Page 3 of The Love Thief

The next morning at 7:08 A.M. , my phone was shimmying on the bedside table. Not ready to wake up, I nearly ignored it until curiosity got the best of me and I found a text: “Good morning, Holly, this is Barry. Ready for a walk on the beach?”

Jolting upright, I nearly dropped my phone onto the bedcovers. I had indeed agreed to get together with him. But so soon?

I texted him back. “How did you get my number?”

Within twenty seconds, he responded. “My mother kindly provided it. Normally I am not this forward, so I apologize for the short notice, but I have an opening in my schedule and couldn’t resist the chance to see you.”

Pausing a moment, I typed back, “You’re in luck! I have an opening in my schedule as well.”

I had to smile at the irony. His witchy mother had facilitated her son meeting with the kitchen help without her even knowing it! I shook my head from side to side.

No, I am more than that , I said to myself in the mirror.

Something tells me Barry sees that, too. My phone vibrated in my hand.

“Meet me at 9 A.M. at the pier? How do you like your coffee?”

“Okay, and I’d love an almond milk latte. No sugar. Ciao.”

There was so much adrenaline pumping through my system that drinking coffee seemed redundant, but I slid out of bed and headed to make a big mug of hazelnut brew.

I started thinking about what to wear for a walk on the beach with a handsome stranger who didn’t seem strange at all. In fact, he seemed perfectly wonderful.

Handsome. Hmm. Strong jawline, lightly tanned. I noticed the slight crow’s feet around his eyes that gave him a permanent look of joviality. His thick dark hair suggested an air of prowess and strength. I imagined his height would cast a protective shadow over me in the sunlight.

I rummaged my closet to find something appropriate for a morning jaunt along the shore.

My normal beach-walking attire included my faded, shredded, oldest pair of yoga pants, my high school boyfriend’s football jersey (also old, stained, torn, and worn), a floppy hat, and a big slathering of SPF to protect my face.

Fortunately, my hair still looked pretty decent from the blowout I had gotten two days ago, so I figured some makeup, a favorite wide-brim hat, and my light blue lululemon top and bottoms from Mom for my birthday would be cute and casual.

Heading down to the pier, I recognized his silhouette against the shimmering water.

As I drew closer, my breath shallowed. Aviator sunglasses, a clean white polo shirt, khaki pants, and boating shoes matched the scenery perfectly.

I found myself fantasizing about running my fingers through his thick dark hair.

As he approached me, his smile revealed those perfectly white teeth and two dimples, one on each side.

“Holly,” he whispered as he drew me close.

I hadn’t really noticed his smooth skin and high cheekbones until this very moment. How broad his shoulders were! He definitely worked out. I could feel my knees buckle ever so slightly. It was the first time we’d been this close to one another. My insides tingled.

Holly! I warned myself. Don’t act so eager.

I smiled shyly, looking up at the towering man before me.

“You look stunning,” he said with a playful growl, his green eyes scanning me from my floppy hat to my thighs. “Do you do yoga?” His gaze rested on my buttocks for what felt like an eternity. Oh my. A rush of pleasure coursed down my spine and a smile lit up my face.

“I . . . I . . . I . . .”

How could a person be so disarming? I asked myself. I couldn’t answer before he offered me a warm smile.

We walked and talked for hours. He showed me dozens of photos of his twin girls, Tiffany and Lily, presenting himself as a Proud Papa, a Father of the Year.

He reveled in their academic accomplishments, their athletic awards, and their dutiful service work for the underprivileged.

He made time to attend their events, cook for them, and support their dreams. They would soon be leaving for college.

I felt a twang of jealousy. He was living the life I’d always dreamed of. The girls had lived with him most of the time, and their mother, his ex-wife, was apparently an “unfortunate basket case who regularly makes bad decisions.”

As we walked along the sun-drenched beach, he held my hand, and it seemed like a million-watt glowing orb of light was emanating from the center of my being.

I had never felt so seen, heard, understood or at “home” with a man.

Ever. He seemed genuinely interested in my goals and dreams and asked me unusual questions, including, “What’s your superpower? ”

“I have super facial recognition abilities,” I said. “I can see a face once, for just a second, and never forget it. Sometimes it scares people because I will run into someone from my childhood and now, years and many pounds later, I recognize them despite a lot of outward changes.”

He offered no response so I quickly pivoted the conversation back to him. I asked him what he would claim as his superpower.

“Well, forgive me if this sounds arrogant, but I am a master strategist and I always win.” He gave a nervous laugh. “I can always figure out a way to make things go my way.”

“Does that include conjuring up winning lottery numbers?” I asked him with a tinge of snark.

“Oh, Holly, look where I am right now! If this isn’t winning the lottery, walking on a beach in paradise with a smart, beautiful woman, then what is?” he asked as he put his arm around me and pulled me in close.

He was wearing the same cologne from last night.

Its fragrance drove me to the edge as it overpowered my senses.

I was on the verge of swooning. I shared with him my lifelong vision of being a mother and a wife, including vignettes of summers rowing on a lake and winters skiing in Tahoe.

I also confessed that one of my nicknames was “Queen of TMI.” He listened intently and then said, “You’ve just described my dream life.

” He proceeded to tell me he wanted to have more children, too.

An electric jolt ran through my body, as if we were speaking directly to my ovaries.

Barry continued, “I admire you for knowing that family is more important to you than becoming a celebrity chef on the Food Channel and I can’t wait to have you spoil me with your incredible culinary skills. ”

He then embraced me and whispered in my ear, “I think I’ve been looking for you my entire life.”

Oh my God. Was this actually happening? Could it be that I had finally found a mature man who wanted what I wanted?

Before I could luxuriate in this possibility, he asked me that most dreaded question.

“Holly, why are you still single? You should have been scooped up long ago.”

There was no good answer to that question.

Raised by a single, baby-boomer mother with hippie leanings, I had a perfectly happy, seemingly normal childhood.

I never knew my father. All Mom would tell me was that I was the result of a one-night stand where the only conscious thing she did was swallow a quaalude.

Even if I wanted to find my dad, she didn’t know his last name, but she did recall that he had worn a wedding ring.

My friends often suggested I should take a DNA test and search for my biological father. I always shrugged it off, saying it was no big deal that I didn’t know him.

Well, that was a lie. The truth was I knew he was married at the time. Shit, he may still be married, and I wouldn’t want to throw a monkey wrench into his family life.

Okay, that was a half-truth.

The bigger truth was my fear of rejection. What if he slammed the door in my face? What if he couldn’t care less about me? What if he didn’t even know I existed? No, no. It was better this way—not knowing.

At this point in my life, I was grateful to have been raised by a loving mom, maternal grandparents, and my mom’s boss, Auntie Geeta, plus an assortment of aunts, uncles, and cousins.

I wasn’t sure I needed to risk being rejected by someone who didn’t realize he had a daughter from a one-night stand.

Being single at nearly thirty-eight was one of the biggest pain points in my life.

I knew I was attractive enough, I was fun, I had an active social life, a lot of interests, and a variety of dates.

And yet, real love seemed to evade me. As a lifelong “planner” who had every other aspect of my life under control, I was way behind schedule.

Mom would tell you that I was a typical Virgo: a perfectionist, traditional, systematic, dependable, and responsible, albeit given to wild romantic fantasies due to my Pisces moon and Libra rising.

Mom was a New Age type who loved all things mystical and magical—she’d watched the movie The Secret a zillion times.

I was not exactly an atheist, but I was not sure I believed in God, Goddess, the Universe, or whatever.

I believed in hard work, detailed planning, and, maybe, four-leaf clovers.

While I didn’t necessarily believe in fate or destiny or karma, I had always believed I was meant to be a mother.

And, not just any mother, but the “fun mom.” The mom all the other kids wish they had.

A stay-at-home mom who would bake cookies and let all the neighborhood kids invade every inch of the house and yard.

Unlike my mom, who was loving and sweet but had always worked a very demanding full-time job as a paralegal and had never baked me cookies, I planned to be my kids’ everything . Yes, I would readily admit that.

My future had become crystal clear to me on my seventh birthday.

My grandparents had come to our apartment while I had been sleeping and set up a surprise for me in the spare bedroom.

Gramps had built me a big, multi-level, three-bedroom dream dollhouse, complete with Barbie and Ken and basic furniture.

Over the years I added carpet, artwork, needlepoint pillows, and more.

My mother’s contribution to the dollhouse was to show me how to feng shui it, which included putting miniature dream catchers over the beds in the kids’ rooms and telling me that at the right time we would put a sacred romance altar in the “love corner” of the house.

I wondered now if that would have saved me from my predicament of still being single at nearly forty.

Nearly every day, I played with my fantasy family and made up stories about their life together and the kids I would have and the things we would do as a big happy family.

While my girlfriends were dreaming of big careers in law or medicine or finance, I was never that ambitious, nor was I a particularly good student. I managed to maintain a solid “C” in high school and somehow even got into a decent college.

My plan was simple: score a degree and work for a few years before marrying by twenty-eight or twenty-nine at the latest, and then having at least three kids before age thirty-six.

My husband would be a professional who loved his work but also made time for the family and would revel in my supermom capabilities.

And of course, we would have an electrifying sex life!

My beach walk with Barry never really ended. From that first morning walk, things accelerated faster than a Formula One Ferrari at Monza. We became inseparable and, when we weren’t together, we were on the phone as if we had lifetimes to catch up on.

Three days after the beach walk, Barry called to ask me a question that would alter the course of my life.

“Hey, Holly, ever been to Budapest?”

“Not lately,” I said as I quickly tried to figure out where in the world Budapest was.

“I’m going next week for a quick five days on my annual art-collecting trip. Wanna come? You’ll love it, it’s one of the most beautiful and romantic cities in Europe, and it will give me a chance to spoil you,” he said in a husky, sexy voice.

My entire body vibrated at the thought of taking a flight with him to a place I had never been before.

“Give me a sec to check my calendar.” I stalled as I felt butterflies swirling in my stomach. Even though the gala had been a huge success, Carly and I had yet to book our next event, so technically my calendar was wide open.

“Well, it appears the timing is perfect. I would love to go,” I said, trying to sound a whole lot cooler than I felt.

Little did I know how fatal my agreeing to accompany him would be.