How Not to Fall in Love (Love, Hate, and Other Lies We Told #2) Read online

  How Not to Fall in Love

  a novella

  by Deirdre Riordan Hall

  How Not to Fall in Love

  Copyright© 2017 Deirdre Riordan Hall

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any informational storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author/publisher except where permitted by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Design Fonts from www.fontsquirrel.com

  If you're wondering where to find the confetti on the cover, visit: The Confetti Bar

  Website: http://www.deirdreriordanhall.com

  Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/deirdrespark

  Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/deirdreriordanhall

  Dedicated to all my Galetine's girls!

  "Don't fall in love; rise with it."

  -Amit Abraham

  Chapter 1

  Spencer

  I scrape the last bits from the edge of the bowl. I lick the spoon… I've licked clean the goddamn bowl of cookie dough. Who am I? What happened to Spencer, the guy with a new girl every weekend? The BMW. The trips. The freedom. The guy who could go four times without tiring. I was insatiable. Okay, I am still all of those things, but I always wanted more women, more sex, more, more, more. Now I just want her. I want to spoon her. Spoon her? I want to…

  I want her dirty and I want to lick her clean. There. That's more like it. Thought I'd gone crazy for a moment.

  I catch my reflection in the double oven doors. My naughty thoughts and desires do not erase the fact that I'm wearing a red apron that says Kiss the Cook. (I don't have a shirt underneath, but that's because I dumped flour down it earlier.) My muscles still pop under the bronzed evidence of my trip to St. Tropez last month, but I have a coordinating red oven mitt on my hand to check on the pan of chocolate chip cookies in the oven.

  Are you confused? Yeah, me too.

  Last Saturday night I was at Javier's; it's a lounge with leather and dark wood. Aged whiskey and cards. Moody lighting and guys like me—Ivy League grads who aren't total assholes. Well, some of us are, but we look good doing it. It's where we go instead of sweaty clubs with gold-diggers. It's elite and so are the women. They're educated, sexy as hell, and share the understanding that work and whatever other hang-ups we have about relationships mean we're in it for a hook up, a one-night stand, and nothing more.

  I went home with Victoria who has her MFA and was in the Top 30 Under 30 this year. She crushes lesser men—and women—under her stilettos. She can talk her way through an executive meeting and leave the room thunderstruck. And she didn't call or text the next day or the day after that or at all this week.

  That's how I liked it. An evening at Javier's, drinking, talking, back to my place, sex, and then do it all over again the next weekend. It was a neat and tidy arrangement.

  I check my phone. No new messages. Up until recently, I didn't worry about wants and needs, relationships, and trips to Bed, Bath, and Beyond.

  Now, here I am beyond. Just fucking beyond.

  Call me an asshole for going to Javier's last weekend. Yes, I like Kat. Maybe more than like, but I'm not sure I'm ready to go there—to become someone else… who? Who would I be if we were a couple?

  I'm not superstitious, but maybe Katya Kalonje bewitched me that first time we met. She and her roommate Navy just moved in down the hall and came parading out of their apartment—hot as hell and as sweet as can be—and introduced themselves. Kat talked about her wedding...

  Blam! I pictured her in a fucking gown. It was fitted and silky—a thin layer caressing her curves. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders and she smiled at me—a strange and lovely and bewitching smile. Then I saw myself at the other end of the aisle in a tux. Halloween costumes? It was January. No such luck. Guys, I visualized us getting married. Do you know what that means? The beginning of the end.

  The image stayed with me all morning, through a meeting with corporate—I had to get notes from Jerry because I didn't absorb a goddamn thing from the presentation. Then at lunch, I ordered a chicken salad and I swear I was considering catering options. WTF?

  The conversation with her about weddings trailed me for the rest of the week, even during my date with her roommate. Thank goodness Navy had her eye on the burly guy she was talking to when I met her for the couple's yoga class. All I could think about during the sweat session was Kat on the yoga mat, twisting, contorting, moving fluidly over me…

  Then during dinner and afterward… It was Katya, Katya, Katya. All I could do to stop myself from asking Navy about her best friend was keeping my glass of whisky full. I probably had too much to drink and am lucky I didn't make a complete fool of myself.

  The worst of it though is that every time I've been with a woman I see Kat's face. I long for her hands on me and in mine...

  I toss the spoon in the sink with a clang. I picture spooning her again! I've never spooned a woman. Well, once. One woman. Never-fucking-again. I learned my lesson.

  I fantasize about Kat doing things to me. Me doing things to her. It's dirty. It's naughty. It's delicious and it's all I want. I try to distract myself with earnings reports and fiduciary lending. I can't concentrate. Is this what happens when you fall?

  So, what did I do when day after day I couldn't get her out of my mind? I made her cookies.

  Don't you dare tell a soul.

  It's Kat's roommate's recipe. Or her grandmother's. I forget. Secret ingredient? Cream cheese. Fuck it all if I know. I've never baked a cookie in my life—well, once but it was a disaster and my sister says it doesn’t count. Until recently, I never even turned on the oven in my kitchen since moving in three years ago. The real estate agent told me it was a Viking, had all the bells and whistles, blah, blah, blah. It didn't matter because I had no plans on using it. It was new and stainless steel and that was good enough for me.

  Now the buttery, sweet scent of chocolate wafts out and if I had Kat in here with me I'd be in heaven. I got the recipe after the date I had with Navy. Let me explain. It was a cold, stormy night. She needed sugar. I gave her some. Four times. Don't blame me. I was bored. Lonely. Whatever. I'm not going to say it was a mistake because how would that make Navy feel? However, I will say I'm going to keep it in my pants from now on—except when Kat is in the room.

  But I'm getting ahead of myself. Here's what happened: I knocked on their door down the hall, hoping Kat was home too. She could allay my boredom and loneliness. I mean, she didn't have a ring on her finger when she was talking about her wedding plans, so I thought maybe she was theorizing and the fiancé was hypothetical.

  Wishful thinking on my part?

  I was in luck. The good news: she wasn't engaged. The bad news: she wasn't home. However, when I set foot in their apartment, I got a hit of Kat's vanilla, citrus scent and I was overcome. My thoughts went fuzzy and I could only think of one thing. I probably shouldn't have screwed Navy, but what can I say? I'm a virile guy. Yes, I'm an asshole. Fine. I concede. But I'm working on it because what I want most in my life isn't for assholes—or the faint of heart. It was mutual anyway. We were both bored and lonely. Kat wasn't there. I figured that maybe I just needed to get it out of my system.

  Moving on. The cookies wer
e amazing. Navy let slip they were Kat's favorite and I knew I'd find my way into her clutches. I never said I was above bribery. I got the recipe. The first batch was a burned disaster. On the second try, I forgot the salt—believe it or not it enhances the flavor of the chocolate—I only know that because I read it in a magazine during a flight. The third time Kat was knocking on my door. She needed sugar. I gave her the fucking sugar, and a cookie and some more sugar.

  And that was just the beginning.

  She changed me.

  She ruined me.

  She planted a seed. Something new grows within.

  And now I bake cookies like it's my hobby.

  My heart stutters at the thought of her in my arms. My lips on hers. The vision of her walking down the aisle toward me.

  Let me paint a picture: she's long, goes on for miles and miles. Those legs. There should be a speed limit or some kind of traffic law. Sound the sirens, slow me down. But I can't, I won't.

  She's tall, but a few inches shorter than me—an advantage when having sex. We fit together. Oh holy hell. Shoot me now. Her hair is the mane of a lioness. Her eyes spark with light and intelligence. And that's the thing. I want to hear her talk. Before you judge me, I'm not a douche who thinks women are stupid bimbos. Nothing of the sort. Remember Javier's? I forget exactly, but I think you have to take an IQ test to get through the doors. Kat would pass with flying colors. Aside from her having her PhD and speaking intelligently on all manner of topics, I want to hear her talk about herself, her life, her goals and hopes and dreams. There's so much to her it's distracting, making me forget things like my dry cleaning. I was picturing her coming up over the hill during a round of golf during a quick business trip to Florida. I missed a swing I've never missed before. At inopportune and completely random moments, I find myself contemplating the herness of her with absolute wonder.

  If you know me, which you're only just getting to, that's unusual to say the least. No, not unusual, bat shit crazy. This is why I'm worried I've gone mad or she's used some kind of witchery on me. I'm the guy who doesn’t plan to settle down. Who likes the freedom of my jet setting life.

  A dog? Probably not.

  A kid? No...

  A partner to make decisions with about the future and table arrangements? Not until Kat.

  I scrub my oven-mitted hand down my face. I hardly know myself anymore. However, I do know that I feel something for this woman that I never expected. Not in a million hours in the boardroom, or the bedroom. I went from a guy who could have any woman I wanted to only desiring one and I'll do anything to convince her I'm worthy.

  Chapter 2

  Galentine's Day

  I eat when I'm happy. I eat when I'm in good company. I eat when I'm in… Love? Nope. Never. Not this girl. I almost said not yet. I almost said I eat when I'm with Spencer. I almost, but I didn't.

  I help myself to a handful of popcorn confetti-ed with those chalky, but irresistible Conversation Hearts that come out every year around Valentine's Day. I read one before I pop it into my mouth. The faint print says Call me.

  Call who? Spencer? No. I don't call guys unless it's to hook up and that's rare. Not the hooking up part, but the more than once part, necessitating a phone call. Usually it's one and done, baby. No strings. No commitments. Nothing that later required tissues, a tub of ice cream, and a Netflix binge. I don't get my heart broken because I don’t get involved for longer than a late night booty call. On the other hand, I've broken a few hearts and I'm not proud. It's easier to keep emotions out of the deal from the beginning. No, I won't call Spencer. I won't press the button beneath his photo in my phone. I won’t.

  Before you get carried away thinking I'm contradicting myself, just know that he put the photo and his number there. I glance at the image now: tousled dark hair and refined yet ruggedly handsome features, a thin shadow of scruff along his jawline, leading to a tease of skin on his bare chest. He took this photo when we were lying in his bed just as the sun was coming up over the city.

  I refuse to think about how my head was resting on that bare chest, just out of the frame, tracing my finger on his enviable abs. I refuse to think about it except that I am. I am thinking about everything we did in that bed, and I'm thinking about him. A little whimper escapes.

  "Kat, are you okay?" Alicia asks, pulling me from my punch-drunk stupor.

  I down the rest of my pink lemonade mimosa. "I'm just fine, dandy, exemplary, peachy—" I put my hand over my face. What am I saying? Who talks like that? Someone who's losing her mind, that's who.

  Alicia gives me a long side-eye. "Who's that?" Her finger aims for the image on my phone before it fades to a blank screen.

  "No one."

  "No one. Is that his full name? Well, he's hot," Tori says, popping between our shoulders.

  "You didn’t see him," I reply.

  "Didn't have to. Every guy you've ever hooked up with is, how shall I put it? Very kind on the eyes."

  "Ladies," an ordinarily gentle voice booms in our direction.

  The three of us jitter and turn around.

  Lydia faces us with one hand on her hip. In the other, she holds a platter of cinnamon rolls slathered in gooey frosting and with a light dusting of red and purple Valentine's sprinkles.

  "Ooh, they're made into the shape of hearts," Alicia says, diffusing the tension.

  "And they smell delicious," I add.

  "Girls, this is a Galentine's Day party. No talking about guys."

  "Oh yeah, that's right. No boys allowed," Tori says disappointedly.

  "That's never a problem for me," Rylee says with a smirk directed at her girlfriend. "Hoes before bros."

  "Duderuses before uteruses," a male voice says suddenly.

  We all spin in the direction of the doorway.

  "What? I'm your honorary babe," Marc says, gently kicking the door closed behind him. "You can't turn me away because I come bearing gifts from France. Well, discovered across the pond and sourced here." He has a pastry box in one arm. He passes an outrageous bouquet of flowers to Lydia and then produces a bottle of wine. "This on the other hand is from France."

  "Our honorary babe?" Tori harrumphs. "Who happens to be the most handsome male specimen any of us have ever laid eyes on. I still say it's a shame you're gay."

  "Ovaries before broveries," Marc says, completing the Parks and Recreation reference and the source of the Galentine's Day festivities.

  I roll my eyes just as he lands a kiss on my cheek. We swap sides in the traditional European fashion. He juts his chin at the banner over the serving table at my back. "Happy Galentine's Day," he reads. "And here I thought it was a welcome home soiree."

  "Welcome home," I say. "How was Paris?"

  "I'll tell you all about it, but first, you have to try these strawberry éclairs and apple rose tartelettes and lavender madeleines, and—"

  "You're not going anywhere," Tori says, dipping into the box before he even has a chance to set it down.

  "Of course, I didn't bring these from the City of Light, but my mother brought me to this delightful bakery in the 14th arrondissement. She wanted to introduce me to a unique variation on the mille-feuille… And the owner."

  "Was it delicious?" Brigitte asks, coming from the kitchen with a fresh pitcher of the pink mimosa mixture.

  Marc takes a generous bite of an éclair. "He was. I don’t care for lemon custard. It turns out his brother has a bakery here in Manhattan, but the pastries in Paris were better. Just saying." Marc waggles his eyebrows.

  "No boys allowed," Lydia repeats, reprimanding him for mentioning a potential conquest. "No exceptions."

  "Except, he was exceptional." Marc smirks, but leaves it at that. "Since I only heard about this party now, please explain why you're all wearing your pajamas—cute by the way," he says to me, gesturing to the shorts with little heart-shaped cat paw prints.

  "Mew approved," I say, referring to my cat.

  "And just what is Galentine's Day?" Marc asks, now motionin
g to the banner.

  "But you just said uteruses before—"

  "Saw it on a greeting card at the florist," he says off-handedly. "Thought it was funny."

  With impeccable timing, from the living room television, Leslie's voice (of Parks and Recreation fame), explains. "Oh it's only the best day of the year. Every February thirteenth, my lady friends and I leave our husbands and our boyfriends at home, and we just come and kick it, breakfast-style. Ladies celebrating ladies. It's like Lilith Fair, minus the angst. Plus frittatas."

  The six of us ladies recite the lines from the show verbatim. It's become a tradition to play past seasons, brunch, gab, and chill.

  "Ooh frittatas?" asks Rylee's girlfriend, Nadine, new to our group.

  "And manis, pedis, chocolate…" Lydia adds, outlining her plans for the rest of the morning.

  "You're so sweet," Tori says, giving her a squeeze.

  I give her a side hug and then we're group hugging because even though as individuals we may be fierce ladies, when you get us together we're mushy, fuzzy besties who adore each other.

  "But it isn't February thirteen," Marc says, looking at the date on his watch. "On February thirteen I was—"

  Lydia tosses him a save the recount of your romantic date for later look. "I was out of town for work so we had to postpone."

  "Plus, I'm all for celebrating my girlies anytime," I say.

  Lydia's sweet smile returns.

  "So you were talking about frittatas?" I ask. "What can we help with?"

  "Everything is ready. All you have to do is sit your sweet buns down."

  She leads us into the dining room. (Yes, we're in Manhattan and yes, there is a dining room. A proper one with a chandelier. Before you go thinking that all my friends are beautiful and rich—well, they are—their wealth was earned, hard won, or in Lydia's case, inherited. Her parents tragically died in a freak accident off the coast of Australia where they were studying a rare—well, I can't remember what, but it was some kind of prickly, deadly fish. She was sixteen and sent to live with her grandmother. She's since passed on, leaving Lydia without family, but with a very, very nice piece of prime real estate overlooking Central Park. Would she trade it to have more time with the people she loves? Absolutely. But since that's not possible, she welcomes those of us she cares most about into her home as often as possible.) But I digress…