Love Not at First Sight Read online

  “He won’t be,” says Chloe.

  “You have absolute faith in fate,” I say.

  “Of course I do.”

  “I don’t,” I say. “Fate has a sick sense of humor and Erma is her maniacal handmaiden…”

  I trail off. Jessie shakes her head and Chloe’s eyes go wide.

  “She’s behind me, isn’t she?” I ask.

  “Uh huh,” says Ferran.

  “Hi Miss Erma,” says Jessie.

  Slowly, I turn my head and look up at Erma. This is it. Two weeks of running and she’s finally caught me.

  “Veronica,” says Erma in a scolding voice. “I never imagined you a coward. Running away like that.” She shakes her finger at me.

  My cheeks heat. I’m going to claim it’s the wine making them flush, not embarrassment.

  “I don’t want to know,” I say. “That’s not cowardly. I just don’t want to know.”

  She throws her hands up in the air and her bracelets clack on her wrists. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” she says. “You can’t run away from this. He’s coming.”

  “What?” I ask. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I don’t want this.

  “He’s coming to Romeo and you won’t be able to run away.”

  “Umm, Aunt Erma? Who’s coming?” asks Chloe.

  “Her soul mate, dear.”

  “When?” I ask. Forewarned is forearmed. I can avoid him. I can…

  “Tomorrow,” says Erma.

  “How do you know?” Ferran asks.

  Erma drops the Romeo Record, the town’s weekly paper on the table. “Because it says so right here.”

  On the front page is a picture of the old Reddington Mansion. I scan the article. It’s been sold to a new owner.

  “Who bought it?” asks Jessie.

  Erma pins me with her shrewd gaze and if I could get up and run, I would. But I feel stuck to the chair.

  “Frederick Knight,” she says.

  My stomach bottoms out.

  “Oh no,” Chloe says in a horrified whisper.

  “But…” Jessie says.

  “Jeez,” Ferran says.

  I stare at Erma, shaking my head in denial.

  “Aunt Erma, maybe you’re…wrong?” asks Chloe in a hopeful voice.

  Aunt Erma purses her lips. She’s never wrong. Never, ever, ever wrong. She’s been predicting soul mates for decades and she’s never made a mistake. I stare at Erma and my friends in a daze. The room tilts and my mind must be fuzzy from the wine because I thought she’d said…

  “Did you say Frederick Knight?” I ask.

  Erma smiles and nods. “That’s right, dear.”

  I grab the edge of the table to steady myself.

  “Jeez,” Ferran says again.

  But then, a surge of clarity busts through my mind. Chloe had this misunderstanding too. It could be any Frederick Knight, any Frederick Knight in the whole world, not necessarily…

  Erma lifts her hand and points at the flat screen TV hanging over the bar.

  “That man,” she says.

  Oh. Oh no.

  There’s no misunderstanding.

  Acid burns through my chest and down to my stomach.

  Fate, with her cruel sense of humor, has matched me with Frederick Knight, the most unrepentant, detestable, horrible poster child for players that ever existed.

  “Never,” I say. “I will never, ever fall in love with that man. The King of Players. I loathe him. I’ve never met him and I loathe him. He’s reprehensible.”

  The King of Players. That’s the press’s nickname for billionaire bad boy Frederick Knight. He’s the idol that all players bow down to and worship.

  I watch the TV screen with growing horror. He’s in a hot tub, wearing a panama hat and aviator sunglasses. He’s holding a champagne flute and a bottle of champagne. There are six topless models in the hot tub with him. He laughs as they pour bottles of bubbly over his bronzed skin. One of the models starts to lick his chin as he grins and motions the others over. The clip cuts away.

  I make a desperate sound, like an animal in a trap.

  “Oh no,” says Chloe. “This isn’t good.”

  “Jeez,” Ferran says.

  “Your soul mate is Frederick Knight? The billionaire?” Jessie asks. I can hear the worry in her voice.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I choke out. My voice is thick with tears.

  “Why not?” asks Chloe.

  “Because,” I say. “I will never speak to him. Never meet him. Never have anything to do with that…that…player. I will never love that man.”

  “You can’t fight it,” Chloe says sadly. “Trust me.”

  Quickly, I push back from the table and stand. “Maybe I can’t fight it,” I say. “But I can run.” I take a step back. Erma narrows her eyes on me, but I’m past caring if she thinks I’m a coward or not.

  “I’m taking two weeks off work,” I tell Chloe. We’re partners in an incredibly successful independent greeting card company. She’s the artistic talent and I’m the business brains. “I’m due for a vacation and you can man the ship.”

  “Allllright,” Chloe says uncertainly.

  “I’m going…on a hike. I’m going backcountry camping on the White Pine Trail. I’ll…I’ll… Text me when he leaves, okay?”

  Because a player like Frederick Knight won’t stay long in small-town Romeo. He couldn’t possibly. He’ll get bored, miss his hot tubs and models, and run back to whatever obscene circus he lives in.

  I don’t wait for my friends to confirm. I hightail it out of the bar. A little unsteady, a lot scared. My worst nightmare, this is my worst nightmare coming to life.

  I’m going to go pack my backpack and get myself so lost in the backwoods that fate will never be able to find me. Guaranteed.

  2

  SAM

  There’s an uncomfortable truth that I have to face, I have the whole world at my fingertips and…it means nothing. The terrace of my penthouse overlooking Central Park teems with Clara’s friends. Models she’s done shows with, reality TV stars, producers, sycophants.

  “What are you thinking?” asks Clara. She comes up next to me and sets her wine glass on the stone ledge. I’m in sunglasses and a ball cap, pants and a shirt, overdressed for her spur-of-the-moment party. The rest of the men here are in bathing suits.

  Clara’s in a tiny gold bikini with a see-through string holding the sides and back up. She leans forward and brushes her fingers through my hair. Even though she’s one of the top working runway models and recently lauded as one of the most beautiful people in the world, her touch does nothing for me.

  “I think it’s time for you to go home,” I say.

  “Oh please,” she says. She drags her finger down my chest. “You’re always in the mood for a party. Just last week you threw that impromptu trip to Aspen for me and my friends, and—”

  “Not today.”

  I know how I look and I know how she and the rest of the world perceive me. After twenty years of being a scrawny, pasty, computer-loving nerd I filled out, grew up and in the words of my ex-wife “got hot.” I’m the ugly duckling personified, except I loathe being the swan.

  Clara gives me a heavy-lidded look and smiles.

  I shake my head. “Go home, Clara.”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  I look at her friends. They’ve raided my wine collection and ordered from dozens of restaurants. The porter keeps bringing up bags of food. Some of the women have stripped to dip in the pool or lounge in the hot tub. The sound system blasts an obnoxious techno beat, something you’d hear at fashion week or a euro-style club.

  I rub my forehead.

  “It’s not a good day.”

  “What? Only make a few million today? Did your stock not do as well as you wanted?”

  “Clara, I think it’s time to say goodbye.”

  She draws in a sharp breath, then she pretends to misunderstand. “We only just got here.”
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  I shake my head.

  “But why?” She tilts her head, then drags her finger down my arm. “You’re rich. I’m beautiful. We’re perfect together.”

  She’s right. This is how it’s always been done. If a man is wealthy then his prize is a beautiful woman. If a woman is beautiful her prize is a wealthy man. It works best when both people realize that the only reason they’re together is because of this age-old agreement.

  “You don’t even like me,” I tell her.

  She raises her eyebrows in an expression of surprise. “I do.”

  “Name one thing you like about me.”

  “Your Learjet.”

  I fight back a snort. “What else?”

  “Your house in the Hamptons.”

  I shake my head. “No. Those aren’t me. What do you like about me?”

  She gives me a condescending look. “You’re being ridiculous. I like you. I like the things you have, what we do.” She waves her hand at the party.

  “Like this?” I gesture around the terrace. Most of her friends are skinny dipping in the pool. Someone has ordered a ten-gallon bucket of mint chip ice cream and a few people are body painting each other with it.

  “Exactly like this.”

  I take in the scene. She’s right. For the past five years I’ve lived a life of public dissipation. I’ve become exactly who I set out to be. A jerk. A terrible person.

  “If I told you…” I say in a serious voice.

  “Yes?” asks Clara, leaning closer.

  “…that I actually prefer quiet nights at home. That I like to read science fiction and do sudoku puzzles. That I spend hours taking apart old computers or clocks or cameras and putting them back together. What if I told you that I’m an introvert and I don’t like parties or going clubbing and I don’t like champagne baths or ten-thousand-dollar dinners or…if I told you that I’m actually a…geek. What would you say?”

  Clara watches me with a look of confusion that turns to shock, then finally she starts to laugh. “Oh my gosh. You had me going. So earnest. Did you practice that speech? You are so ridiculous. Jeez. I’m a geek. Yeah right. That’s like saying the Statue of Liberty is a piece of junk. You’re gorgeous, sexy, wealthy…you don’t care about anything, you just want to have a good time. That’s why I like you. We’re two peas in a pod. We could have this kind of fun for the rest of our lives.”

  That’s what I’m afraid of.

  I look at the party, at the waste and the materialism of my life, at the mess of it all. I slip my hand in my pocket and feel the torn edges of the newspaper clipping. It practically burns against my fingers. I don’t have to read it, I know what it says.

  BioTech CEO Garrett Parker and his wife Louisa Parker announce the birth of their daughter, Ella Louisa Parker, at Lenox Hill Hospital, New York, NY.

  I yank my hand from the clipping. I close my eyes and try to block out the ache. Louisa, my ex-wife, and Garrett, my ex-business partner and ex-best-friend, had a daughter.

  Hell.

  They…she…I thought I’d burned away the grief, the hurt, but one little announcement, the birth of an innocent child, has brought back everything.

  If gallons of champagne and wine, parties in Aspen and the Hamptons, trips to Monaco, scores of girlfriends, and a life of waste couldn’t erase this feeling…nothing can.

  “I’ll go,” I say to Clara. “I’m going out.”

  “No, don’t. We’ll have fun. I can send them away. We can enact your fantasy, beauty and the geek.”

  “Clara…” I pause. This needs to be said, and the sooner the better. I can’t drag this out anymore. “We’re done, Clara. Our relationship is over.” For the first time since my divorce, I feel guilt. I dragged this on too long. I typically keep my dating relationships to less than a week, Clara has been with me for nearly three weeks. Too long.

  “I refuse to accept that,” she says. Her mouth sets in a hard line and her chin juts out.

  “We’re done,” I say.

  Her eyes narrow and she realizes that I’m serious. That we’re through.

  “Fine. You’re right,” she says and she shrugs. “I don’t like you. You’re cold, arrogant, closed-off…a grade-A prick. You look like every woman’s fantasy lover and you have more money than Midas, but none of that matters because…because it comes with you. And you are fundamentally unlikeable.”

  I nod. The newspaper clipping burns hot in my pocket. What Clara’s saying…I’ve heard it before. Whether I’ve been a computer-loving awkward teen, a dorky twenty-something, or a billionaire sex symbol, the part that’s me…that bit is never wanted.

  “I’m going out,” I say. “You and your friends will be gone by the time I get back.”

  I walk away. Clara picks up her wine glass and throws her Bordeaux at my back. The lukewarm wine runs through my hair and soaks the back of my shirt.

  “What happened to you?” my sister Evie asks. “You look like crap. Also, why are you covered in wine? Never mind, you’re always covered in alcohol. Here.” She throws a kitchen towel at me and I use it to pat down my hair.

  Evie comes back into the kitchen and tosses a T-shirt to me. It’s one of mine. Evie lives in the apartment we grew up in on East 81st Street near Carl Schurz Park. I live on the West Side, but she likes the comfort of home. The apartment still has the same chintz couches, parquet floor, and white cracked walls that made up my childhood. The tiny galley kitchen forever emits the smell of coffee with lox and bagels and has the weak light of a small brick-wall-facing window. My first computer, an old Linux OS that I built myself, still sits in an honored place on the kitchen wall desk.

  “So, why are you here? Existential crisis? Tired of living a meaningless existence and looking for change?” asks Evie. She’s only a year younger than me and she’s ribbed me since birth. It’s why I love her.

  I drop into a chair at the kitchen table. “You could say that.”

  Evie opens the fridge and pulls out a container. She lifts the lid and reveals handmade linguini and red sauce. “I went to Francesco’s today.”

  The corner of my mouth lifts. “How’d you know I’d be coming ‘round?”

  She knows that I’m a sucker for fresh pasta.

  “I saw the announcement,” she says in a more serious tone.

  The clipping heats in my pocket.

  “You have to stop punishing yourself,” she says.

  “Punishing myself?” I shake my head. “I’ve spent five years throwing parties, dating beautiful women and—”

  “Exactly. You hate that stuff. You’ve been punishing yourself ever since Louisa the Loathsome left you and Garrett the Gross screwed you over.”

  “I don’t hate that stuff.”

  She snorts.

  “Fine. I hate it.” I take a bite of the linguini. “This is really good.”

  Evie rolls her eyes. “You are such an idiot.”

  I take a minute to enjoy sitting in my childhood kitchen, in my old wooden chair, eating my favorite meal. This is the one place in the world where I can be me. My sister, my parents, they are the only people in the world who have seen through the outside to who I am.

  “I miss you,” says Evie.

  “I’m right here.” I take another bite of the pasta.

  She sits down across from me and leans forward. “I mean I miss Sam. My brother. The one that used to build computers with me, and beat me at Trivial Pursuit and read Isaac Asimov.”

  I shake my head, denying what she’s saying. No one liked that version of Sam. Not the kids in school, not the people in the business world, not the media, not my ex-wife.

  “You’re the only one,” I say. Then I remember the feeling I’ve been having lately, and I realize I miss myself too.

  “Louisa and Garrett are two crappy people,” Evie says. “And what they did is unforgivable.”

  Louisa was my college sweetheart and then wife. Garrett was my roommate and best friend then business partner. All the while I was working on my firs
t business, BioTech, Garrett and Louisa were in bed together, literally and figuratively. After we became successful beyond our wildest imaginations Louisa left me for Garrett. She received BioTech in the divorce settlement. What struck hardest, though, was what Louisa said to me after I found out about her cheating. She’d said, “Why would you ever think that I love you? Look at you. A boring computer nerd with zero personality. You’re so naïve. All anyone will ever want you for is your money. You don’t have anything else to recommend you.”

  I learned the lesson that everyone had been trying to teach me since I was a kid. I was bullied for being smart. I was cheated on and left for loving computers and programming. So I embraced it. Entered into relationships with my eyes wide open. I made sure to make it clear to women that I dated them for their looks and they dated me for my money. Nothing more. No emotional connection and no intimacy. Because if I asked them to want me for me, if I believed they wanted me for me, I’d be disappointed. And if I fell in love and thought they loved me too only to find out otherwise…again…I’d be done.

  “It’s in the past,” I say. “I’ve practically forgotten them.”

  Evie stands and grabs a fork from the kitchen cabinet. Then she sits down again and twirls up a forkful of the linguine. With her mouth full of pasta, she says, “Bull crap.”

  I grab another bite. Once Evie starts in on linguini it’s gone in seconds.

  She leans forward and jabs her fork at me. “What you need is to get out of the city, go somewhere where no one knows you. You can be yourself. Start building another business. Make friends. Maybe get a girlfriend who isn’t obsessed with your net worth or your looks. Gag me.”

  I snort. “She’d have to be blind or in a media blackout to not recognize me.”

  “Don’t be big-headed.”

  I hold out my hands and gesture to myself.

  She sighs. “Fine. You’re right. Unfortunately, your playboy alter ego Frederick Knight is a favorite of the news outlets.”

  “I am Frederick Knight,” I say.

  “Dad’s Fred, you’re Sam.”