No Sweeter Love (Sweeter in the City Book 3)

by Olivia Miles

  OLIVIA MILES

  ~Rosewood Press~

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Preview Chapter of Sweeter Than Sunshine

  Also By Olivia Miles

  Author Bio

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  The sun was beating through the wide glass doors that opened onto the bustling, tulip-lined sidewalk of Chicago’s famed Michigan Avenue, casting shadows on the plush pale green carpet and catching the perfectly cut diamonds at just the right angle, making them sparkle until they seemed to come alive in their cases. From somewhere in the background, the sounds of piano music subtly filled the room as well-dressed women admired rings and bracelets from arm’s-length perspective and men frowned as they contemplated their purchases. Voices were controlled at just above a whisper, the staff trained in the patient, gentle act of persuasion, the customers all too happy to mull their decisions. It was a pleasing atmosphere, elegant and carefully crafted; a place where wishes were made and dreams came true.

  At least, that’s what they’d told her when she’d interviewed for the position last week.

  Claire Wells smoothed her grey A-line skirt and did her best to relax her face. She didn’t need to look in one of the store’s many silver-framed mirrors to know that the line between her brows had returned, and that if she didn’t find a way to keep it at bay, she’d probably need to invest in some expensive wrinkle-prevention cream with what little remained of her dwindling savings account.

  She was thinking too much. Worrying too much. She was feeling sorry for herself again, really, and she’d promised herself she wouldn’t do that anymore. After all, things were on the up and up. She had a job, even if it was far less interesting than her previous position at the auction house. Still, it was a step in the right direction. Before long she’d be able to get an apartment of her own again, with a proper bed. She smiled at the thought of her cousin’s lumpy couch soon fading into her memory.

  Knowing she needed to keep busy in between customers, Claire took the key from her wrist and unlocked the engagement ring display to straighten a case. She tried not to let her eyes linger too long on a particularly exquisite brilliant-cut solitaire set on a pave band, but it was too late. One glance and that was all it took for that pang to hit, hard and often at random, straight in the center of her chest, bitterly reminding her of everything she’d almost had and somehow lost.

  She locked the display case quickly and stood, squaring her shoulders as she looked out the glass doors onto the busy street where the crowds were starting to thicken as work let out for the day, and shoppers hurried by, clutching their paper bags by the handles, their eyes shielded by sunglasses. Her feet hurt from hours of standing in heels—she hadn’t even dared to take a lunch break. It felt too awkward, too presumptuous this early into her new position. But now her stomach was starting to rumble and her mouth felt a little dry, and her lower back was throbbing from too many nights on that pull-out couch—and her feet! Claire darted her eyes to her boss, an impeccably dressed middle-aged man named Louis, who was busy assisting a white-haired woman with an equally white small fluffy dog tucked into her designer handbag, before reaching a hand down to ease the back of the stiff shoe from her heel. She closed her eyes, sighing in momentary relief, but startled when she heard her name being gently called in a thick, French accent.

  “Claire? Could you assist this gentleman, please?” Louis’s jaw pulsed as his dark eyes held steady. It wasn’t so much a question as a request.

  Claire put on her most pleasant smile as she maneuvered her foot back into the stiff shoe, grimacing against the pain, and swept her eyes over the room to search for her next client, finally setting on the man who was walking in her direction, the smile on his lips fading with each step.

  Claire blinked as the air seemed to stall in her lungs, and she told herself it couldn’t be him—he’d said he’d left—that he had no reason to be back so soon, unless . . .

  The alarm in his eyes matched hers, and she could see the roll of his Adam’s apple as he strode to the counter. For one pathetic moment she thought maybe he’d sought her out, maybe he’d come here to apologize, but then she remembered that this was only her third day on the job, and she hadn’t heard from Matt since he’d broken her heart three months ago.

  More like three months, fourteen days, and oh, about seven hours ago.

  “Well, this is a surprise,” he said tightly.

  Claire raised an eyebrow, looking him square in the eye. “It sure is. I thought you’d moved to California.” They had a lovely apartment picked out, just a short drive from the beach. She’d planned to paint the walls a pale, dusky blue to match the sea. They were going to be so happy. . .Or so she’d thought.

  She tipped her head, determined to maintain a cool façade, even though her heart was beating out of her chest and the air felt thick and warm and she was aware of beads of sweat beginning to collect at her hairline.

  “Change of plans.” He shrugged, giving nothing else away.

  Claire gripped the edge of the counter. “A change of plans?” she repeated, squinting at him. She’d thrown away her life for those plans—quit her fantastic job when she was finally about to get a big promotion, subleased her sunny apartment, sold off her furniture—and he’d had no intention of seeing them through. Not with her. Not at all, it would seem.

  “I decided to stay in Chicago after all.” His grin was a little sheepish, something Claire would have found either endearing or infuriating under other circumstances, but she couldn’t think about that now. All she could think about was the fact that he’d been in town all along, all these months. And he’d never checked in on her. Never called. Never emailed. Never tried to make things right.

  “What made you change your mind?” she asked, swallowing hard. It wasn’t her. That much was obvious.

  Matt crammed his hands into the pockets of his khakis and glanced at the jewelry case, his cheeks turning ruddy. Claire felt her heart sink. Of course, she realized with a start. He’d met someone else. Someone he wanted to be with. Someone worth staying for. He’d made new plans for himself by tossing aside all the ones they’d made together.

  From her periphery she caught Louis frowning at her. She lifted her chin and pulled in a deep breath, but it shook when she released it.

  “Well, what can I do for you?” she managed.

  Matt waited a beat before asking, “Why are you working here?”

  Claire gave him an icy smile. He had no clue. No idea of the pain he had caused her, the damage he’d created. The dreams he’d shattered. “I quit my job to move to San Diego,” she reminded him.

  Tears prickled the back of her eyes and she blinked quickly. This was supposed to be the first week of the rest of her life—at least that’s what her cousin Hailey had said when she blandly accepted the position, her shoulders sinking, before uncorking a chilled bottle of Chardonnay in a vain attempt to celebrate.

  The first week of the rest of her life. Her new life. The one without Matt in it.

  And yet here he was, nevertheless.

  “I just assumed you could get it back . . .” He frowned.

  She managed not to scowl at him, just in case Louis was still watching. “What can I do for you?” she asked again, clearing her throat to signa
l that their personal conversation was over.

  “I’m just here to pick up something. They called and said it would be ready today.”

  Claire nodded. Easy enough. They kept all the orders boxed and labeled on the bottom shelf of the purchasing station. She went to search for it without a word, but her legs shook as she crossed the carpeted floor. There were only three boxes ready for pick-up. She wondered what she might have done had she come across the box earlier. His name was right there on top, clearly typed in a clean serif font on a crisp white label. She blinked at the familiar letters, and then gripped the box in her hands. The sooner she handed it off to him, the sooner he’d be gone again. And then she could get back to her new life. Work on forgetting him again.

  Only something told her it wouldn’t be any easier this time around.

  “Here you are,” she said, sliding the box across the glass counter.

  He reached into his pocket and retrieved his wallet, but she stopped him. They had a strict policy about this type of thing, and she wasn’t about to rush the process just to save her humiliation.

  “Please take a look at the item and make sure it’s to your liking.”

  He hesitated and set his wallet on the counter. It was the wallet she’d given him for Christmas last year, and she felt both touched and confused that he still used it, until she realized he was practical like that, not sentimental. She was the one who had held on, after all. While he was the one who had moved on.

  The wallet was made of fine Italian leather. She’d gone to four different department stores to find just the right one. She had a childish urge to ask for it back.

  Shifting her attention from the memory of their last holiday together, Claire eyed the jewelry box instead. His mother’s birthday was next month; it wasn’t like Matt to be so on top of gift giving, but then what did she know? He was full of secrets, it now seemed.

  The box was their standard small size. Most likely earrings, she decided. It was his mother’s sixtieth, Claire now remembered. They’d talked about coming back to Chicago for the party . . .

  She gritted her teeth, hoping to make a quick, polite comment on his selection and close out this transaction, but her blood felt like it drained from her face when she saw the diamond engagement ring resting primly on its satin pillow.

  For a crazy second she thought this was a setup. Some sweeping romantic gesture where he’d get down on one knee, tell her he’d missed her, that he couldn’t imagine another day without her. That he’d had a change of heart . . .

  But then she remembered that he had had a change of heart. He’d made that clear when he’d broken things off the day the moving trucks arrived to carry what few belongings she hadn’t already sold off to her new life—with him—in California.

  “You’re getting married?” she cried, puncturing the calculated silence of the store.

  From the corner of her eye she spotted Louis’s stern glance, but she didn’t care. Her cheeks were on fire, her chest was pounding, and she felt for a strange moment like she might be sick or fall over.

  “I can explain,” he said warily.

  “We just broke up three months ago!” Now Louis was muttering something to the woman with the poodle, and with a menacing frown, beelining toward her.

  “Is everything okay over here?” he asked, his eyes drifting mildly to Matt.

  “Everything is fine,” Claire said quickly, swallowing hard. She had the panicky feeling she was on the verge of tears.

  Louis leaned forward to admire the ring. “Excellent choice, sir. And congratulations.” He turned to her, his stare cold. “Ms. Wells,” he nodded and brushed past her.

  Claire grabbed the slip of paper that was tucked into the box and walked to the far end of the counter to handle the transaction.

  Matt slid along the glass counter, his voice eager.“Claire. I can explain. You know I was in a serious relationship before I met you, and . . .the truth is that I was still in love with her.”

  Still in love with her? Her vision was starting to go in and out. Claire pushed her fingers to her temples and blinked at the computer screen, not even sure she remembered how to use it.

  “Claire?” Matt’s voice was low, urgent, but her attention was now focused on the screen, on the payment information, and the glaring reality of how much he loved the woman he’d dumped her for. The sum was huge. For some reason this shocked her, even though, somewhere in her rational mind, she knew the value of the items in the store. She remembered the way Matt had balked at the price of the white slip-covered sofa she’d found for their new, West Coast lifestyle.

  “I don’t think there’s anything left for us to discuss,” she said, not meeting his eye. She stared at his hands, the same hands that she had held, interlacing with her fingers. They were both rough and smooth. Warm. Familiar. Now someone else was holding them.

  Finally, he slid his credit card across the counter. She processed the order and placed the receipt and one of their signature heavy, ballpoint pens next to it, silently urging him to sign. The lump in her throat made it impossible to speak. Besides, what was even left to say?

  Matt sighed as he tucked the small box into his pocket. “For what it’s worth, I hope things work out for you, Claire.”

  She pursed her lips together, giving him a cool look. “The way they’ve worked out so well for you?”

  He smiled sadly, and turned from her for the last time. She watched him go until he disappeared into the crowds on the sidewalk. He was wearing the blue pinstripe shirt she’d helped him select last December, at a post-Christmas sale. He probably didn’t remember that. Probably didn’t care.

  But she’d cared. And as the tears sprung to her eyes and a sob sputtered to the surface, she knew with horrible certainty that she still did.

  ***

  Ethan Parker listened patiently as the female voice shouted accusations directly into his ear, the volume rising steadily as emotions charged, and silently pleaded that, unlike the girl he’d disappointed last week, Marla wouldn’t dissolve into tears or show up at his office with a surprise invitation to talk. The guys over in the sports department had had a field day with that one, and the middle-aged receptionist would no longer meet his eye.

  “You know what you are, don’t you?” Marla’s voice hissed through the receiver. Without waiting for a response, she said, “A womanizer.”

  He didn’t quite know what to say to that, or if she even wanted him to say anything at all. If experience had taught him anything, it was that Marla was looking to vent, hoping to have the last word, to hurt him the way he had—unintentionally—hurt her.

  He kept quiet. There was nothing he could say to Marla that would make her feel any better, not unless he wanted to lie to her, and he didn’t lie to women. That was one rule he followed faithfully.

  The call ended with a messy clamor followed by a steady dial tone. Ethan sighed and set the phone back on its cradle. He’d received sixteen emails since Marla had called, and the newest one was from his mother, no doubt wanting to check in again about next weekend’s family wedding.

  He clicked on the email at the bottom of his list instead, hoping to shake the words that continued to echo in his head. A womanizer. It wasn’t the first time he’d been called that, and no doubt it wouldn’t be the last, but it didn’t seem entirely fair, either. He’d made no promises, offered no hope of something lasting or meaningful. He didn’t lead girls on; he always made it clear what he was offering. And that was a bit of fun. Nothing more. Certainly nothing less.

  And yet it so often ended like this. Tears, accusations, ugly scenes.

  He shook his head. He’d been upfront with Marla; this wasn’t his problem. The email from his mother, however . . .now that was a problem.

  He clicked on another email instead, this one from his boss inquiring about the status of his latest article—an inside look at the West Loop’s newest gastropub Ethan had visited last weekend with Marla. The food had been fine, but the eager glint i
n his date’s eye, and the endless mention of her best friend’s upcoming baby shower, had left him with a bad feeling, and he was struggling to give the place justice. Ethan eyed the handwritten notes he’d jotted on the “L” ride into work this morning and shot back a quick reply: “Just needs a final polish.”

  More like a revisit. He’d stop by tomorrow, this time alone, or maybe with a friend from work. Thursdays were the start of the weekend for the local social scene; he’d get another perspective, set the alarm early, and write a quick draft.

  The article wasn’t due until Friday, but Jud knew it wasn’t like Ethan to wait until a deadline to deliver. It was all that suggestive talk about babies and settling down. It was the stress from this damn wedding. This email from his mother. The third since yesterday. He’d have to reply . . .eventually.

  Ethan’s phone pinged and his hand stilled on his computer mouse. More name-calling from Marla? Or perhaps Celeste from last week still hadn’t finished having her say. Or maybe it was his mother, wanting to make sure things went a little smoother on this upcoming visit, wanting to lecture him on discretion and behavior and all those other things he didn’t want to hear at his age.

  He’d have to respond eventually. It was that or skip the wedding entirely, which he’d love nothing more than to do, except that would make him the worst son, brother, and cousin imaginable, and there was already enough talk about him in the small town of Grey Harbor, Wisconsin, where he’d grown up. And now faithfully avoided.

  Bracing himself, he punched in his password and pulled up the screen, grinning when he saw the text from his best friend: Busy tonight?

  He checked his watch. It was half past five. The article wasn’t due for another two days.

  And Claire Wells was one girl he could never say no to. And the one woman in his life he never wanted to avoid.

  Chapter Two

  Claire stepped out of the cab and dashed across the street, her eyes darting in defense all the way to the door of her favorite bar. She and Matt had never come here together, she reminded herself firmly as she followed a couple inside the well-air-conditioned room. She could stop feeling so nervous and jumpy, stop looking for someone who wasn’t there.