You're Not the One (9781101558959) (12 page)

Then it hits me.

Oh my God, I did not just say that. I did not just say that.

Fuck. Fuck.
FUCK.

There's a pause as Nathaniel takes a sip of his wine. It's like the moment between the crash and the impact. That stunned split second as you brace yourself for the inevitable.

Putting down his glass, he meets my eyes.

Please don't say it's wonderful.
I cross my fingers under the bar. I mean, you can say it's good, and you're happy and all that, and I'll be pleased, really I will, but please don't go on and on about how wonderful it is, how wonderful
she
is.

“We're getting divorced.”

Now it's his turn to launch a missile.
Boom.
Just like that.

I look at him incredulously. I was prepared for a dozen different answers, but not this one.
Never
this one.

“Gosh, I'm sorry to hear that,” I say quickly, scrambling for something appropriate to say, but inside I'm reeling with shock. And something else. A secret tremor of joy that comes like the aftershock following an earthquake.

“Thanks.” He smiles ruefully. “It's for the best. Beth and I should never have gotten married in the first place.”

My face doesn't flicker. I try to appear not really interested, but every cell in my body is like a finely tuned receptor.

“I met Beth when she was a freshman at college and the complete opposite of me—she was loud, confident, the life and soul of every party. . . . We used to argue like crazy.”

As he tells me this information, I try to imagine it.
Nate? Arguing like crazy?
But I can't. He's always so mild mannered, so laid-back. I don't think I've ever seen him lose his temper.

“We were only married a year and she moved out. Looking back, we should have called it a day then, I suppose.”

“Why didn't you?” I blurt, then catching myself, quickly add, “I mean, if you weren't getting along.”

“I don't know. I suppose I didn't want to let anyone down. We had this great big wedding. . . .” His voice trails off awkwardly.

“I know. You were in the
New York Times
.”

“You saw it?” He looks surprised and embarrassed.

As do I for admitting I've seen it.

“My sister, Kate, did. She lives here, you know. She showed it to me.”

The truth is, she tore it out and posted it to me, her reasoning being it was best that I knew all the facts. Secretly I knew she was hoping that by seeing his wedding picture I would finally stop mooning over him, move on, forget all about him. And it worked. Sort of.

“It looked like a good wedding.” I smile brightly and drain my glass.

I swear I have just turned into Miss Maturity. Look at me! All cool and calm and not even the teeniest bit jealous or upset. It's amazing. I feel noble. Magnanimous.

A little bit drunk
, I suddenly realize.

“It was a big wedding.” He nods. “We had three hundred guests at the Ritz-Carlton in San Francisco.”

“Wow,” I murmur, not because of the size of his guest list, but because I can't believe I'm sitting here, talking about Nate's wedding,
with Nate
. It's just so bizarre.

“Trust me, I don't think I even knew who half of them were. Still don't,” he continues, shaking his head. Picking up his wine, he looks at me thoughtfully. “Anyway, enough about me. What about you? Who's the lucky guy?”

I feel my cheeks redden and for a brief moment I think about making one up, then decide to come clean. We never did play games, Nate and me; no point starting now. “There isn't one,” I say, averting my eyes and looking down at my empty glass.

“What?” Now he's the one to look incredulous. “Why not?”

Because I never got over you, because no one ever came close, because you were the One,
whispers a little voice inside me.

Instead I just shrug my shoulders. “I guess I'm still waiting for the right person.”

All the wine on an empty stomach is making me feeling lightheaded; the bar has started to sway slowly. Lifting my eyes, I meet his.

“Smart.” He nods, looking reflective. “I should've done the same.”

There's a pause as we look at each other. Neither of us speaks. Is it just me or is something happening here?
Is something going to happen here?

Somewhere in my body a tiny pulse starts beating.

“Have you ever been back to Venice?”

My chest tightens and I feel my breath catch inside my throat. “No, never,” I manage, trying to keep my voice steady. “What about you?”

His eyes have never left mine.

“A million times,” he replies quietly.

My heart skips a beat.
So I didn't imagine it
. I feel a rush of emotion and for a split second it's like I'm suspended on the verge of something, wondering what he's going to say next, where this is going.

“I married the wrong woman, Lucy.”

His voice is low, but it's clear and composed. I feel myself reeling. Oh my God, I can't believe it . . . I can't believe it. Hearing his startling confession, I feel shocked, astonished, stunned, and yet . . .

And yet there's something else, deep down inside . . . an overwhelming feeling of calm, inevitability,
destiny
.

“I made the biggest mistake of my life when I lost you and I've never stopped regretting it. I've thought about you for years. Wondered where you are, what you're doing, if I'd ever see you again. Sometimes I even used to imagine seeing you again, bumping into you in the street.”

I'm listening to him talking, but it could be me speaking. It could be my voice saying these same things. Because this is exactly what I've been doing all these years. It's like he's reading from my diary, talking about my life, and yet it's been his life too. All this time we've been leading parallel lives and we never knew it.

“It was crazy. I even went to see a therapist about it once.”

I can't suppress my surprise. “A therapist?”

“Well, I was in L.A.” He looks sheepish. “I was depressed about work, but I just spent the whole time talking about you.”

Tiny darts of joy are pricking my skin, making me tingle all over. I never dared to imagine he would be thinking about me. I assumed that he never gave me a second thought, that I was long forgotten. Yet while I was in London thinking about him, there he was in L.A. thinking about me.

“Look, I know this sounds stupid, but . . .” His voice trails off. He hesitates, then looks back up at me, his eyes searching out mine. “Do you believe in soul mates?”

Our eyes lock. My heart hammers in my chest. I feel dizzy. I've drunk too much wine. It's all too much. Everything is fuzzy. Yet in that moment there's a flash of something so clear, so definite, so absolutely certain that I have no doubts.

“Yes,” I whisper. “Yes, I do, Nate.”

And then it happens.

Leaning toward me, he reaches for my hand, and interlacing his fingers through mine, he pulls me toward him, slowly, gently. Closing my eyes, I sink into him. It's like nothing's changed. He feels the same, he smells the same, and as his lips brush against mine, it's as if the years simply melt away and we're right back on that gondola in Venice. . . .

He kisses just the same too.

A
shaft of sunlight filters through the gap in the blinds, warming my eyelids, stirring me from the deepest sleep. Blearily I open my eyes, expecting to see an embroidered Indian bedspread strewn with discarded clothes, clashing scarlet walls, and piles of clutter. Instead I'm greeted by a vista of pristine white, an arctic landscape of clean sheets, bare walls, and acres of empty carpet.

For a split second I wonder where on earth I am.

Then it comes back to me.

It's the morning after and I'm in Nate's bedroom. In Nate's bed.
With Nate.

As it registers, I shoot out my hand to the other side of the vast mattress. Only he's not there. Momentarily I feel myself stiffen. Insecurities bubble up inside before I become aware of a faint whooshing sound. It's coming from the en suite. Of course. Nate must be in the shower. Closing my eyes, I sink back under the duvet. Cocooned within the soft, warm depths, I stretch and curl back up like a question mark, relishing the fresh linen sheets, the huge, plump mattress, the softest feather pillows, the memory of last night. It's like being in some super-expensive hotel.

OK, enough about the bed, Lucy.
What about the sex?

A delicious shiver runs up my spine, sending little shock waves all over my body. Like someone with a wonderful secret, I want to hug the memories to my chest and never let them go. To keep them tucked inside and think about them over and over, relishing them, reliving them, moment by delicious moment.

It was amazing, and yet completely natural, as if we'd never been apart. Everything just fit together. Like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, we simply slipped back into place. That's what I remember the most, because the rest of my memories are hazy, blurred by lust and alcohol. I vaguely recall coming back to the penthouse, kissing in the hallway, items of clothing being removed until suddenly we were both naked and tumbling into bed. The feeling of skin against skin, his mouth, fingers, thighs . . .

I blush at the memory, my stomach fluttering as sensations flood my body, my skin still tingling. A flashback of our limbs tangled together, followed by another, and another, and another, and—

“Lucy?”

Nate's voice brings me back and I open my eyes to see him standing at the foot of the bed, wearing just a towel. His muscular body is still dripping with droplets of water and I watch a trickle run between his pecs, over his six-pack, weaving its way down to his navel.

Even with a hangover, my body responds. It's all I can do not to grab hold of him and drag him back under the covers with me. In fact, maybe I should.

Oh my God, what's got into me? Since when did I turn into some sex-crazed nympho?

Since last night,
pipes up the little voice. Sex with Nate was always amazing, and last night proved nothing has changed. I feel my groin ache at the memory. Right, OK, play it cool, Lucy, play it cool.

Easier said than done when you're completely naked and in his bed.

“How are you feeling?” Padding over, he sits down on the side of the bed and gently brushes the hair out of my eyes, his face crinkling into a smile.

Horny. Happy.
In love.

As the thought fires across my brain, I feel a stab of alarm. Whoa. Not so fast. This was just one night, remember? He could have cold feet. He could have changed his mind. He could be thinking this was one big mistake.

“A little hungover,” I say, trying to sound casual, while my skin is tingling at the touch of his fingertips. “What about you?”

“Pretty good.” He nods, his eyes meeting mine. “Pretty damn good.”

There's a pause and a look passes between us, and in that moment I know that everything he said last night still stands; nothing's changed. He feels the same. I feel a burst of euphoria that sends my defenses crumbling.

“Yeah, me too,” I reply softly.

A grin flashes across his face. He looks pleased, and more than a little relieved. It's then that I realize he was probably as nervous as I was, if not more. After all, last night he was the one baring his soul to me, confessing that he'd made the biggest mistake of his life losing me, asking me if I believe in soul mates.

My stomach gives a leap.

“So, can I get you anything? Are you hungry?”

“Mmm.” I let out a little yawn. “What time is it?”

“Six.”

My whole body recoils as if I've just been dragged under a freezing cold shower. “
Six?”
I yelp in shock.

“Actually, it's nearly ten past,” corrects Nate, obviously missing the trauma in my voice.

Me? Awake? At six a.m.? I'm usually unconscious until eight thirty. Noon if it's the weekend. I can't remember the last time I was awake at six o'clock in the morning.

Actually, yes, I can. I was twenty-three and clubbing in Ibiza, the difference being I hadn't yet
gone
to bed.

“How about I fix you some fresh juice?”

“Oh . . . um . . . yes, please. That sounds lovely.” I smile. OK, so it's a bit early for me—I stifle another yawn—but I'm awake now, and what better reason to
stay
awake than a semi-naked Nate?

“OK, coming right up.” Easing himself off the bed, he reaches for a pair of small wire-framed glasses on the bedside table and slips them on.

Gosh, he wears glasses now, I realize. I suddenly remember the empty contact-lens cases in the bathroom. So that explains it, I think, trying to get used to this new, serious-looking Nate.

“Trust me, it's good freshly squeezed. I have a juicer.” He smiles, bending down and giving me a kiss.

God, he's still bloody cute, though, glasses or no glasses, I muse, feeling his soft mouth against mine.

“I'll get up and help you,” I murmur, making to get out of bed, but he pushes me back gently.

“Relax. I'll get it.” His mouth twitches with amusement. “I know how much you like staying in bed. I don't think we ever got out of bed in Italy, did we?” He throws me a look and I feel a rush of delight. So he hasn't forgotten those lazy mornings we spent in Italy, lying spooned together for hours in my tiny single bed, listening to the world go by outside the window.

“True, but I can make coffee,” I suggest, and at the mention of coffee my taste buds ping awake. I love my morning coffee. It's my sacred ritual. Nothing comes between me and my strong latte.