Only Love Read online

  Only Love

  Melanie Harlow

  MH Publishing LLC

  Copyright © 2018 by Melanie Harlow

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For my grandparents. I miss you.

  When we numb the darkness,

  we numb the light.

  Brené Brown

  Contents

  1. Stella

  2. Stella

  3. Grams

  4. Ryan

  5. Stella

  6. Ryan

  7. Stella

  8. Grams

  9. Stella

  10. Ryan

  11. Stella

  12. Ryan

  13. Grams

  14. Stella

  15. Ryan

  16. Stella

  17. Ryan

  18. Stella

  19. Ryan

  20. Stella

  21. Ryan

  22. Stella

  23. Grams

  24. Ryan

  25. Stella

  26. Ryan

  27. Stella

  28. Ryan

  29. Stella

  30. Ryan

  31. Grams

  32. Stella

  33. Ryan

  34. Grams

  35. Ryan

  36. Grams

  37. Ryan

  38. Stella

  39. Ryan

  40. Stella

  41. Epilogue

  42. Grams

  Only Love Bonus Epilogue

  Note from the Author

  Coming in 2019 from Melanie Harlow … a brand new series you won’t want to miss!

  Never miss a Melanie Harlow thing!

  Also by Melanie Harlow

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  One

  Stella

  Worst. Birthday. Ever.

  (But I didn’t know that yet.)

  I arrived at the restaurant a little early. This was a big night—potentially the biggest night of my life—and not just because I was turning thirty-three. If my intuition was correct, there was a good chance I’d be walking out of there with a ring on my finger.

  Nothing too flashy or ostentatious, of course. That wasn’t me. Something tasteful. Something classic. Something that said I am a woman with a family in my future.

  That’s all I wanted.

  “Hi, Stella,” greeted the usual Saturday night hostess with a smile. “Dining alone tonight?”

  I smiled back. “No, Walter is coming from the other side of town. I’m a little early.”

  “No problem. Would you like to be seated?

  “Yes, thanks.” I followed her to a table set for two in a dark, cozy corner opposite the bar.

  I sat down, and when the server came by, I ordered a glass of pinot noir. While I waited for it, I tried to relax but found myself nervous and fidgety. Out of habit, I started looking around the room, making up stories about the people I saw. I’ve always been kind of obsessed with what’s going on inside people’s heads—probably why I became a therapist—and I love trying to read body language and facial expressions.

  That redhead at the bar with her back to me, the one with the nervous ankle twitch and pretty black dress? She’s secretly in love with the bartender, a handsome playboy with a crooked smile and a thousand notches on his bedpost. He’s got a crushing fear of intimacy because of his parents’ divorce, but all he really needs is someone to show him unconditional love. She’s dying for him to notice her, but also terrified of rejection because her last boyfriend broke her heart.

  My wine arrived, and I took a sip, happy with the way my secret story was unfolding.

  My other obsession? Books.

  As a kid, I was too tall for my age, awkward around boys, and nervous about breaking rules, bones, and crosswalk regulations. (As the oldest child, I liked to think I was merely setting a good example for my two younger sisters when I chose to tell the truth about the missing cookies, go around instead of hopping the fence, and wait for the signal to turn green before carefully riding my bike across the street, helmet securely fastened.)

  But books—books were amazing!

  I could visit the pyramids, catch the thief, solve the mystery, go back in time and fall in love with a duke who’s pretending to be a peasant and let him plant his royal spade in the fertile soil of my humble lady garden all in the comfort of my own home. I didn’t even have to break curfew, let alone allow the dashing duke to see my gangly body without any clothes on.

  After a little more wine, I returned to the drama at the bar.

  Fear of Rejection has decided tonight’s the night. She’s wearing her new black lace underwear beneath that dress, and it’s making her feel sexy and confident. Fear of Intimacy has made eye contact and smiled three times already. The next time he comes by, she’s going to—

  My story was interrupted by the buzz of my phone. It was my sister Emme. I’d made the mistake of mentioning to her I thought Walter might pop the question tonight, so she was probably calling to check in.

  “Hello?”

  “Did he propose yet?”

  “No,” I whispered, glancing around as if someone might have heard her. “He’s not even here yet. Our reservation isn’t until eight.”

  “Eight! It’s barely seven-thirty. Why are you there so early?”

  “I don’t know.” I peeked over at the bar. Fear of Intimacy was leaning forward on his elbows in front of Fear of Rejection, who was twirling a long, wavy strand of her hair. So far, so good.

  “Are you nervous?” Emme asked.

  “A little,” I admitted. “But like I said, I’m not positive he’s going to propose. It’s just a hunch because it’s my birthday, and he’s been acting a little weird lately.”

  She snorted. “Weird for Buzz is relative.”

  My sisters’ nickname for Walter stemmed from his intense fascination with bees. Admittedly, it wasn’t a passion we shared, but we had other things in common—he was a psych professor and I was a therapist, and we both enjoyed running marathons, eating at nice restaurants, visiting museums. I tolerated his endless concern for the sharp decline in managed honeybee colonies (also called Colony Collapse Disorder, if you were wondering) and he didn’t seem bothered by the fact that I wasn’t very physically affectionate. We were a good match.

  “If you called to insult my future fiancé, I’m hanging up.”

  Emme gasped. “You said fiancé! You really do think this is happening!”

  I took another sip of wine as my nerves jangled like a pocketful of coins. “Kind of. I mean, something is definitely up with him.”

  “Glad to hear it. I didn’t think Buzz ever got it up.”

  “Goodbye, Emme.”

  “Kidding, kidding,” she said. “I know, ‘different relationships work for different reasons.’ I don’t need the lecture again.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I have it memorized.” She cleared her throat and parroted my voice. “Sex isn’t everything. It’s not love or intimacy or even going to last.”

  I had to smile at the perfect imitation. “Exactly. Trust me, Emme, after years of counseling couples, I truly believe that the most enduring relationships are those built on more than physical attraction. It has to start with your head and lead to your heart.”

  But over at the bar, Fear of Rejection’s legs were crossed seductively and one high heel was dangling from her toes. Too bad that bartender couldn’t see it.

  “But what about your body?” Emme pressed. “What about desire?”

  I fin
ished my wine and straightened up in my chair. “Desire, while thrilling, is unstable, unpredictable, and uncontrollable—a leftover biological impulse from our caveman days to remind us to propagate the species.”

  “Jesus. Only you could make sex sound so unsexy. Are we even related?”

  “Sometimes I wonder.” Although my sisters and I all had our mother’s blond hair and blue eyes and our dad’s cleft chin, we had very different personalities. I was the shy, analytical bookworm; Emme was the heart-on-her-sleeve romantic; and our youngest sister Maren was the soulful flower child. It was amazing we got along as well as we did.

  “Maybe you’ve never had good sex,” Emme suggested.

  “I’ve had good sex,” I snapped, a little too loudly judging from the looks I got from surrounding tables. I lowered my voice. “I just don’t think it’s the most important indicator of compatibility.”

  The truth was, I had my best sex with the trusty LELO rabbit I kept locked in a box beneath my bed (LELO and I were very compatible). I found it too hard to relax with a man. I had difficulty getting out of my head and letting myself enjoy it.

  In fact, I’d never had an orgasm during sex—I’d never even faked one.

  But I didn’t want to get into that with Emme, who had zero sexual insecurities whatsoever. “Look, I have to go. I don’t want to be on the phone with you when he gets here, especially talking about this.”

  “Fair enough,” she said. “Enjoy your birthday dinner, and call me as soon as you can. Are we still on for brunch in the morning at Mimi’s? I have your birthday present.”

  “Sure.” Every Sunday for the last couple years, my sisters and I had brunch together. Maren had moved to Portland with her fiancé in August, but Emme and I had kept up the tradition.

  “Good. I need help with the seating chart for the reception.”

  I suppressed a groan. Emme was three months pregnant and getting married next month, and lately our brunches had been totally consumed with wedding and baby stuff. Since she was a wedding planner herself, she was obsessive about the details. But working on the seating chart was preferable to arguing about the importance of sex. And maybe I’d have something romantic to celebrate too, for once. “No problem. See you at ten.”

  We hung up and I checked the time—quarter to eight. I took a deep breath. I ordered more wine. I glanced at the bar. Fear of Rejection was laughing out loud and tossing her hair now. The cute bartender was transfixed. For someone who’d seemed so shy, she was actually a pretty good flirt—much better than me.

  But then, who wasn’t?

  While I drank my second glass of wine, I paid close attention to the redhead’s body language. Maybe I’d try the hair toss later. It wouldn’t kill me to be a little more feminine, a little more flirty. Maybe if I acted more sensual around Walter, I’d feel more sensual. Maybe I’d even want to get a little closer to him.

  I mean, was he God’s gift to women? No, but I wasn’t a perfect 10 either. And he was educated and successful and kind. He respected me. He’d be a good father and a supportive husband. So what if he was a little uptight and unexciting? He was a smart, safe choice. Perfect for me.

  And I was a good choice too, wasn’t I? I had a graduate degree and a good reputation in my field. I was independent and never clingy. I listened to his endless bee stories. He was thirty-six already. Both of us had talked about wanting a family, so wasn’t this the next step?

  Kids mean sex, Stella. Are you ready for that?

  I glanced down at my blouse and spontaneously undid the top two buttons. It made me feel a little exhilarated, a little naughty. I crossed my legs and let one nude high heel dangle from my toes. I ordered a third glass of wine.

  I was nearly done with it and enjoying a pretty good buzz when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Stella, I’m sorry I’m late.” Walter sat down across from me. “I got held up in traffic.”

  “That’s okay.” I smiled and tossed my hair, thinking that Walter looked a little different tonight. Something about the way his tie was a bit loose, his hair a little mussed, like someone’s fingers had run through it. I’d always thought he was handsome in a clean-cut, Ivy League glee club sort of way, but tonight he actually looked kind of—dare I say it—sexy.

  But also nervous. That was a good sign, right?

  He cleared his throat. “So I want to talk to you about something, Stella, and I’d planned to do it after your birthday, but I’ve never been good at putting things off.”

  My pulse picked up. This was it. I tipped back the rest of my wine and tried to sound sultry. “We can talk now if you want. I don’t like putting things off either.”

  We were made for each other!

  “Okay. Good. See, the thing is …” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “There’s, uh, something I’ve been thinking about for a while now, and it might come as a shock to you, but—”

  “Yes!” I burst out. I mean, he was clearly struggling for words, and it wasn’t necessary. I didn’t need the big romantic speech. Why not put him out of his misery?

  Except now he was staring at me sort of strangely. “Yes?”

  “Yes.” I smiled. Tossed my hair again.

  His eyes flicked to the right and back to me. “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

  Walter’s eyes widened and he started to cough. He picked up his water glass and chugged from it while I tried to ignore the alarm bell in my head.

  “M-marry me?” he stuttered as he set the glass down.

  “Well, yes. Isn’t that what you were trying to ask me?”

  He blinked. “No. I was trying to break up with you.”

  The shoe I’d been dangling fell off my foot. The room tipped. “What?”

  “Stella, I—”

  “Break up with me?” I froze as the room continued to tilt. This couldn’t be happening.

  “Yes. You see …” His eyes dropped to the table. “I’ve met someone else.”

  Oh, God.

  Oh, no.

  My vision clouded, and I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, surely there would be a classic, tasteful diamond in a little box on the table and our server would be pouring champagne as the room applauded.

  Didn’t happen.

  No ring, no bubbly, no applause.

  Just Walter looking guilty and uncomfortable. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but—”

  “How long?” I asked, humiliation drenching me like a tsunami. No wonder he’s been acting secretive and strange lately. “How long have you been seeing her?”

  “It’s only really been the last few weeks. She’s a new associate professor in the social sciences department, and her office is down the hall from mine.”

  A new professor. It was mid-October, which meant he’d probably met her two months ago when the semester started. “I see.”

  Walter reached across the table and covered my hand with his. “Believe me, I didn’t want this to happen, and I never expected it to. I’ve really enjoyed our time together, Stella.”

  “I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming.”

  Walter colored slightly and he let go of my hand. “But I want more. And I think you do, too. Don’t you?”

  “What I want is for someone to respect me enough to be honest with me. There’s something you’re not saying. I can see it in your face. More what, Walter?”

  “All right.” He looked me in the eye. “I want a physical relationship. Sex.”

  My face burned. “You said we could take things slow in that department.”

  “Stella, it’s been over a year.”

  “Some things take time to develop.”

  “I know. And I was willing to wait and see if we developed that kind of chemistry, but we never did. When I met Esther, I felt a powerful attraction immediately. She just … does something to me.”

  “Oh, my God.” Humiliated, I buttoned up my blouse and fumbled around beneath the table for my shoe. I knew
exactly where this was going. “It’s my fault, right? I’m cold. Unresponsive. Not sexy enough. Go ahead, you can say it.”

  “I’m not here to assign blame, Stella. Things between us are simply stagnant. Boring. Beige.”

  I couldn’t believe this. I’d spent countless hours listening to him talk about pollinators in peril. He was bored?

  And where the fuck was my shoe?

  Shoving my chair back, I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled beneath the table, mortified and hurt and praying my skirt hadn’t ridden up high enough to reveal my underwear, which was, of course, boring and beige. When I finally located my pump, I grabbed it and stood up. The shoe was beige too, which made me so mad I felt like throwing it at Walter’s head.

  I happened to like beige! It was a classic, understated color and I was a classic, understated person, godammit!

  “I’m sorry,” Walter said lamely, rising to his feet.

  “For God’s sake, stop apologizing.” I tried to slip my heel on, but had trouble balancing on one leg. Fuck, why had I drunk all that wine? I hiccuped and hopped around awkwardly on one foot, positive that every eye in the place was on me, until finally, Walter, ever the gentleman, reached for my elbow. Rather than let him help me, I shook him off and shoved the shoe in my bag. “Goodbye, Walter. I hope you and Esther will be very happy together and have lots of red-hot sex. I am taking my beige ass home.” Hiccup.