”

They stopped at a crosswalk for a red light, and Simone thought about how to answer him.

“You know what they say about stray puppies and kittens?”

“What do they say?”

“If you can’t keep them, don’t get attached.”

He was quiet for a moment. “You’re afraid of getting attached to me?”

“Don’t let it go to your head. I mean, you are a movie star. Maybe I’m just shallow. You know, blinded by your wealth and talent and good looks and the fact that you stepped in to help my elderly neighbors without being asked.”

“I’m not a movie star now. I’m just a director.” The light changed, and they crossed the street. “But I
am
good-looking. Stronger women than you have proven unable to resist my charms.”

“I can imagine.” She paused. “See, here’s the thing. You spent the night helping me take care of my neighbors. You cleaned out their old takeout containers and washed their underwear. You even
folded
their underwear. I mean, who does that? I saw the basket in the living room, and you folded their boxer shorts. Also their socks. You matched them and you folded them.”

“And this is a problem because?”

“When you were the hot director and former movie star I once had a crush on, I could totally have gone for sexy times. It would have been like living out a fantasy, you know?”

He grinned down at her. “You had a crush on me? I want to hear more about that.”

She smiled. “But you’re not a fantasy now, Zach. You’re the guy who stayed awake all night doing laundry for Noah and Henry. And you’re leaving at the end of the week.”

They walked in silence for a little while. “You could come with me to Ireland.”

She shook her head. “That would only give us a couple more weeks together. Which, I have to say, is normally my idea of a perfect relationship. Short and sweet, right? Simple. Only I have a feeling that with you, things might not be so simple. Not for me, anyway,” she added. “I don’t know what it would be like for you.”

“It wouldn’t be simple for me, either,” he said quietly. “But I’m not sure that simple is what I’m after.”

She thought about that for half a block. Then, cautiously: “What are you after?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t think you know, either. But if you come to Ireland, we’ll have more time to figure it out.”

She couldn’t think of a response to that. They continued on in silence, and a few minutes later they were in front of her apartment.

“Thanks for walking me home,” she said, finally pulling her hand from his so she could hold it out for a shake.

He looked down at her hand for a minute without taking it.

“Will you come to Ireland, Simone?”

“I . . .” She leaned back against her apartment door and closed her eyes. “I don’t know.”

There were so many reasons to go—reasons that didn’t have anything to do with Zach. She wanted to oversee the set installation herself, she’d love to continue her role as Hermia for a few more performances, and it would be amazing to see Ireland with the company.

And maybe it was time to conquer her old phobia.

But what about Zach? He was both a reason to go and a reason not to go. When she was with him, she felt alive, exhilarated, joyful . . . and confused, vulnerable, and unsure of herself.

She opened her eyes and Zach stepped in closer. He was wearing a black shirt and khaki slacks and he smelled like heaven.

In the diffuse light of her doorway, his blue eyes were darker than usual. A lock of hair tumbled over his forehead and she longed to push it back.

She clenched her hands into fists to keep from touching him. Her heart was pounding, and she wasn’t sure if it was panic at the thought of flying, the effect of Zach standing so near, or a combination of both.

“Okay, I’ll go.” His eyes lit up, and she held up a hand before he could say anything. “But you and I will only be colleagues.”

He thought about that for a second and then nodded. “All right. But I reserve the right to try and change your mind.”

She tilted her head back to look up at him. “How are you planning to do that?”

His eyes went to her mouth, and a spasm of desire rocked her whole body.

“No,” she said.

His gaze met hers again. “Why not?”

“Let’s just say that there are two potential explosions looming in my future. One is an airplane crash, and the other is what could happen between us if we kiss again. I’m more willing to take my chances with the former.”

Zach stepped back and grinned at her. “Fair enough. So I guess it’s good night . . . but at least it’s not good-bye. I’ll see you at the airport on Thursday?”

A sudden clutch of terror seized her.

“What just happened? What’s wrong?” Zach asked sharply.

She swallowed. “Nothing. Just . . . I’ll be getting on a plane.”

He relaxed a little. “It’ll be fine,” he promised. “And if we do crash, I’ll be right there with you. So, worst case scenario, you can scream
I told you so
as we go down in flames.”

“Not helpful.”

“Sorry.” He smiled at her. “Good night, Simone.”

“Good night.”

She watched him walk away before going inside, keeping her eyes on him until he was out of sight.

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

S
he’d thought that kissing Zach again would be scarier than getting on a plane. Four days later, she knew she was dead wrong.

She arrived at the airport hours early, hoping that acclimatizing herself to the environment would help. She watched the planes taking off and landing and tried to take reassurance from how routine it all seemed.

The problem was, her phobia wasn’t rational. Why had she thought she could overcome it by rational means?

But she wouldn’t give up yet. She was a strong, intelligent woman who would
not
let fear rule her life.

Some fears, anyway.

She slumped down onto a hard plastic seat and gripped the cup of coffee she probably shouldn’t drink, given the fact that she was about to board a red-eye flight and was already tense. But she hadn’t been able to resist the comfort of the Starbucks counter, with its soft lighting and delicious aromas. It had been an oasis of familiarity in the institutional brightness of the airport.

“Hey.”

She looked up and Zach was there, smiling down at her with his own coffee in one hand and a wheeled carry-on suitcase in the other.

She nodded. “Hey.”

His smile faded when he got a look at her face.

“Jesus, Simone. You’re as pale as a ghost.” He sat beside her, setting down his coffee and pressing the back of his hand against her cheek. “And you’re clammy.”

She glared at him. Of course he wasn’t trying to insult her; he was just concerned. But the fact was, she looked awful—and he looked like a movie star.

No one had a right to look that good under fluorescent lights. But Zach might have stepped out of a Burberry catalog in his geometric-print shirt and wool-blend slacks, with his brown hair sexily tousled and a hint of stubble on his jaw.

She, on the other hand, was a mess, and she hadn’t even gotten on the plane yet.

She’d decided not to wear pants, figuring a skirt or dress would be easier to manage in the tiny airplane bathroom. But instead of choosing something dark and polyester, she’d grabbed a yellow cotton skirt from her closet.

It was already wrinkled, and when she’d made the mistake of trying to eat, she’d spilled salad dressing on it. Her blue top was in slightly better shape but there were sweat stains under her arms.

“Of course I’m pale,” she snapped. “I’m having a panic attack.”

She swatted at his hand and he pulled it away. “What can I do?” he asked.

“Get the images of plane wrecks out of my head.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I’ve been assuming this whole time that your fear of flying isn’t related to an actual experience. Was I wrong? Did someone you know die in a plane crash?”

She shook her head. “No. Why would you ask that?”

“I’m just trying to get at the whys and wherefores. Did you have a bad experience on a plane as a kid?”

“No, nothing like that.” She ran both hands through her sweat-dampened hair, half wishing Zach wasn’t seeing her like this and half grateful for his company. “Are you seriously interested in talking about this?”

“Of course I am.”

They were facing the windows, and now she looked out at all the airplanes, big and powerful and gleaming in the setting sun.

She slumped a little lower in her seat. “I actually loved to fly when I was a little girl. We went to Florida a few times a year to visit family.”

“So what changed?”

“When my mom first got her ALS diagnosis, I still believed in miracles. I convinced myself that a disease that was always fatal wouldn’t be fatal for her. That God would save her, or medical science would save her . . . that researchers would come up with a treatment in time to help. I was thirteen years old, and I couldn’t imagine a world without my mother in it. I was sure the worst wouldn’t happen. And then . . .” She shrugged. “It did. I finally gave in to the inevitable when I was fifteen, about two years after my mom’s diagnosis. That summer a friend of mine invited me to spend a week with her family out in California, and my parents insisted I go. We were in the airport waiting to board when I got my first panic attack.”

At some point while she was talking, Zach had taken one of her hands in his.

“Were you were worried about leaving your mother? In case something happened while you were gone?”

“No, that wasn’t it.” She paused. “You know how they talk about young invincibles? Teenagers don’t believe in death. They don’t believe in disaster. I hadn’t wanted to believe in it either, but . . . there it was. Ugly and inescapable. Death is coming for us and there’s nothing we can do to stop it. And as I sat there in the airport that day, it took shape in my mind. An airplane. A metal cage you can’t control that will take you down and destroy you.”

She took a breath. “Everyone always quotes those statistics to me about how flying is safer than driving, you know? But being afraid to fly isn’t about statistics. In a car, you feel like you have some control. You feel like there’s a chance of survival even if you crash. But in a plane, you have no control at all. And there’s no chance of survival.” She shrugged. “Just like in life.”

Zach didn’t say anything after she finished speaking. He just held her hand.

Talking about this old fear had reminded her of old, miserable emotions . . . the hopelessness and despair of watching her mother deteriorate as she inched closer and closer to a terrible death. But piercing through those memories was the warm, solid reality of Zach beside her, listening with quiet attention to her ramblings.

He didn’t rush to reassure her or put his own spin on things. He just listened.

Which was really nice of him, but . . .

“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment. “This isn’t a very jolly conversation.”

He twined his fingers with hers. “You do that a lot,” he said.

“Do what?”

“Apologize if your conversation isn’t cheerful. Why?”

She frowned. “Isn’t it obvious? I don’t want to burden anyone else with the morbid inner workings of my brain.”

“You’re not morbid. Everyone thinks about illness and mortality and disaster sometimes—especially if they’ve actually had to face those things. Don’t you think it’s better to share those thoughts with someone instead of keeping them inside?”

She looked at him skeptically. “Come on, Zach. I don’t believe
you
spend a lot of time thinking about the harsh realities of life. Tell me the truth. Haven’t you always gotten everything you ever wanted?”

For one brief moment, a flicker of pain passed over his face.

Could she have been wrong about him? Was there something Zach wanted that he couldn’t have?

It was hard to imagine that anything could be out of Zach Hammond’s reach.

But whatever she’d seen in his face was gone now. When Zach spoke again, his voice was light. “I wanted to kiss you last night,” he reminded her. “And I didn’t get that.”

She waved that away with a dismissive gesture. “If not kissing me is the worst deprivation you’ve suffered in your lifetime, I think you’re doing all right.”

At that moment the speaker system at the gate crackled to life. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to flight six eight three to Shannon.”

This was it. It was really happening.

She took a deep breath. “Is anyone else from the company on this flight?”

Zach shook his head. “They’re coming out tomorrow. I booked you on my flight so I could pamper you.”

“Pamper me?”

“At this time, we would like to invite our first-class passengers to board.”

Zach rose to his feet and held out a hand to help her up. “That’s us,” he said.

“First class? I don’t think so. You go ahead, Mr. Moneybags. I’ll be sure to say hello when I pass you on my way to coach.”

He smiled. “This is where the pampering begins. You’re in first class with me, so get a move on.”

Ten minutes later, Simone was curled up in a first-class window seat with a blanket over her knees while Zach, sitting beside her, was being charming to a flight attendant.

She was trying hard to stay calm, and she was failing.

Once the flight attendant had moved away, Simone tossed the blanket on the floor and sat up straight. “I can’t do this,” she said, feeling the clawing of panic in her belly. “It’s not too late for me to get off the plane, right?”

“Simone. Look at me.”

She turned her head and met Zach’s blue eyes.

“I’m going to get you through this,” he said.

She wasn’t mad at him, but he was the only person available to snap at. “You are, huh? And how exactly are you going to do that? By waving a magic wand? Throwing some money at the problem? What?”

He picked up her discarded blanket and put it back on her lap. “I’ll think of something.”

She closed her eyes and slumped back down in her seat. “Good luck with that.”

It was nighttime, and the bright, flashing lights on the runway seemed to say,
Don’t worry. We know what we’re doing. We’re so good at this we can even do it in the dark.

It took technological mastery to operate all these giant machines at night. Radar, computers, mechanical engineering, and physics . . . none of which she understood, none of which she could control, all of which she was supposed to trust, but which, nonetheless, sometimes tragically failed.

She’d once thought about science with almost desperate reverence as her mother’s one chance for a miracle. But science, like everything else in life, will let you down . . . and it can’t stop bad things from happening.

Things like plane crashes.

Fear was starting to pull her under. In the maelstrom of emotion there wasn’t anything solid to hold on to. Her terror wasn’t rational, it wasn’t logical, and it was all she had.

But then, suddenly, there was something else.

A warm hand on her bare thigh.

Her eyes snapped open. Zach was looking big and solid in the seat next to her, his eyes fixed attentively on the stewardess at the front of the cabin as she went over safety procedures. He seemed to be completely focused on the oxygen mask demonstration.

But his hand was most definitely on her leg.

She shifted a little, and his grip tightened.

A pulse of sensation went through her.

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

“Trying to distract you.” His hand moved higher. “Is it working?”

An electric shiver went from her toes to the top of her head.

She opened her mouth to tell him to stop, but then she realized that, for the first time all day, she wasn’t thinking about plane crashes.

“We’re supposed to be colleagues,” she whispered. “Nontouching colleagues.”

“Right, so we don’t get attached. I know. But this isn’t about that,” he said, his voice low and persuasive.

He kept his eyes on the flight attendant while he was talking, but the left side of his mouth quirked up.

He was enjoying himself.

She felt warm all over. “What’s it about, then?”

“Emergency measures. To get you through the flight.” His hand moved softly up her leg, underneath her skirt, until he was only inches from the edge of her panties. “You haven’t told me if it’s working or not.”

His fingertips stroked softly over the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.

She swallowed. “I know I’m freaking out and I appreciate that you’re willing to go above and beyond to help me. But you don’t have to actually—”

They started to taxi down the runway, and her throat tightened in sudden panic.

She grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t stop,” she said. “Please don’t stop.”

He turned his head sharply, his eyes lasering into hers. “Are you serious? You want me to keep going?”

She stared at him. “You were only fooling around. You didn’t really want to . . . oh, my God, I am totally mortified. I—”

“Simone. Shut up.”

He shifted in his seat so he was facing toward her, creating an oasis of privacy. Between the bulk of his body and the blanket covering her, she was well protected from anyone who might glance their way . . . and since the seats opposite theirs were empty, the risk was small.

“I want to distract you,” Zach said, his voice husky. “Let me distract you.”

The plane was going faster.

“Yes,” she managed to say, her throat suddenly dry. “Please, Zach . . . distract me.”

She looked out the window and saw the runway lights flashing by in a blur, and she gripped her armrests until her knuckles turned white.

“Don’t look out the window,” Zach ordered her. “Look at
me
.”

She turned her head. Zach held her gaze as the plane gathered speed, and when they lifted into the sky, his hand slid all the way up until he was between her legs, his palm covering her through her panties.

The terror of taking off was lost in an erotic surge. She tried to catch her breath, but before she could recover, Zach was massaging her in firm, slow, deliberate circles that took her from zero to sixty in seconds flat.

But he didn’t stop there. As the plane rose higher into the air, leaving the lights of the city far below, Zach slipped his fingers under the edge of her panties and stroked her bare skin.