One and Only Boxed Set

by Melanie Harlow

  “Well, thanks for helping my grandmother out,” I said, feeling mildly disappointed. So much for a fuck fling with the handyman. “I know she appreciates it.”

  “No problem.”

  No eye contact, either.

  Annoyed, I went back into the house, thinking that this was exactly why letting your hormones take the wheel was a terrible idea.

  But I did take one more peek at his ass through the window before dinner.

  Maybe two.

  Grams and I were eating roasted chicken and vegetables at the dining room table when we heard a knock on the front door.

  “That must be Ryan. He’s probably done for the evening.” She touched her mouth with her napkin and rose to her feet. “I’m going to invite him to eat with us.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to object, but I really had no good reason why. I kept silent while Grams went to the front door, wishing Sinatra wasn’t singing so loudly so I could hear what was being said. Glancing at the empty chairs at the table, I wondered if he’d take her up on her invitation.

  A few minutes later, she returned to the dining room alone. I watched her sit down, then looked toward the front door. “He said no?”

  She sighed and picked up her fork. “Yes. He always refuses my invitations. Just like he refuses to let me pay him for the work he does here.”

  “You don’t pay him?” I asked in surprise.

  “Well, I try, of course. But he won’t take my money.”

  I glanced toward the front once more. “He seems a little aloof.”

  Grams tilted her head. “You think so? I think he’s just a bit … reticent. The strong, silent type.”

  “Maybe.”

  “He was a Marine, you know.”

  “Oh?” I picked up my water and sipped.

  “Yes. I heard he was over in Afghanistan.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Well, no,” she admitted, “I heard that at the beauty parlor.”

  I rolled my eyes and set my water glass down.

  “I also heard that his wife left him when he got back.”

  My heart softened a little. “That’s too bad, if it’s true. But you shouldn’t believe everything you hear at the beauty parlor, Grams.”

  “I think he’s lonely, you know?” Grams looked over her shoulder out the window facing what I figured was his house. “It seems so sad to me, his living all by himself in that big old house with no one to talk to.”

  “I don’t think he likes talking.”

  “Maybe he would if the right person was listening.” Grams gave me a meaningful look. “Someone who had experience listening to people who might be struggling with something. I was thinking, maybe you could—”

  “No.” I cut her off before she could say more.

  “But you’re a therapist,” she said brightly.

  “I’m not his therapist.”

  “That’s doesn’t matter, does it? He’s a lonely soul, I can see it in his eyes, Stella. And whatever he’s been through is eating at him from the inside. He needs to talk to someone.”

  “Well, it can’t be me,” I said firmly, although the portrait she painted of the lonely, silent Marine with the beautiful eyes and nice ass was getting to me.

  I thought about him a lot while I cleared the table and helped Grams with the dishes. Was she right? Was he suffering from PTSD or depression? Was he alone in the world with no one to reach out to? Had he been abandoned by family and friends when he most needed a sympathetic ear? I had to admit, I was curious. And moved enough to think maybe Grams was right and I should make another effort to be friendly.

  So when the kitchen was all cleaned up and she handed me a plate of leftovers, suggesting I take it over to him, I said I would.

  “Thank you, dear. I’d take it myself, but my hips are starting to bother me again.”

  Of course they were. “You get off your feet and rest.”

  “I will.” But she stood there looking at me for a moment, like she had more to say.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s just … Are you going to wear that when you go over there?” She gestured at my clothing.

  I pressed my lips into a thin line. “Yes. I am.”

  “Because I was just thinking—”

  I moved around her and headed for the back door. “Go sit down, Grams. I’ll be back shortly.”

  Carrying the plate with both hands, I walked down the back steps, followed the gravel ribbon driveway to the sidewalk, and headed up his front walk. The air had cooled a little and darkness had set in. Crickets chirped their encouragement.

  As I got closer to the front door, I grew a little more nervous. My stomach had butterflies. Impulsively, I tugged the elastic from my ponytail, tucked it into my pocket, and shook out my hair.

  What on earth, Stella? You’re bringing him some dinner, that’s all. Calm down.

  But a moment after I knocked, he came to the door wearing only his jeans.

  No shirt. Wet hair. Bare skin. Rippling abs.

  As he stood there in the open door, my eyes traveled down his body to his bare feet and back up again. I’d never in my entire life seen a body like his. As my humble lady garden began to tingle, I wondered what his royal spade was like.

  Jesus Christ. Stop staring and speak.

  “Yes?” he prompted, eyeing the plate in my hands.

  I forced myself to smile. “Hi. I brought you some muscles. I mean some abs. I mean some chicken!”

  My smile faded and my face was on fire—I wanted to die on the spot.

  But his eyebrows went up, and he cracked a smile. Barely. “Come on in.”

  Six

  Ryan

  I’d just gotten out of the shower and pulled on some pants when I heard the knock. I figured it was Mrs. Gardner with cookies or something, but instead it was the granddaughter. Stella.

  Even her name was beautiful. I thought it meant star, but I wasn’t sure.

  I opened the door a little wider and stepped back to let her in. As she passed me I caught the scent of something feminine and sweet. Was it her perfume? Her hair? Her soap?

  Whatever it was made me wish I hadn’t invited her in. I hadn’t stopped thinking about her since I left her grandmother’s house, and my thoughts weren’t entirely pure. Her photo had been pretty, but in person, she was stunning. Hair like gold. Deep blue eyes. That shy smile. Those legs for days. Even wearing a shirt nearly buttoned up to her chin, she gave my dirty mind enough material to work with without knowing how good she smelled.

  But it was cute how flustered she seemed, as if she’d never seen a naked chest before.

  Plus she’d brought real food.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your evening,” she said, offering me the plate covered with foil. “Grams just thought maybe you might like some dinner.”

  I took it from her, careful not to touch her hands. “Thanks.”

  Our eyes met and something happened in my chest—an extra thump. I looked away.

  “It’s really nice of you to help Grams out so much.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “No, really. She appreciates it. I appreciate it.” She tucked her hands into her back pockets. “I worry about her living alone up here at her age. I feel better knowing someone is nearby who can look in on her.”

  I nodded, kicking myself for asking her in. Now what was I supposed to do with her? I was totally out of practice at talking to women socially. And I was so fucking hungry—I’d smelled whatever it was they were having for dinner while I was working on the porch, and my stomach had begged me to say yes when Mrs. Gardner invited me to eat with them. But I couldn’t.

  “So how long have you been here?” Stella asked, looking around.

  “Since June.”

  She nodded. “Looks like you’re doing some work on the place?”

  Before I could answer, my stomach groaned noisily.

  Her eyes widened as she looked at my middle. “That’s a seriously emp
ty belly.”

  “I’m starving,” I admitted.

  “You should eat,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to keep you. I’ll go.” She moved toward the door and turned around. “Unless you’d like company? You don’t have to eat alone.”

  “I like being alone.”

  She nodded slowly. “Oh. Okay.”

  I watched her push the screen door open and step onto the porch, closing it gently behind her.

  She smiled. “Yours doesn’t squeak.”

  “I oiled the hinges.”

  “Grams’s door sounds kind of like your belly.”

  “I’ve been meaning to oil the hinges for her. I’ll take care of it tomorrow.”

  She nodded, lifted one hand in a wave. “Well, goodnight.”

  “Night.”

  She stood there for a few extra seconds, like there was something more she wanted to say, but in the end she walked away.

  Watching her disappear into the dark, I had the craziest urge to call out and ask her to come back. To sit with me. Talk to me.

  But I knew better than that. A second later, the switch was flipped, and the feeling was gone.

  That night, I had a dream about her. We were on my bike, flying down a country road, which was ridiculous, because Stella did not look like a woman who’d enjoy being on the back of a motorcycle. But in my dream, she was behind me, her thighs pressed against mine, her arms wrapped around my waist, her breasts touching my back. Around us, colors were vibrant and shimmering. I felt alive and free and bursting with adrenaline—not the kind that comes from danger, but the kind that comes from excitement. Her hands started to roam over my crotch, and my cock bulged inside my jeans. Goddamn, it felt good.

  I woke up hot and sweaty, my breathing heavy, my dick rock hard. Fuck. Mindlessly, I took it in my hand, working my fist up and down its length. I imagined it was her hand. She’d reached around and unzipped my jeans while we rode, wrapping her fingers around my cock. She was playful at first, teasing the crown with velvet fingertips, stroking slowly up and down my shaft, moaning softly in my ear. Her voice dripped honey.

  I pulled off the road and into the woods, where we were hidden by evergreens and the thick trunks of maple trees. I turned to face her on the bike. She was naked—even more ridiculous—and I grew harder as my eyes traveled over her creamy vanilla skin and luscious full breasts, their raspberry peaks firm and tempting.

  I claimed her mouth, twisting my hands into her hair as she took my dick in her fist again—tight, quick, fever-inducing strokes. I want you to fuck me, she said. I lifted her onto my lap, and she slid down my cock, taking me deep inside her body.

  She gasped and gripped my shoulders. I dug my fingers into her ass, moving her up and down. I buried my face in her chest. She was hot and wet and tight and she rode me with wild abandon. I never wanted it to end, but I felt myself losing control. Faster and harder and deeper and—

  Fuck, I mouthed as I came all over my stomach, my muscles clenching, my cock pulsing over and over again in my hand.

  Eventually, I got out of bed and cleaned up, but afterward I couldn’t fall back asleep. I lay there for what felt like hours, thinking about all kinds of things—the past, especially. The decisions I’d made that had brought me here to this place and to this point in my life. I’d come up here to start over, in a way. If I’d stayed in Ohio, where I was bound to keep running into my ex or former friends or even family who didn’t understand why I was moody and bitter all the time, I would have fucking lost it. Thank fuck for Mack, who’d understood what I was going through and convinced me to take the job at Cloverleigh. You need a fresh start, he told me. Somewhere nobody knows you. Where they don’t expect you to be anything you’re not.

  And for the most part, that’s exactly what I had up here. I enjoyed the work, it didn’t require talking to many people, and I never had to apologize to anyone for who I was—or wasn’t. I hadn’t made any effort to make friends and had pretty much zero social life, but I hadn’t moved here to be social. I’d moved here to be myself, to be left alone. Friends came with expectations and questions and opinions, and I was so fucking over them all.

  And as for a relationship, hell no. Talk about expectations. Why should I sign up for the opportunity to confuse, anger, and disappoint someone again? Fuck that. Even regular sex wasn’t worth the trouble, although I missed it.

  I thought again about Stella on the back of my bike. Christ. Now it was going to be impossible to think about anything else if I saw her again. It had been a long time since I’d been so attracted to anyone—so quickly too. A gut reaction.

  It was a good thing she didn’t live around here. I liked to think I was a strong-willed man, and I’d learned to shut off my feelings a long time ago, but even I might find it hard to resist a woman like that if we were alone in the dark.

  Especially if she kept bringing me food.

  Emotions were one thing, but hunger—of any kind—was another.

  I’d keep my distance.

  Seven

  Stella

  That night, I had the sweetest dream about Ryan.

  We were walking in a beautiful field of wildflowers on a sunny afternoon, holding hands, a gentle breeze ruffling our hair. Butterflies flitted about, birdsong filled the air, and only a few puffy clouds hung in the sky. Up ahead we noticed a grassy hill, and he tugged on my hand, pulling me to run up it with him. Breathless and laughing, we reached the top and then rolled down the other side like children. We ended up at the foot of the hillside, side by side on our backs.

  Then he rolled over so he lay on top of me, and my heart nearly burst out of my chest. He brushed my hair back from my face. He traced my lips with his finger. He whispered my name.

  I want you to kiss me, I said.

  Then his mouth was on mine and his lips were opening and the stroke of his tongue sent shivers throughout my body. I widened my knees and felt the weight of his hips settle between my thighs, sensed the hard length of his erection through our clothes. My hands touched his face, his neck, his shoulders. They wandered down his chest and around his back. I wanted to pull him closer. I wanted his skin on mine. For once, I wanted to set my body free to move without inhibition, and not simply let sex happen. I wanted him to feel the way I needed him. I wanted to arch and tilt and roll and writhe and beg and moan and plead and whisper and sigh. I wanted us both to let go and lose ourselves to each other.

  I woke up panting, my skin damp beneath my pajamas. Opening my eyes to the darkened room, I was momentarily confused about where I was—my bed was facing the wrong way. Then I remembered I wasn’t in my own room. I was visiting Grams.

  Slowly, the clouds in my head cleared and the dream pieced itself back together. Holy shit. Hot and sweaty, I threw the covers off me and lay there breathing hard. My body was still tingling, my erogenous zones on fire. If I’d been at home, I’d have reached beneath my bed for my LELO. For a moment, I was tempted to finish myself off with my fingers, but decided against it. Not with my grandmother sleeping downstairs—that was just too weird.

  Swinging my feet to the floor, I got out of bed and wandered into the bathroom, where I drank a glass of cold water and then splashed some on my face. When my heart rate returned to normal, I went back to bed.

  But I couldn’t sleep. The dream was too vivid in my head. The hum of arousal still lingered under my skin. I hadn’t been so turned on by a man in years, and it hadn’t even been real—it was all in my mind.

  How utterly unfair.

  The therapist in me wanted to analyze it. Not that I felt dreams were some mystical way the universe delivered messages, but I did believe that they offered insight into the subconscious. So what was my subconscious trying to say?

  Frowning, I tried to dig a little deeper.

  What was so intriguing about him? Was he the anti-Walter? Thick where Walter was thin? Quiet where Walter was verbose? Complicated where Walter was straightforward? Sexy as all get-out where Walter was … not?<
br />
  Was it a plain old physical attraction? Was it his past? Did I simply feel sorry for him and want to help a soul in need? Was it the slight crack in the armor tonight when he’d smiled and invited me in? Not that the visit had lasted very long—he’d looked pretty anxious the whole time I was standing there, and fairly relieved when I said I would go. But did he really want to be alone, or was it a mask he wore to protect himself? What had he been through that would make him retreat into himself that way? What stories could he tell me?

  Okay, enough. Stop thinking and go to sleep. He’s not your client and he doesn’t need you poking around in his head.

  There it was—the familiar voice of reason. It comforted me. So I’d had a sexy dream about him, big deal. It wasn’t real, and it meant nothing.

  Nothing except that my subconscious wanted to fuck his.

  Deep and long and hard.

  The following morning, I got out of bed early and went for a run. The sun had barely come up, and Grams wasn’t even out of her room yet. I tied my shoelaces sitting on the front porch steps and took off at an easy warm-up pace down the road. When I passed Ryan’s house, I had to make an effort not to stare in the windows. He was a runner, too, Grams had said. Maybe I’d see him out for his morning jog.

  But I returned about an hour later, having seen almost no one on the empty roads. Upstairs, I took a shower and got dressed, thinking I’d offer to take Grams out for breakfast. She was up and about when I came back down, and she loved the idea of going to town together.

  We had breakfast at her favorite diner, lingered over cups of coffee, then strolled around downtown Hadley Harbor, ducking in and out of shops that were just opening up for the day. Grams knew almost every shopkeeper and customer, and she loved introducing me to people. Many of them told me how beloved my grandmother was in town, how generous she was, how much spunk she still had at ninety-two. Several mentioned how much they’d loved my grandfather, who’d been the local dentist, and how they still missed his terrible jokes and the way he could whistle any tune they named. It struck me how lucky my grandparents had been to find each other in Detroit in the first place and to live so happily together for so many years in this small town.