No Sweeter Love (Sweeter in the City Book 3)

by Olivia Miles

  He glanced at her sidelong as she climbed onto her bike seat and pulled her hair up into a ponytail. Who was he kidding? He might lose her anyway. And that . . .well, that was scary.

  ***

  The rehearsal dinner was held at an Italian restaurant in town. Claire noticed that it was a much smaller event than last night’s lakeside soiree, and there wouldn’t be much chance of breaking away early, unless they wanted everyone to notice their absence and comment on it later.

  Since the meal had ended twenty minutes ago, she’d been locked in a conversation with the bride’s sister, who was wondering how she might get the attention of one of the more attractive waiters.

  “Why don’t you just go up to him and say hello?” Claire finally asked, even though she would never be capable of something so daring herself.

  Beatrice blanched. “Oh, no. No. I need to find a way to make him come to me, you see. I’m old-fashioned that way.”

  Claire understood. It had never sat right with her that she’d technically spoken to Matt first. He’d been sitting in a crowded coffee shop, reading a newspaper, and she was desperate for a place to sit. She had the choice of asking to share with the safe, nice-looking, elderly woman near the window, or Matt.

  Sometimes she wondered how different her path might have been had she chosen not to take a risk that day, not to do something bold and slightly out of character. Careful Claire wouldn’t have ended up broken hearted and alone.

  “Maybe you could accidentally bump into him,” she suggested, and Beatrice chewed her lip in thought.

  “What are you ladies canoodling about?” Ethan asked, handing them each a fresh glass of wine. He casually wrapped his hand around Claire’s waist, and she felt her breath catch for a moment until she remembered. Girlfriend. Of course.

  “Your cousin is trying to get the attention of that waiter over there,” Claire whispered, using her eyes to indicate the man in question.

  “Tell me, Ethan, what does it take? What makes you approach a woman?” Beatrice tipped her head, and then remembering Claire was there, turned a little pink in the cheeks. “I mean, it’s just . . . Well, Ethan is very lucky with the ladies.” She gave an apologetic smile.

  Claire waved away her concern. “Oh, I know. I know everything there is to know about this man. Isn’t that right, honey?” She craned her neck, looking up to give him a knowing smile, but he seemed thoughtful rather than amused.

  “I can still remember the first time I saw Claire. We met playing tennis. She showed up in this little white tennis skirt with her blond ponytail swinging, and everyone else was wearing T-shirts and shorts, and I just remember thinking, I have got to talk to this girl. She played terribly,” he said, grinning at her devilishly. “Can’t serve to save her life. Still can’t. But the way she ran for that ball . . .” He closed his eyes and shook his head, his mouth curving into a slow grin. “It was the worst set I’ve ever played, and I didn’t even care. After, a bunch of us went out for drinks. I couldn’t even tell you who else was there. Claire and I talked for four hours, and at the end of the night . . .Well, I just knew that life would never be the same again, and that I had met someone very special.”

  Without her noticing, a crowd had gathered to listen to the story, and as he leaned over to peck a kiss on her cheek, Claire heard a collective sigh go up in the group. Claire swallowed, feeling shaky and out of sorts; her head was spinning.

  It was true. Every word of it was true. They had met playing tennis, something arranged by Hailey who was friends with someone at Ethan’s work. And she had worn a white tennis skirt. She hadn’t stopped to think he’d noticed. That he’d ever looked at her . . .in that way. And they had talked for four hours. She’d assumed it was because they had been seated next to each other, and the bar was loud.

  But now, now she wondered if she’d seen it all slightly differently, if maybe there was something more to it, a possibility she hadn’t considered, a connection that might have been something more.

  Oh, she’d noticed him, of course. Who wouldn’t? He was handsome, what with that dark hair and that teasing grin, and that laugh. Oh, that laugh. She never tired of that sound. They’d gone to the bar and they’d talked and laughed, and sure a little part of her was thinking, isn’t this perfect? Isn’t this the start of something? But more than that, all she could think of was how easy it was to talk to him, as if she’d found the male version of herself, her other half, as if they’d known each other all along, or grown up in a parallel universe, something that made the connection so instantaneous, so easy.

  When Hailey had mentioned afterward that he was known to be a flirt, rarely settling down for even a month at a time with a woman, she hadn’t felt let down or challenged the way some women might. And when they’d all met up as a group again, for volleyball this time, she just assumed they’d be friends, and she didn’t think twice when she pulled a stool up to him at the bar afterward and continued right where they’d left off, eventually making plans for a movie that weekend.

  And they’d gone to see it. And soon they were getting together every weekend, sometimes multiple nights in a row. And she never held out for that kiss or worried about her hair or her clothes or other things that might have made her nervous with a new guy she was spending time with. It wasn’t something she could have done with someone else, not if they were dating, not if there had been interest. With Ethan, it had been about more than interest. It had been about connection.

  She stared at the bubbles in her champagne, watching them float around. Her cheek still tingled from where he’d kissed her.

  “Aw, now, you can do better than that!” Milly jeered, giving Ethan a look of naked disapproval. “Give the girl a real kiss.”

  Claire stiffened in panic. She tried to think of a polite excuse, maybe that she didn’t really like public displays of affection, but that seemed lame and almost rude. They were at a rehearsal dinner for a wedding, after all, and this was hardly a public venue. It was a family party, celebrating life and love.

  She looked up at Ethan, hoping he could sense the angst in her eyes, the flash of warning they liked to use on each other when it was time to exit a party or, like last night, disentangle themselves from uncomfortable conversation. But Ethan just gave her a slow grin and wrapped his other arm around her waist until she was properly facing him. Her heart was thumping out of her chest now, so loudly she was sure everyone in the room could hear it, even above the music, but Ethan didn’t waver. His smile slipped as he dipped his head, and oh boy, it was happening. He was kissing her. Her best friend, confidant, keeper of secrets and righter of wrongs was now creeping closer and closer to her face until—

  She closed her eyes just before his lips met hers. His mouth was soft but firm, and she parted her lips ever so slightly, as he kissed her once, letting it linger. It was simple. But oh, it was way more than boring.

  Claire pulled back, flitted her eyes to the pleased smiles of Ethan’s relatives, and took a hearty sip of her drink, not daring to look in Ethan’s direction.

  Maybe it was for show. Maybe it was part of the act.

  But it felt real.

  And more than that, it felt right.

  Chapter Nine

  Claire brushed her fingers over her lips and stared at the ceiling, listening to Ethan’s steady breath on the other side of the extra tall pile of rolled towels. She turned her head, barely daring to exhale for fear of waking him, and her pulse skipped when she watched him roll over, flinging an arm straight across her, undeterred by the barrier she’d so carefully built last night.

  She looked away. Straight at the ceiling and its big, exposed beams, the very ones that Ethan had played on as a child. His arm was heavy on her stomach, and she wondered for a fleeting second if he was awake, doing this on purpose, to rile her up, or . . .

  She held her breath, listened to his . . .No. He was asleep. Besides, why would he be doing this on purpose? So they’d kissed. Really, what was the big deal? They were two ad
ults, two individuals who were playing a part. Had she thought they wouldn’t kiss at all during this charade?

  Actually, she hadn’t thought about it at all. And now it was all she could do not to think about it. That and the warm sensation of his hand on her stomach. She tipped her chin awkwardly, wondering if she could subtly shift her body until she was free, but that would only wake him, and she wasn’t so sure she was ready for that.

  All night long, every time she drifted off, she relived that kiss: the way his eyes had dropped as his face had neared, the way her heart had sped up with anticipation, and that first jolt when his mouth hit hers, softly, gently, expertly. Part of her had wanted to push him off. She’d always assumed that kissing Ethan would be like kissing a brother. Sure, he was cute, but she didn’t see him in that way. Except now maybe she did. And that kiss was far from platonic. No, it was slow and tender and . . .

  Crazy! The man was her best friend. Her best friend who had asked her to pose as his girlfriend. Her best friend who didn’t date, not seriously. He’d probably kissed at least two other girls within the past week. Last night surely meant nothing to him.

  Clearly he wasn’t losing any sleep over it, she thought, slanting his sleeping body a hard glance as she began to feel irritated.

  She slid out from under the weight of his arm, balancing one foot on the floor until she was able to completely slide out, nearly stumbling onto the floor. She eyed Ethan watchfully. He appeared to still be sleeping. Good. She grabbed a heap of clothes from her suitcase and padded into the bathroom to change. She’d take a walk on the beach, maybe even venture into town. And when she returned . . .Well, that kiss would be forgotten.

  ***

  Ethan stood in his mother’s kitchen, sipping coffee and listening to the birds sing through the open windows. His sisters were nowhere to be seen—they’d apparently gone into town early to get their hair and nails attended to well before this afternoon’s festivities.

  He relished in their absence, even though Leslie seemed to have forgiven last summer’s mishap; fortunately the friend was now in a serious relationship and very happy.

  He frowned a little at that thought. Everyone was pairing up, settling down, finding someone they connected with and trusted. Except Claire, he thought. Claire was free. For now. And loath as he was to admit it, he didn’t like the thought of her falling for another Matt. He’d barely tolerated every interaction he had with the guy, even though he was easy enough to talk to and didn’t have any bad qualities, per se, other than breaking Claire’s heart, of course. That was unforgiveable. But the next guy might stick around a little longer, and why shouldn’t he? Claire was a catch. Any guy could see that.

  He set the mug down on the counter heavily. Wasn’t he a lousy friend? He should want Claire to be happy. And he did. Just not with someone else.

  And that was just plain unfair of him.

  “Claire is quite a hit around here,” his mother confessed. She was sitting at the kitchen table near the big bay window, carefully measuring polished pebbles into the bottom of what she’d told him was a hurricane jar, to be used for the candles that would decorate tonight’s reception. “I must say she’s lived up to everything you said about her, and you certainly weren’t shy with the praise.”

  No, he hadn’t been, and everything he’d said was the truth. He rubbed his chin, feeling a day’s worth of stubble prickle his fingers, and wondered what that said about him. “Claire is a wonderful woman,” he replied.

  His mother stopped scooping the stones and stared at him, a smile breaking her face as she clasped her hands to her chest.

  Ethan shook his head in warning. “Now don’t go getting ahead of yourself, Mom. I just said she’s wonderful. I didn’t say I was going to marry her.” For a moment he dared to imagine what it might be like to be married to Claire. They’d argue over where to live, and God knew their ideas of tasteful decorating varied—he preferred sleek and modern while she preferred something cozier and, admittedly, homier. But for the most part, it wouldn’t be much different than it was now. They’d go out to dinner, or order a pizza and watch television; they’d share the details of their days, listening with genuine interest, knowing their histories so well. They’d find something funny even in the worst parts of their stories; they had a knack for that. And the next morning, it would start again. Another day with Claire. More time with Claire.

  He was always up for more time with Claire, he thought. But could the same be said for her?

  “Claire and I are just—” He’d been about to say friends. “We’re taking it slow.”

  He frowned at this. Maybe they were taking it slow. Maybe this was all leading to something. Or maybe on a June Saturday like this one, he’d be sipping coffee, waiting to go to Claire’s wedding, to watch her promise herself to another man. To know that someone else would forever enjoy her laughter, her wit, her loyalty, while he . . .

  He rubbed a hand over his jaw. Better not to think about that.

  His mother went back to measuring the stones. “I just want you to be happy.”

  “I am happy, Mom,” he assured her, and he realized that he wasn’t just saying that to protect her. It was the first time that he’d been back to Grey Harbor when he felt relaxed, at peace, even whole. He was happy, but then, he was always happy with Claire.

  His phone beeped and he checked the screen. Claire had sent him a message before he’d woken up to let him know she was getting an early start in town, and that she wanted to spend a bit more time in some of Grey Harbor’s many antique shops. He was always game for a shopping trip, but his patience faded after ten or fifteen minutes, whereas Claire could spend hours poking around dusty shops, delightfully pointing out details about things that really didn’t interest him very much, not that he ever let on. He always knew when something was special, because her eyes would start to dance and conversation would stop, and a little circle of wonder would form on her pretty lips. Sometimes it was something odd, like a small silver spoon or a dusty oil painting, not that he was focused much on the objects. No, he was always focused on Claire. Her face. Her mannerisms. Her smile.

  Right. “I should probably head out and meet Claire.” He leaned over and gave his mother a kiss on the cheek.

  “Have fun,” she said, returning to her centerpiece arrangements.

  Ethan grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl in the center of the breakfast bar, but hesitated at the screen door. “You sure you don’t want me to stick around and help? I don’t mind.”

  “With this project?” His mother raised an eyebrow and Ethan barked out a laugh. “You go have fun, Claire is waiting for you. Besides, believe it or not, sometimes I like it when the house is empty. It gives me time to reminisce.”

  “Reminisce?” Ethan wasn’t so sure he liked the sound of that.

  She gave a wistful smile. “Oh, about the old days. When you were all little. When your father was still here. We had so many wonderful conversations at this very table.” Her brow pinched a little as she looked out the window onto the water. “He’s still with me, though. So long as I’m in this house. So long as I’m in Grey Harbor. Every corner holds a memory.”

  Ethan jutted his lip, feeling a familiar wave of guilt hit him square in the gut. “I’m sorry I haven’t visited more often, Mom.”

  She brushed his concern away as she reached for another candle. “You’re young. Busy. I understand. You have your exciting life in the city.”

  “It’s not that exciting.” If anything it was tiring. Sometimes he didn’t know why he bothered anymore—going out under the guise of research for his articles was old habit. A habit he was afraid to break, if he was honest with himself.

  “Maybe now that you and Claire have been up here together, you’ll come again. I think she’d like that.” His mother’s gaze turned hopeful.

  “I think she would,” Ethan thought aloud. And he would, too.

  ***

  Claire was sitting on a bench outside Grey Harbor’s
bakery, eating what appeared to be a giant cinnamon roll. This wasn’t like her. She only ate like that when she was one of two things: very stressed or very happy. He slowed his pace, wondering which it was. Up until this weekend he would have said she was very stressed. But here in Grey Harbor, he’d seen a hint of the old Claire returning. The carefree, fun-loving Claire he couldn’t get enough of.

  Ethan frowned with curiosity as she indulged in another bite, swinging one long leg that was crossed casually over the other, her flip-flop dangling from her toes. Up until now he hadn’t thought of that kiss—told himself it was part of the act, that he’d been encouraged by Aunt Milly, that he hadn’t chosen to do it all.

  Except now . . .Now he couldn’t help thinking he’d like to do it again. And soon.

  She turned suddenly, flashing him a smile when she spotted him, and held up the pastry. “Want a bite?”

  Ethan thrust his hands into his pockets and walked the rest of the way to the bench. “Nah, I’m good. My mom fed me a big breakfast this morning.”

  “That sounds promising,” she said, polishing off the last piece of the roll. She licked the last of the icing from her thumb, and Ethan watched her mouth, his stomach tightening as her lips pursed, and then looked away, down onto the street, where weekend tourists were already out shopping. Kimberly could be amongst them, he supposed. He shifted uneasily on the bench.

  “It was a nice morning,” he confided, still not looking directly at Claire. “I’m enjoying myself here more this time.”

  “Why do you think that is?” Claire asked, and he turned to look her in the eye.