More Than Love You

by Shayla Black

  I fall asleep cocooned in deep contentment. I’m getting through the concrete around Harlow’s heart…I think.

  Either sleep did her a world of good or she’s putting on a hell of a front this morning, because she’s so chipper it almost makes my teeth hurt.

  “Here’s your green tea, sleeping beauty.” She sets a mug on my nightstand, looking too beautiful for a woman who’s probably been awake less than fifteen minutes. Her inky hair tousles around her slender frame, wrapped in a silky pink robe that ends at mid-thigh and reminds me why I think she has some of the most gorgeous legs I’ve ever felt wrapped around me.

  I grumble, glancing dubiously at the mug. “There’s not enough caffeine in that to wake up a gnat.”

  “I expected you to be grouchy. The first few days will be rough. I have all kinds of ways to help you cope. I’ve been doing a lot of research and I’ve learned so many awesome tricks. We’ll get through this. Up! Time to get started.”

  With a groan, I close my eyes. “Aren’t you getting together with my mother to talk about your wedding dress?”

  “Not until two this afternoon. It’s only eight now. So we have hours to figure out what relaxes you.”

  Oh, goodie.

  “Sex?” I suggest.

  “We’ll get there. But I’d like to give some of these other methods a spin, see what works for you when you’re alone, because I won’t be in the broadcasting booth with you. And if I was, the NFL would get NC-17 fast.”

  She has a point.

  With a sigh, I stumble to my feet. “I’m not fond of you right now.”

  Harlow laughs. “I’m sure you’ll get over it. And if not…” She shrugs. “Well, you won’t be the first person to dislike me. Is this the first time you’re realizing I’m a morning person?”

  I knew, but this seems like cruel and unusual punishment when I can’t have coffee. “Ugh. Can you tone your smile down just a bit? It’s blinding me.”

  My teasing makes her smile brighter. “Nope. Sexy ass up! Let’s go. Hey, at least I’m not talking about PT. Yet.”

  “I’d prefer that.” Because with Harlow’s unpredictability, I never know what she’ll do next.

  “Ha! I’ll remind you of that later. Drink your tea, toss on some comfy clothes, and get moving.”

  Grumbling, I put on a pair of gym shorts and a wife-beater. She’s already opened the doors in the bedroom to the Pacific. It’s going to be another beautiful day in paradise.

  “You know, I’d be more relaxed after another hour or two of sleep.”

  She shakes her head. “First, you don’t have any time to waste. Doesn’t the network want an answer?”

  They do, and she knows it. “Secondly?”

  “If we’re going to have a baby, buster, he or she won’t give a shit when you want some z’s. If we get pregnant quickly enough, you’ll be able to help me through the first few weeks at least. Two a.m. feedings, colic, days and nights reversed… All the fun stuff.”

  Harlow sounds as if she’s really looking forward to motherhood, even the not-so-fun parts. In truth, I’m looking forward to our kid, too.

  “All right.” I reach for the steaming mug that looks like moldy water or strained vomit. Green liquid just isn’t appealing and the smell isn’t fantastic. “Why green tea? Isn’t black stronger?”

  “Because it contains L-Theanine, which helps soothe the rough edges of anger or anxiety. It has a little bit of caffeine, but not what you’re accustomed to, so we’ll be supplementing with extra water to flush your system out and get you over the caffeine withdrawal faster.”

  I’m not looking forward to the headaches. Despite feeling grouchy, I know Harlow is going to a lot of trouble to help me. “Okay, I’ll choke it down. Then what?”

  “Choke? I wouldn’t make you do that. I poured in some local honey, as well. Helps with any allergies you might have. Plus, it contains a compound that helps reduce inflammation in the brain, which may reduce depression or anxiety. And if you’re feeling like you want to up your glam factor, it’s also a natural skin moisturizer when applied topically. We can do masks later,” she says with a wink.

  “Pass.” I give her a hard shake of my head that makes her laugh as I start sipping the tea. Surprisingly, it isn’t terrible. “So if we’re not having sex—and I protest that, by the way—what’s next?”

  “A healthy breakfast, including fresh mangos. They contain linalool, which helps reduce stress levels.”

  I love mangos, so I’m digging that. “Sounds good.”

  “Then we’re going to try a few new things. But you have to hurry. We have less than thirty minutes before the first therapist arrives.”

  “First therapist?” What the hell does she have planned?

  “You’ll see. Hustle!”

  With that, she’s gone, her light footsteps resounding down the stairs before I hear her rattling around the kitchen.

  Quickly, I brush my teeth and splash some cold water on my face. While the tea doesn’t taste terrible, it’s not jolting me awake like a good cup of steaming java. It’s going to be a long day.

  With a sigh, I head downstairs to find Harlow setting down a plate of scrambled eggs and sprouted-bread toast, along with a bowl of fresh sliced mango. She makes one for herself and we dig in, discussing wedding details. If she can find a dress, then we’ve got the major bases covered. We’ll text invitations to a select few. I really don’t want this to turn into a media circus, so the fewer people we advise, the less likely our nuptials will be crashed by the press.

  I have to ask the question that’s been lingering in the back of my head since she agreed to marry me. “What about your parents? Are we inviting them? I know your relationship isn’t close…”

  “I can’t think of a reason I should. I know that probably sounds terrible to you, but if you met them, you’d get it.”

  “Shouldn’t I do that before we tie the knot?”

  “I’d rather spare you.”

  There must be one hell of a story here. I’d think she was exaggerating except that Maxon and Griff sounded equally anti-parent.

  “I appreciate that, but I didn’t ask you to. I’d like to get to know them.” And draw my own conclusions.

  I may never understand this woman unless I meet them. Other than our wedding, I don’t know if I’ll have an opportunity. As far as I know, they haven’t reached out to Harlow since I met her, so unless it’s an “occasion,” I doubt they’ll bother. It completely boggles my mind. I can barely go a day without talking to my mother. Harlow has gone weeks.

  She drags in a breath and picks at her eggs. “They’ll both try to take advantage of your money and celebrity. They’ll figure out in two-point-two seconds what’s in it for them and work like hell to exploit you.”

  It’s such a harsh charge to level against the people who raised her. Harlow turned out all right. So did Maxon and Griff. I’m confused.

  I set down my fork and snag her stare. “What happened? What did they do to you?”

  “Besides being utterly self-centered? The list is long and ridiculous.” She tosses her hands in the air. “It’s ancient history. It’s just…I know who they are. I’d never want them to look at you and see the means to climb a social ladder or make more money. Don’t give them the chance.”

  I sigh, both touched and pissed off. On the one hand, Harlow is protecting me from people she thinks would try to use or harm me. It’s sweet but unnecessary. I learned how to shed sharks and hangers-on years ago. Instead of worrying about the boo-boos I’d never let those people inflict on me—or her, ever again—I wish she would open up. I’m more convinced than ever that something terrible, something that altered her life and her psyche, happened at the hands of these people. Same with her older brothers.

  I need to know what.

  “Thank you, but I’ll be fine. I still think we should invite them. They are your parents.”

  “My mother will try to take over everything.”

  “We’ll tell
her it’s already planned. Then there’s nothing for her to get her fingers in.”

  Harlow hesitates. “Maxon and Griff don’t want to see them any more than I do. And what about Evan? What an awkward way to meet the birth father who never wanted him. And his wife, who despises the guy for nothing more than being born.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe it’s the sort of occasion that supports family unity and they’ll come together when they meet.”

  She snorts, then covers her mouth apologetically. “Sorry. It’s just… Really, you don’t know them.”

  “I want to.”

  Her face closes up. “Why? If we’re only going to get divorced—”

  “What if we don’t? What if we stay married, have children, and live happily ever after?”

  She backs away from me. “I’m not the girl for that shtick. If you’re peddling fairy tales, you should find Cinderella.”

  But I want Harlow.

  I also want to understand what the hell made her need to protect herself. I’m more convinced than ever that her parents are the answer, and her brothers may be right when they say something happened during her first year in college. I’m going to dig until I get information, because her spirit is too bright and her heart too big to live behind barricades for the rest of her life. Unfortunately, I have to do it slowly, subtly, or she’ll force more distance between us.

  Why couldn’t I have fallen for a simple girl?

  Because a woman like that doesn’t do it for me. Maybe that makes me an idiot or a glutton for punishment, but I love Harlow as she is—complexities and all.

  “We’ll talk about this later. Where are we taking this therapy next?” I slant my gaze out the window, pretty sure she’ll pounce on the subject change. “The great outdoors look pretty gorgeous today.”

  “Maybe later. Finish up. Emil will be here soon.”

  “Who?”

  “Your yoga instructor. Keeley swears by him, says she’s taken a few of his classes. He doesn’t usually work on a Sunday, but I told him that you required privacy and would pay well.” She smiles. “Just an FYI, he’s gay.”

  I shrug. “I don’t care.”

  “Keeley seems to think you’ll be his type.”

  “I’m taken,” I point out.

  Harlow breaks into a laugh as there’s a knock on the door. “That must be him.”

  I wolf down the rest of my breakfast and turn to find a man in gauzy white capri pants, a black tank that shows off his ripped arms and shoulders, and a flashy smile. “Well, hello there…”

  It’s a long freaking hour after that. We clear off some space on the shady back patio and get down to posing. The only thing yoga reminds me is that I’m not a human pretzel. Holding my body in unnatural positions while trying to breathe isn’t calming. Half the time, I’m not sure whether I should fend off Emil’s flirting or beg him for mercy.

  To his credit, I’m sweating at the end of the hour. He leaves me a paper with some stretches he wants me to work on until he sees me again on Tuesday—oh, joy—then with a wink and a flirtatious grin, he’s gone.

  “I don’t like yoga,” I say as soon as the door shuts behind him.

  Harlow, who was way better at imitating Gumby than me, tsks. “You have to give it a try.”

  “I did.”

  “A real try. A couple of weeks at least.”

  She’s attempting to help me. I keep that in mind. “Fine.”

  “Good. Now let’s try some other hacks for relaxation I found. I was looking for strategies you can employ when you’re in the booth and feel yourself getting wound up.” She dashes across the room and opens the drawer, yanking out a box. “These are yours.”

  After a little wrestling, I open the package with a frown. “Squeeze balls.”

  “With helpful sayings.” She pulls them from their slats, where they were nestled in cardboard. “See?”

  The blue one says YES! I CAN DO THIS. BE QUIET. BE CALM. BE KIND is painted across the green one. The yellow one reads FOCUS. LISTEN. BREATHE.

  “They’ll fit in your suitcase when you travel. You should be able to slip one in a suit pocket without it being too conspicuous. It’s perfect.”

  I’m not sure how much good squeezing a round bit of foam will actually do me, but she’s doing her best. For her sake, I owe her the same.

  I palm the blue one, giving it a firm mashing with my fingers. Actually…it’s kind of tactilely interesting. “Sure.”

  “Oh, I forgot something else.” Harlow dashes upstairs and returns moments later with a shallow rectangular box. “You should use this every day.”

  When I open the lid, I see a brown leather journal. It’s well made and masculine but… “You want me to write down my thoughts and feelings?”

  She nods. “I know what you’re going to say: Why am I doing this? My brothers would laugh and complain this much reflection isn’t alpha male enough for them, too. But hear me out. Since this is a new phenomenon for you, I think it behooves us to keep track of your mood, surroundings, and conditions when you start to have a situation that makes you feel panicked and start to shut down. If we’re keeping track of everything, it’s possible we’ll find patterns and can help you avoid places or people that trigger you.”

  It sounds kind of horrible to spend time every day in self-reflection, but I guess not doing it is how I managed to waste months vacillating between denial and relative agony before I finally decided to do something. And it’s taken extra time to pin down what bothers me and when it bothers me…and maybe she has a good point about being precise and helping myself avoid shitty situations.

  “All right. I will see if I can find my deep-seated emotions or whatever will help me and put them down on paper.”

  “Thanks. If you try writing every morning, even just for five minutes, you’ll feel better that you’ve purged anything that may be bothering you. If you still have residual tension after that and yoga, then you can squeeze your balls.” She winks. “The foam ones. But hey, if you’d rather squeeze the ones between your legs…”

  “Nope, I’m good.”

  She laughs. “I also have some aromatherapy candles on their way. Citrus scents should help calm you by increasing the amount of norepinephrine in your system. They’re small, so you’ll be able to take them with you to games if you need one. And if your peer in the broadcasting booth doesn’t mind.”

  I can only imagine how many sportscasters and play-by-play guys will flat out laugh at my fruity candles. But you know… Fuck them if they would rather give me crap than help me succeed.

  “Thanks, Harlow. Really. I’m not sure how much of this I’ll like or will stick, but you’re making me step outside my comfort zone to see what might make my life more livable. I appreciate that.”

  Her smile is slow and looks relieved. “You’re welcome. I really do want to help.”

  “I know. I appreciate your effort.” I take her hand. “I wish you’d let me help you, too.”

  Her mouth twists. “What do you mean?”

  “Get you through whatever has convinced you that love isn’t possible for you. That there’s nothing more than sex and common goals between us.”

  She looks away. “We have other things to do today. I have this crossword app you can download, which should help divert your thoughts when you feel them seizing up. I also hear that getting a pet—”

  “Harlow, listen.” I take her shoulders in hand. “Nothing is more important to me than helping you.”

  “I’m fine. Besides, you don’t owe me anything else. You’re already paying me.”

  “I’m not trying to exchange favors here. I’m trying to open up your world so you can see what you and I have together is special.”

  Her eyes slide shut. “Don’t go falling for me, Noah.”

  “It’s too late.” I swallow and go for broke. “I love you.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The following morning dawns. I roll over, not surprised to find Harlow gone. I remember her beside me for
at least a few hours. After the abrupt end of our conversation, she retreated outside with music and her earbuds. I didn’t expect her to sleep beside me, but she did. And she woke me wanting to make love—fevered, clinging, silent. Emotion pinged off of her, vibrated in every touch. I wanted so badly for her to talk to me, for the intimacy to be a prelude to her admitting that she has feelings for me. Instead, she wordlessly shouted at me with her body. All I could do was hold her, tell her mutely that I’m here for her and hope she’d understand. Hope that she’d open up to me.

  After the sex, I conked out, so I don’t know if she slept the rest of the night beside me. I certainly don’t know where she is right now.

  I drag my ass out of bed and realize it’s after nine. After a quick brush of teeth and groping around for some clothes, I jog downstairs. I don’t hear anything—no music from the kitchen, no rattling around of pots and pans, no ethereal video game music. Hell, I don’t even hear the ocean, which means she hasn’t yet opened the patio doors. That’s not like her. Downstairs, the lights are off, the blinds closed.

  Harlow is nowhere.

  Heart thudding, dread gripping me, I dash up the stairs, charging to the bedroom she used to occupy alone. Has she packed up and slipped out? Was I getting too close? Was it too much, and she decided to flee?

  At the top of the landing, I thrust open the door to find her belongings exactly where she left them. The woman herself is sitting on a chair in the corner of the balcony, looking out over the mountains that rise up in the center of the island. With one hand, she’s gripping the arm of the chair so tightly I wonder if she’s using it to keep herself upright. I can’t see what she’s doing with the other.

  “Harlow?” I ask cautiously.

  Because something is wrong. Definitely, utterly wrong.

  She jerks in acknowledgement but takes a long time coming to her feet and facing me. When she does, she’s clutching something in her hand, pressing it against her chest.

  “Baby?” I creep closer. I don’t want to scare her, but something tells me not to leave her alone, either.

  “Noah.” She looks paler than normal. She looks stunned.