One and Only Boxed Set Read online

  One & Only Series

  Only You, Only Him, & Only Love

  Melanie Harlow

  MH Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 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.

  Contents

  Only You

  1. Emme

  2. Nate

  3. Emme

  4. Nate

  5. Emme

  6. Nate

  7. Emme

  8. Nate

  9. Emme

  10. Nate

  11. Emme

  12. Nate

  13. Emme

  14. Nate

  15. Emme

  16. Nate

  17. Emme

  18. Nate

  19. Emme

  20. Nate

  21. Emme

  Three Months Later

  Bonus Epilogue

  Only Him

  1. Maren

  2. Dallas

  3. Maren

  4. Dallas

  5. Maren

  6. Dallas

  7. Maren

  8. Dallas

  9. Maren

  10. Dallas

  11. Dallas

  12. Maren

  13. Dallas

  14. Maren

  15. Dallas

  16. Maren

  17. Dallas

  18. Maren

  19. Dallas

  20. Dallas

  21. Maren

  Three Months Later

  Bonus Epilogue

  Only Love

  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

  Bonus Epilogue

  Note from the Author

  The Cloverleigh Farms Series

  Also by Melanie Harlow

  Never miss a Melanie Harlow thing!

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Only You

  Nate Pearson is ridiculously handsome and wears the hell out of a suit and tie, but I’ve seen the parade of beautiful women leaving his apartment across the hall—a different one every time—and I want no part of it. When it comes to romance, I’m looking for something real, something that will last: the happily ever after.

  As a divorce attorney, he loves to tell me there’s no such thing.

  As a wedding planner, I choose to disagree.

  We disagree on almost everything, in fact. Everything except James Bond. The only time we really get along is when we’re watching 007 flicks together, and I’ll admit—he has rescued me from a disaster or five. So when one of the baton twirlers from his parade leaves a baby girl at his door with a note that says “I’ll come back for her” and he begs me for help, I can’t turn him down.

  But it’s a mistake.

  Because watching him with his daughter, I start to see another side of Nate, a side that has my breath coming faster, my body craving his, my heart longing for him to change his mind about love and tell me there’s a chance for us.

  I don’t want to be just another girl leaving his apartment in the morning.

  I want to be the one he asks to stay.

  You don't find love, it finds you.

  It's got a little bit to do with destiny, fate, and what's written in the stars.

  Anaïs Nin

  One

  Emme

  It is true that I am slightly more prone to disaster than the average person, but even I was surprised by the fire.

  I mean, it’s not like I had a habit of igniting household goods—either on purpose or by accident. And certainly I had other options for destroying that invitation. Flushing it down the toilet, for example. Shredding it in the garbage disposal. Stabbing it repeatedly with an ice pick. All good ideas, and each would have been gratifying in its own way.

  But in the end, I went with fire—and got slightly more than I bargained for in the process, which is often the case with me.

  It happened on a Friday.

  I’d come home from the Devine Events office a little early since I’d worked late at a corporate event the night before. Normally, I only handled weddings and my partner Coco managed corporate events and fundraisers, but she was way pregnant with her fourth child, had three rowdy boys under age six, and was beyond exhausted all the time. I didn’t mind taking on a few extra projects here and there to help her out. Weddings were slow during March in Michigan anyway.

  The funny thing is, it’s actually my last name—Devine—on the business, because my cousin Mia Devine started it like ten years back, then partnered up with Coco, her college roommate, a year or so later. It was Mia who suggested I take her place when she and her husband moved up north to open a winery a few years ago. The timing had been perfect since I was fresh out of grad school with a business degree but didn’t want a job where I’d be stuck at a desk.

  Incidentally, you might think a person slightly prone to disaster would be ill-suited for handling the biggest (and most expensive) day of someone’s life, but somehow misfortune never follows me to work. It’s perfectly content to wait for me at home, however, and that particular afternoon, it practically greeted me at the door.

  I’d picked up my mail in the lobby of my building and was idly sorting through it on the elevator ride up to my 23rd floor loft. There was the usual assortment of bills, coupons, special offers, appeals for donations, and crap addressed to the guy who’d lived in my apartment before me, but there, at the bottom of the pile, was something unexpected—a wedding invitation.

  For a moment, I frowned. Did I know anyone getting married who wasn’t a client? I attended all those weddings automatically and wouldn’t normally have received an official invitation, since I wasn’t technically a guest.

  One glance at the return address and my jaw dropped.

  They wouldn’t.

  They couldn’t have.

  A sweat broke out on my back and my pulse thundered in my head. When the doors opened, I dashed through them and hurried down the hall, my heels catching on the carpet. Once inside my apartment, I slammed the door behind me, dropped my bag and the other pieces of mail to the floor, and tore open the fancy engraved envelope.

  Then I gasped.

  They had. They actually had.

  My blood boiled as I stared in disbelief at the thick ivory card stock in my hand, its elaborate black script requesting the honour of my presence (what a joke) at the marriage of my ex-boyfriend, Richard the Turd, and my former assistant, Lucy the Traitor.

  I’d known they were getting married, of course. Before she’d qui
t working for me “to focus on the wedding,” Lucy was constantly flashing her big diamond and pitiful-yet-smug expression my way. I’d spent months pretending it didn’t bother me that I’d been dumped for my younger, skinnier, prettier assistant.

  Of course I understand.

  You can’t help who you love.

  I’m not angry. I’m happy for you. Really.

  It was all an act, though. Of course I was angry—who wouldn’t be? I’d dated that asshole for almost a year and he’d never once mentioned marriage, yet he’d proposed to Lucy after only a few weeks! And she’d worked for me for two years and had known how I felt about him. I’d wanted to scream, bite their heads off, throw things when they’d told me. But I didn’t want them to know I was hurt, so I summoned my dignity, smiled, and played the role of the Bigger Person as I congratulated them.

  Then I literally became a bigger person, since the whole situation drove me to eat my way through the holidays. I’d probably put on ten pounds between Halloween and New Year’s, and let me tell you, there is nowhere—nowhere—on my five-foot-two frame to hide an extra ten pounds. I’d spent hours in the gym this year trying to take it off, and I loathe the gym.

  It was all their fault.

  I shoved the invite back into the envelope and whipped it across the room like a Frisbee. Then I shrugged off my coat, dug my phone from my bag, and wondered which of my sisters I should call first to rant about this. I decided on my younger sister, Maren, only because our older sister, Stella, was a therapist and might try to analyze my anger rather than indulge it. Maren, a free-spirit who believed that everything happened for a reason and gluten-free pancakes tasted as good as regular pancakes, might not share my outrage either, but she seemed a better bet to start with.

  “Hello?”

  “They invited me,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Lucy and Richard! They sent me a fucking wedding invitation!” I gestured wildly with my free hand.

  She gasped. “They didn’t.”

  “They did.”

  “Why would they do such a thing?” Maren kept her voice low, which meant she was likely still at the yoga studio where she worked.

  “To show off, obviously,” I huffed. “To rub my face in the fact that I am a loser and they are the winners.”

  “Emme, come on. You’re not a loser.”

  I began to pace back and forth in front of the big picture window overlooking downtown Detroit. Normally the view of the city lights coming on at twilight cheered me up, but not today. “Then why can’t I find someone nice? Why do I keep dating assholes who disappoint me? Why don’t my pants fit?”

  She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Listen, can we talk about this later? I would be happy to help you find answers to some of these questions you have about yourself, but I’m at the desk and the studio is getting busy with the after-work crowd. Hey, why don’t you come down and take a class? I think it would be great for you, really help you find some peace and balance.”

  I wrinkled my nose. I didn’t want peace and balance. I wanted wine and cheese. Maybe a cupcake. “I can’t,” I lied. “I have to work tonight.”

  “Okay. Maybe tomorrow?”

  “Maybe. I’ll call you.”

  We hung up, and I stood there fuming for a moment, eyeballing the invitation, which lay on the floor in front of the television. Tossing my phone onto the couch, I picked up the envelope and took it into the kitchen, holding it away from me between my thumb and forefinger like it was a rotting vegetable. Then I set it on the counter while I yanked the cork from a bottle of Merlot I’d opened last night. Since no one was looking, I took a few swills straight from the bottle.

  “Lousy motherfuckers,” I seethed, my nostrils flaring. “No class whatsoever.” After a few more mouthfuls, I set the bottle on the counter and pulled the RSVP card from the envelope. It gave me two choices—I could regretfully decline or accept with pleasure.

  If I were really the bigger person, I thought, I would put an X on the regretfully decline line and simply send the RSVP card back. That’s what Stella would have done, but Stella has way better control of her emotions than I do. It’s easier for her to be a bigger person because she hogged all the sensible, rational genes. I got all the wild, unbalanced ones, which was great for enthusiasm and creativity, but meant my feelings occasionally got the better of me.

  Okay, often got the better of me.

  Better make that usually.

  Maren says this is because I am not centered and lack inner homeostasis (which I think sounds like some sort of infection, so I’m pretty glad I don’t have it). If this had happened to Maren, she might have gotten angry, but then she would have gathered herself with a few deep breaths, repeated some sort of soulful affirmation about letting it go, and tossed the invite into the recycling bin. But while I agreed that the tree deserved a better purpose in its next life, there was no way in hell I could let this go—not without a retaliatory move.

  Lifting the bottle to my lips again, I considered my options. I could show up at their stupid wedding and cause some kind of disturbance, but that would be a little bit public, and I prefer to keep my crazy hidden whenever possible. So that was no good. But maybe I could send the RSVP card back with a little message from me. Like I could cross out regretfully and pencil in a more accurate word, like disgustedly. Or revoltingly. That might be satisfying.

  I set the bottle aside, pulled a thick black Sharpie marker from a drawer, and stuck the cap between my teeth. But instead of merely adding a word, I decided to add my own response.

  There. That was better.

  But it still wasn’t enough.

  Maybe it would have been enough if I hadn’t told him I loved him. If I hadn’t thought he might be the one. If I hadn’t confided all this in Lucy, who’d probably been sleeping with him at the time.

  No, I couldn’t send this back. I didn’t want them to think they had broken me in some way, or shaken my faith in love. They’d shaken my faith in humanity, perhaps, but I still believed in love. I still believed in soul mates. I still wished on stars and blew the fluff off dandelions and read my horoscope every morning, hoping for romance on the horizon.

  I just wasn’t sure I believed in myself.

  I mean, I must be doing something wrong to be single at thirty when I didn’t want to be. And this wedding invitation felt like a kick in the gut, a reminder that I was the butt of the joke, a giant signpost from the universe that said YOU CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS.

  It had to be destroyed.

  It was while I was opening a second bottle of wine, a Firesteed pinot noir, that it came to me—fire.

  Fire was the answer.

  It was symbolic!

  I would burn that invitation, ignite one little corner and watch the flames eat away at their fancy paper and their pretentious words and their choice of chicken or steak. I’d turn their love to ashes, exactly like they’d done to my pride. Then I would truly be over the betrayal, and I’d let it go. I’d move on. I’d rise from the embers like a phoenix, triumphant and strong!

  I put the RSVP card back into the envelope and opened the kitchen drawer again. My hands shook as I pulled out a utility lighter. It ignited with a gratifying click. I picked up the invitation in the other hand, my lower lip caught between my teeth. Then I carefully set it ablaze, my heart racing as the flames crept toward my fingers, much quicker than I’d expected. In fact, the thing was burning so fast that it startled me, and I dropped it.

  This probably would have been okay except for the fact that I had this Easter bunny decoration sitting on my counter that turned out to be highly flammable. It was cute—at least, it had been before I barbecued it—a white rabbit standing on its hind legs with big floppy ears, faux fur, and a straw pack on its back with colored eggs in it that said HOPPY EASTER.

  Before I knew it, there was a raging rabbit inferno right in front of me. I totally panicked, screaming at the top of my lungs and frantically looking around for something
to put out the fire with. The only thing at hand was the bottle of wine, but thankfully I at least had the good sense not to pour that on the flames.

  In hindsight, of course, there were any number of things I could have done. Aimed the faucet nozzle at the blaze and drowned the bunny. Smothered the bunny with the kitchen rug. Recalled that there was a fire extinguisher right below the sink.

  I did none of those things.

  Instead, I stood there freaking out, flailing my arms and continuing to shriek, imagining the headlines: BITTER OLD MAID BURNS DOWN HISTORIC BUILDING IN JEALOUS RAGE. I wondered if I should dial 911 or run into the hall and pull the fire alarm. It seemed like I might save more lives if I got everyone out of the building, so I bolted for the door. I was halfway there when I remembered the lesson from visiting the firehouse in kindergarten—you were supposed to crawl if your house was on fire so you wouldn’t breathe in the smoke! Immediately I dropped to my hands and knees and kept moving.