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

  We gather around the table, festooned in red, purple, and gold: flowers, streamers, banners, pom-poms, confetti, balloons, and platters and trays and plates piled with food. Food glorious food!

  "It's like cupid exploded in here!" Brigitte exclaims.

  "Well, I love you girls. And you too, Marc," Lydia says, smiling.

  "And we love you too," he says. "Thanks for letting me come." Marc's family is mostly in France and despite bi-annual visits; he really misses his people, making us his stateside tribe.

  We dig into waffles with strawberries, pancakes with blueberries, quiche, scones, and frittata,of course.

  "This is delicious," Nadine says.

  "Scrumptious," Alicia adds.

  "I'm so glad I happened by," Marc says around a mouthful.

  "I want to offer a toast," I say, getting to my feet. "Roses are red, violets are blue, you girls—and Marc—are my best friends, and I don't know what I'd do without you."

  There's a round of aws and the clinking of our glasses followed by variations on the last part of the rhyme, descending into dirty jokes that mostly end with in bed. How we managed to turn an age-old Valentine's Day poem into a warped fortune cookie cliché, I have no idea. Usually, I just roll with the laughter—it's good for the soul and heart. Especially when that heart sometimes feels a little bit lonely despite being surrounded by so much love.

  Lydia pulls us from the gutter, and me, well, from inner musings I'd rather not you mention to anyone. She suggests we play a game. "It's really easy." She passes out pink cards printed with the beginnings of sentences. "It's kind of like truth or dare, but just with the truth part. Going around the table, all we have to do is finish the sentences. However, there's one caveat. She holds up a bowl filled with crumbled paper. If you draw the letter G you have to answer it from a Galentine point of view. If you draw a V, it's all about the Valentine. Got it? I'll go first so you can see how it works."

  I glance down at the sentence on my card and fold it up, hoping I get G.

  Lydia reads from her card. "My heart beats for ____."

  She draws the letter G.

  "The truth is my heart beats for Gilmore Girls reruns."

  There's a chorus of approval.

  Rylee goes next. "The sweetest thing ____ has ever done for me is _____." She pulls a folded paper from the bowl and says, "V. Easy. The sweetest thing Nadine has ever done for me was win me a giant jar of chocolate kisses for me at work." The couple makes lovely-dovey noises.

  Marc arches an eyebrow.

  "She guessed how many were in the jar. Then she gave me that many kisses."

  "And this was an office approved activity?"

  "She's the head of HR so…"

  I take the moment of laughter that follows to glance at my card again and pray for the letter G. Galentine, Galentine, Galentine.

  "Kat's turn," Lydia says, keeping the game moving while I take seconds of frittata. I take a painstakingly long time to chew. It was my hope that a couple of conversations would strike up, taking attention off the game. No such luck.

  "Ok. My sentence is: when I think about ______ I get all mushy inside." Since this is a game of truth and I'd never lie to you, I have to admit that my voice shakes a little bit.

  All eyes are on me. Every single one. Surrounded by all the red and purple, hearts and confetti, it's intense. I draw from the bowl of crumpled paper. G, please.

  "V for Valentine," Marc says, smirking as he reads over my shoulder.

  Brigitte says, "Well…"

  "When I think about—" I clear my throat.

  They lean in.

  "When I think about Navy, I get all—"

  "We know you miss her, but that says V, girlfriend," Alicia exclaims.

  "When I think about, um, this guy I, get—"

  "What guy?" Tori fires from across the table.

  "Who?" Brigitte asks. "Don't tell me it's that guy we met last month…"

  Tori reads over my shoulder, "When I think about _____ I get all mushy inside. Who makes you mushy, Kat? Huh? Huh?"

  I shake my head.

  Without my realizing it, Alicia has my phone in her hands and clicks it on, parked on Spencer's contact page. An impish grin spreads across her face and damnitall if mine isn't identical.

  "Katya Kalonje, what are you keeping from us?" Marc asks.

  Lydia points at me. "I know that look. I know it well. Our girl Kat is smitten."

  "She's a smitten kitten," Tori says.

  And I don't dare argue.

  Chapter 3

  Chocolate Chip Cookies

  I still occasionally wake up to the screech of metal, heat rushing at me, tears already in my eyes even though I didn't really know what was happening at the time.

  I'll be walking down the bustling streets of Manhattan, hear a cab crunch against another car and my stomach dips and flops and that feeling of free fall makes me dizzy.

  At random moments, like when I'm having a coffee with a friend or upside down in a yoga pose, blam, my world turns upside down too.

  Even now, the tears are the same: metallic, hot, and constant.

  When I was nine, I was in a terrible car accident. My father didn't make it. My mother was in a coma for three days. I was told I would never walk again. I had to learn how to walk again because my big plans in life required mobility—at the time they involved scaling Mount Fuji, Whitney, and Kilimanjaro. They sounded so exotic and impossible; of course, I had to reach the peaks. Most people know this about me—that I routinely do the daring, impossible, the what is she thinking kinds of things, but what they don't know is that my parents had been arguing while on our way back from a holiday party. I was in the backseat, trying not to listen, but how could I not?

  My father cheated on my mom, regularly. This was a "secret"—something we never talked about. But she and I both knew. The gist of their fight was this: while at the party, my father flirted with one of his former flings. Understandably, my mom wasn't okay with that. They hurled words like unfaithful and temptation between them. The icy rain pelted the windshield. I didn't intend to upset you. It didn’t mean anything. The tires slipped. Why does it matter? It was in the past. My mother was crying by then. The arguing escalated. Then the car slid. The streetlights glinted through the glass. My parents went silent. I remained quiet. The car spun and then we were weightless before I screamed.

  Crash.

  That was the last thing I remembered aside from my mother saying, "Please don't do it again." He didn't answer. Was there an apology on his lips? Doubtful. I hated him for dying because I'll never know, but the most brutal thing is, I turned out just like him.

  Well, I'm not married and I don't cheat. However, I DO NOT commit. Ixnay on the ommittment-cay. One and done, baby.

  Booty call? Check. Hook up? Check. Call me tomorrow. Nuh uh.

  My mother always called me her baby gazelle—not to be confused with Gisele of supermodel fame—though later we did share the same talent agent for a time. I run from guy to guy to guy, only stopping long enough to be sure we're both satisfied, but never more generous with my time or attention.

  When I started regaining strength after the body cast, and showed promise of regaining mobility, my physical therapist told me, "Walking is falling but catching yourself with every step." If love is anything like walking, well, I'm falling and, um, not catching myself. Not catching myself at all. You see, I have to learn how to love again because I'm also just like my mother, a romantic at heart, but shh don't tell anyone.

  Fortunately, my heart was never broken, not like my best friend Navy. I've been with some lousy guys, but never got close enough to feel the sting of a tough break up. There isn't another tragedy (except when a certain well-known cosmetics company discontinued their bacne treatment spray—the struggle is real, okay!) that marked my teens or early twenties with tubs of ice cream and empty tissue boxes. (Well, a few, but none of them involving my heart.)

  No, I've always kept love out of the game. That,
right there, is my problem. Sex, guys, and all they entail have become a game: how not to fall in love. I'm naturally competitive. I'm a born winner. However, at last, I feel like I might be losing and honestly, only part of me minds. But that other part, she's tough as nails and she will fight me to the death to win. So really, I'm playing with myself. No, not that kind of playing, though I wouldn't object if I were feeling particularly lonely and winsome. No, there's an inner battle between my heart and the chick that's been running the show for the last decade and a half. Fine, three-quarters, but who's counting?

  This is why I avoid love. It just gets too complicated and the truth is, I never want to cry myself to sleep like my mother did on nights when my father was "working late" or away on a business trip. The solution? I keep hearts out of it completely.

  Except now. I smell butter. Sugar. Chocolate.

  God-delicious-damn. He's baking again.

  I walk to the door leading to the hallway. My hand grips the knob. Mew weaves in and out of my legs and begins a rumbling purr. I take a deep breath. Step away from door, Katya. Step away.

  "Want a treat, Mew?" Yes, I talk to my cat. Don't judge because you know you do it too. And what does he sound like when he answers? A cute little Frenchman if you must know. Yes, I do voices for my furbaby.

  There are leftover pastries from the Galentine's Day party on the counter. I don't need his sugar.

  The smell of freshly baking chocolate chip cookies overpowers the fishy, gamey odor of the little kibbles Mew eats out of my hand. I go to the sink, inhaling the lavender soap and scrub.

  If I didn't know better, I'd swear he's pumping my apartment full of chocolate chip cookie fragrance.

  My stomach does a little swoopy, diving thing and not because I'm hungry—I powered down a veggie burger and fries for dinner, thank you very much. I'd fallen asleep on the couch, reading. What can I say, Navy has quite the library in her room.

  But oh! That smell! It's heavenly. Divine. God help me.

  The pastries on the counter look a little past their prime.

  Fine, maybe just one, a cookie for dessert.

  I step into the hall, closing the door behind me. I take another deep breath and steel myself. I will resist the man candy. I will resist the man candy. This is my mantra. I'm a progressive yoga teacher who's all about empowerment. Don't judge.

  I lift my hand and knock delicately. Maybe he won't hear me. The war within rages.

  Heavy footfalls approach.

  It's not too late to go back. I can make it to my door in nine long strides if I sprint. I've counted.

  The door whooshes open.

  He's not wearing a shirt.

  Mayday.

  Mayday.

  For the love of all things holy.

  The smirk slays me on the stoop. Or carpet. Whatever. I grip the doorframe, staring at his knockout abs. His pecs. His strong, toned arms. His eyes flit from my mouth, to my chest—I'm wearing a snug tank that boosts my assets considerably. We're objectifying each other. I graduated with a PhD in feminist theory. It's considered acceptable if it's mutual. Right?

  "I spilled flour on my shirt." His voice is low and sexy.

  Run, Kat, run while you can!

  "Did you come over for a cookie?"

  I make a non-committal noise. Navy would call it the sound of lust. I just want a cookie, I tell you! I swear. It's Navy's grandmother's famous recipe—she used to send them by the dozen in care packages when we were in college, and I've never been the same. (Oh, and let's not get carried away with how Spencer having Navy's grandmother's recipe might be weird—if you can't keep the baked good genealogy straight, that's okay. The thing to know is that they're delicious. And so is Spencer. Navy knows this. I know this. Half the women in Manhattan probably know this. She and I are best friends. They hooked up once and then four times in one night, but she's off gallivanting around romantic Rome with her one true love, so Spencer is fair game. And he's my neighbor—fourteen regular steps from door to door—so there's that.)

  He steps out of the doorway to let me in. My bare arm brushes against his bare arm.

  The cookies will have to wait. I fall into those arms. A bit melodramatic, fine, but he's so damn hot the room is sweltering. Or maybe it's because of the oven or perhaps he just cranks up the heat so I can happen by to admire his gorgeous upper half. And the lower half? Don't get me started. Or do… I don't mind.

  I tug at his jeans, wanting a clear view of the lower half. My tank top peels off with some difficulty. Note to self: next time don't wear the extra snug Lululemon top; it works in class, but is less than ideal when a boob catches in the elastic as I try to elbow my way out of the thing. I don't think he notices because he's kissing the long line of my neck.

  Hands are everywhere. Clothes too. We crash into his bedroom. The bed is still unmade. Was he expecting me back so soon?

  He nips at my chest, working his way down, down, down. We did almost ALL the things earlier. But we missed this. He kisses my bellybutton. It's an outie and as cute as can be. Then he dives deep. Have mercy. I came for a cookie, damnit.

  "All I wanted was a cookie," I whimper. But to be honest, this is better. So much better. I tell my stupid heart to stop thundering in my chest and just enjoy the moment. I need a distraction. Well, another one. I'm all for equal opportunity. I twist myself around so we're, um, face to head... if you get the idea of the position.

  He moans low and guttural and I'm practically purring...

  Chapter 4

  White Sheets

  Afterward, there's cookies and milk. Naked cookies and milk, giving a new meaning to dessert. The lingering aroma of cookies baking contrasts to the stainless steel in the kitchen, the moody grays, and cold angles of Spencer's masculine apartment.

  The whole thing started innocently enough. Spencer was baking cookies one afternoon. I know, what kind of investment banker bakes? The best one in the world, that's who.

  Here's the deal: my best friend Navy had experienced a nearly decade long dry spell. No sex. No intimacy. No kissing. Well, a couple of times, but usually it was my doing. No, not us, though she's gorgeous and bless Carrick, her boyfriend, likely soon to be fiancé if they stay in Rome much longer. I'd just arrange dates; prompt her to meet a guy every now and then. But when we moved in together, I knew I had to do something drastic. The girl was lonely and her idea of a fun night was reading. I mean come on. (Actually, it's in my top five favorite activities now—Alex is my new book boyfriend. If you tell Spencer, assure him he's made of fiction and paper. Wait? Why would I care if Spencer knows about Alex, my book boyfriend? It's not as if he and I are dating. Right?)

  Anyway, I dared Navy to live a little more. A New Year's proposition of sorts. She didn't have to accept. But drunk and yes, perhaps a little lonely, she did. The dare went like this: date the first five guys she saw the following morning and pick one to be her Valentine's Day date.

  Simple right? The first guy she saw was Spencer, our neighbor. Then there was a bum, but I gave her a pass on him—he was leaning heavily on a shopping cart and I didn't want to be responsible if he fell over and crushed her. Navy is tiny. Plus hygiene standards and all that.

  Anyway, then there was the Man-bun-barista, a total fail. A personal trainer aka the Gym Stud from one of the gyms where I teach yoga was next. Omar turned out to be gay so it didn't work out, but we've become good friends, so at least I got that out of the deal. Then there was the Book Boyfriend; he was an absolute toad. Last but certainly not least, there was Carrick. Navy's high school crush, the guy that broke her heart, etcetera, etcetera. After a terrible fight that left my dear Navy blue, they whisked off to Europe on a cloud of mad love. They'll have their happily ever after for sure.

  So, Navy and Spencer went out once, hooked up twice. Okay, five times total, because there was that one night that they had sex four times, but that was because of the cookies! Chocolate is an aphrodisiac, after all.

  Navy prefers to spend her Saturday nights i
n reading, I know boring, right ;-) I'm kidding. I didn't earn my PhD by going out every Saturday night. There was a snowstorm and she'd planned a cozy night in. I was out of town at a yoga retreat soaking in some deep meditation. She started making cookies, ran out of sugar, and did the neighborly thing and knocked on 7G's door—that's Spencer. He lent her some sugar and then when he smelled the cookies baking, popped by for a bite. And sex.

  See? I can't blame him. The cookies are addictive. Shortly after, it became clear that she'd moved on and wasn't interested in him. But what is having a neighbor if you can't borrow a cup of sugar every now and then? I wasn't copying her, I swear. I was legit out of sugar. Mrs. Hess down the hall wasn't home and her tiny dogs are worse than a river of piranhas. The other guy never answers his door. So I asked Spencer. It was an innocent request. Maybe the cookies are magic. I don't flippin' know.

  No, they are. His hand grips my hip. His lips are on mine. "You taste like chocolate," he mumbles.

  "Butter," I say with his lips on mine.

  "Sugar."

  He hikes me onto the counter. I dribble a little milk out of my glass and onto my boob. He licks it off, long and luxuriously like I'm more delicious than anything that's ever passed his lips. My head rests against the cabinet door. My pulse quickens and I have the thought that I could do this every night. With him. What is happening to me?

  His dark eyes meet mine in the low light. No, it's not too soon to have sex again I say with a flutter of my lashes. I love the way Spencer Davis's eyes rest on me—as if I'm the only girl in the room. Well, I am, but this is different. It doesn't feel like he's thinking about someone else or going at it carelessly because he knows this is a onetime deal.