Only You

by Addison Fox

  His latest girlfriend had begun demanding a ring, and he was beside himself on how to deal with that. Harlow’s suggestions to simply talk to the woman and explain how he felt on the subject of binding his life to another human hadn’t been the advice he was looking for.

  If she was in any doubt, the sarcastic THANKS FOR NOTHING that had come in as they pulled up to the restaurant had proven it.

  She’d been a witness to Charles’s love life for the better part of twenty years, and it never got any better. He was a good man, but he wasn’t ready to settle down. Why the women he dated seem to find that a challenge instead of a warning sign, she couldn’t quite figure out.

  Like you and Fender?

  The thought crept in, and she slammed the mental door as hard as she’d done to the cab door. Unlike her brother’s relationships, she wasn’t under any delusion that Fender Blackstone was her boyfriend. But she couldn’t quite deny the ongoing fantasy that had gripped her since the searing kisses Friday night that he might come to his senses, cross the bridge into Manhattan, and woo her through a magical Sunday spent together.

  He hadn’t even contacted her since she got into the car a few blocks from the End Zone on Friday night. If she hadn’t felt the heat between them, she might chalk it up to lack of interest, but that wasn’t the case. For either of them. Which only left one alternative—

  “What do you mean our table isn’t ready?”

  Her mother’s shrill voice broke into Harlow’s thoughts, a clear punctuation mark to the direction they’d taken over Fender. No matter how she sliced it, their families had ensured the two of them didn’t suit. Fantasies—whether innocent or not so innocent—had no place in her life.

  “I’m sorry Mrs. Reynolds. It will only be a few moments.”

  Harlow eyed the now-frazzled hostess and offered up a small smile. “It’s no problem, Susan. We’ll just get a head start on our Bloody Marys.”

  Harlow disengaged her mother from battle and marched her toward the long mahogany bar that ran the length of Bartleby’s before Gretchen could continue making a fuss. Although the light of battle still filled the eyes so like her own, Harlow was pleased to see her mother stand down in favor of a prebrunch cocktail.

  Legend had it the bar had stood there since Prohibition, and Harlow believed it. All the loving care that had been put into the wood couldn’t fully remove the patina of age, and Harlow took an odd comfort in that as she found herself and Gretchen two seats toward the end of the bar.

  “We made a reservation at eleven. I don’t understand why we’ve been asked to wait.” Gretchen settled her small purse on the counter. Her tone was sharp when she turned toward a waiting bartender with her drink order. “Bloody Mary, extra olives.”

  Harlow nodded for a matched drink and then took the seat next to her mother. “What is the matter with you?”

  “Me?” Gretchen stilled from where she pulled her lipstick from her small clutch. “We have a reservation.”

  “So does everyone else in here. The restaurant only has so much control over how fast people eat their meals. You’re unable to wait until they finish?”

  Her mother’s unsubtle harrumph was all Harlow got for her trouble, but the reprimand was enough to end the argument. Gretchen even managed a polite thank you when the bartender brought her drink.

  Was this what her future held, Harlow wondered. Pissy texts from her brother and a mother whose behavior had grown increasingly embarrassing?

  Harlow reached for her drink and tried to shake off the frustration as she took a sip of the tangy concoction. Her life wasn’t drudgery—despite an unpleasant morning—and her mother was aging. She had friends who made similar comments about their parents. The quick anger at things that wouldn’t have bothered them even a few years before. The overloud responses when they aired that irritation. Harlow needed to be more tolerant. More understanding.

  More . . .

  More what? Patient? Sympathetic? Even if the woman sitting next to her had become practically unrecognizable? That was the real struggle. Not her mother’s age.

  It was all Gretchen’s regrets.

  On some level, Harlow could understand that her mother carried her own demons, but she’d taken those disappointments and lashed out at someone else with them. It wasn’t just little digs at a restaurant or a few harsh remarks about Harlow’s outfit for the day. Her mother had acted with criminal intent against someone else. And whether she wanted to admit it or not, Harlow had to acknowledge to herself that that action had changed the way she viewed her mother.

  The fact that Gretchen had somehow justified to herself that it was okay to break into Landon McGee’s studio and try to defame Louisa Mills’s campaign for borough president still bothered her.

  It had displayed a woman far more brittle and broken than Harlow had ever imagined. And it had forced her to acknowledge that the life they’d been living had been an elaborate illusion. Her father had been gone nearly a decade, yet he still haunted them all from the grave. Her mother’s anger. Her brother’s inability to commit.

  And her own poor timing.

  Because her mother’s decision to poke into Louisa Mills’s life wasn’t just illegal or immoral or sad.

  It had put Fender Blackstone—the one man in the entire tri-state area that Harlow couldn’t have—square in her sights.

  And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

  * * *

  Sunday brunch at his mother’s was a near-legendary affair in Park Heights. Fender knew this. Had accepted a long time ago that half the gossip in the neighborhood was passed at his mother’s dining room table among her ragtag band of neighbors, friends, and misfits.

  So why hadn’t he prepared better?

  Mrs. W. had attacked him the moment he’d walked into the kitchen, her insistence on recounting how much she enjoyed Friday night and Harlow’s company about as subtle as a herd of elephants walking past the front door and on down Cherry Street.

  Fender smiled and nodded, saving his reserve of smart-ass and sass for when Mrs. W. pushed him over the edge. She didn’t do it often, but he suspected the morning might end up qualifying.

  He appreciated her interest. And he wasn’t stupid. He’d seen the attention and ribbing his brothers had both gotten earlier in the summer, when Nick had started bringing Emma around and then when Landon had brought Daphne. What he wasn’t ready to accept was that his situation with Harlow Reynolds was anywhere near the same thing.

  His brothers had been in relationships. He was flirting with disaster.

  “Hello sweetie.” His mother waved him over and gave him a loud, smacking kiss on the cheek as she pulled him close. Her lips pressed to his ear, her whisper quiet beneath the noise that spilled in from the dining room. “She means well.”

  Glad he hadn’t gone asshole on Mrs. W., he hugged his mother tight. “That woman loves gossip more than any ten tabloids,” she said.

  Fender held back a sigh and knew his mother spoke the truth. Emily Weston had lived in their brownstone since the day his mother had bought it from her and invited her to live in the converted apartment on the top floor while she and her three boys made a home on the four floors beneath. They’d even renovated the old elevator that stood in the middle of the house, ensuring Mrs. W. could avoid the stairs.

  The arrangement had worked. It had provided Louisa adult babysitting when Fender and his brothers were still small. It had ensured Emily hadn’t needed to fully move from her home, yet could retain her independence. And it had given him a grandmother.

  They’d all kept their respectful distances—he called her Mrs. W. and, despite the gossip, she knew when to keep her mouth shut. But in every way, she’d stood as his grandmother for most of his life. Certainly for the years that had counted.

  Which, Fender figured, gave him the right to tell her to butt out.

  “Harlow Reynolds is just a friend.” He leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to her cheek before snagging one of the mini brea
kfast croissants she was plating at the table. “You can take that one to the bank.”

  “Oh, I’ll head to the bank. When I collect on the bet that says you and Harlow will be an item before Labor Day.”

  Fender stuffed half the croissant in his mouth to avoid responding and headed for the living room, seeking refuge in the company of others.

  His traitor brothers still hadn’t arrived—probably having morning sex, if he had to guess—so he beelined toward Father Thad. “You got early Mass this morning?”

  Their neighborhood priest and arch nemesis to Mrs. W. nodded. “Did the seven thirty and the nine thirty, and the latter included two baptisms. I’ve earned one of your mother’s mimosas.”

  “Make it two. Two babies deserve two drinks.” Fender grinned as he crossed to the sideboard his mother had set up for that very purpose. “And a proper toast.”

  Father Thad didn’t argue, and in moments, they were toasting new life, and then added a second toast to a clean sweep of the Mets over the Red Sox for good measure.

  “Emily’s been waiting for you to get here.” Thad’s words were measured, casual even, but Fender knew what was coming. “She enjoyed herself Friday night, out with the young people, as she called it.”

  Fender nearly snorted at that image. Emily Weston might have years on her engine, but the woman still purred like she’d just come off the showroom floor. Best as he could tell, she’d always laughed at age and all that it implied.

  “She’s got the wrong idea about something, that’s all.”

  “Does she?”

  Where he’d been disappointed at his brothers’ late arrivals a few minutes earlier, Fender was suddenly happy for their absence. “Yeah, she is. It’s nothing.”

  “Attraction isn’t something to take lightly.” Thad took a sip of his mimosa, considered. “I baptized two humans an hour ago that are proof of that point.”

  Fender fought the creeping horror that lined his gut in raw fire. “I’m not sure how you leaped to babies from a few well-placed gossip jabs from Mrs. W., but there’s no need for concern.”

  “Fair enough.”

  The subject at an end, Fender quelled the urge to drain his drink and took a sip instead. Whether it was the hit of alcohol or the sudden urge to confess while sitting next to a priest, thoughts he didn’t even know were in his head spilled out. “She’s the daughter of an old boyfriend of Mom’s. It’s sticky and awkward.”

  “I can see where that would be true.”

  Fender avoided asking if Father Thad knew the background involving his mother and Kincaide Reynolds. It was his mother’s past, and if she’d chosen to tell Thad that was her business.

  “So there’s nothing to be done about it.”

  “Your mother’s life isn’t yours, you know. I think she’d be the last person to stand in your way.”

  On some level, Fender knew that. His mother wanted his happiness—that’s all she’d ever wanted—but in this case, pursuing anything with Harlow Reynolds opened a Pandora’s box of bad shit.

  Louisa’s life before him and his brothers.

  Harlow’s cheating bastard of a father.

  And the weird, somewhat psycho attitude of her mother.

  It was messy and tangled, and if he wasn’t so fucking horny, he might put it in Greek tragedy territory.

  Especially because he wasn’t just horny. He was horny and fascinated, and that was an entirely different problem.

  Harlow Reynolds wasn’t a simple fuck, no matter how many fantasies spun through his fevered brain. She was light and softness and a whole heap of class and none of it matched very well with Park Heights’s favorite mechanic.

  On that thought, Fender snagged Father Thad’s empty glass. “Let me get you that second drink I promised. We’ll toast ten fingers and ten toes and the bright, happy future that lies ahead.”

  He got a bright, happy future because of Louisa Mills. He’d be damned if he was going to do anything to betray the woman who had given it to him.

  * * *

  Trent Blackstone rubbed a hand over the three days’ worth of scruff on his chin and considered the sign above his head.

  Blackstone’s Auto Body.

  The shop was closed, which gave Trent an opportunity to nose around, peeking in windows, unobserved on a Sunday morning.

  His son had done okay, he admitted to himself. Little bastard had grown up and even had himself a business. The shiny dark blue Mercedes visible in one of the bays reinforced the idea that it was a damn fine business, by his guess. No one worked on luxury cars by accident. If Fender was working them, he had knowhow and expertise and reputation.

  “Fender,” Trent muttered on an exhale before laughing to himself. The sound rattled around his ribs, turning to a hard cough. “Lived up to your name, kid.”

  He eyed the times on the door and considered coming back during the week. His trip to New York had been unexpected, but he’d worn out his welcome in Ohio and had hitched his way east from Cincinnati. Was surprised when the urge to revisit his old stomping grounds had hit with sure punches.

  He knew people here and still had a few contacts. He’d hooked up with Fat Willy a few years back in Cleveland for a month of hell-raising. And last he’d heard, his old bookie, Sticky Caruthers, was still in business. No one could ever say Trent Blackstone couldn’t break a few arms with the best of them. Sharks were always in need of a little muscle to get their investments back.

  He’d get by. He always did.

  Trent eyed the “Closed” sign and the times beneath it. He also now had a son who was a businessman. ’Bout time the boy gave him back a bit of what he’d put into him. He was a mechanic, after all. He’d passed those genes on to his son.

  Yep. For the first time since he’d slunk out of Cincinnati, Trent felt the urge to whistle.

  His prospects were looking up.

  * * *

  For all the bitching people did about commuting on the subways, the ride was quick on Sunday afternoon. Far too quick, Fender thought as he climbed the last few stairs up to ground level.

  He’d left his mother’s after a respectable length of time, so no one would wonder why he was leaving, and had walked the few blocks home to his apartment. He’d popped a beer, taking a few sips before dumping it down the drain.

  He didn’t want a fucking beer.

  He wanted Harlow Reynolds.

  So here he was, on the other side of the East River, and he had no freaking clue what to do. He hadn’t called her. Nor had he considered what he was going to do once he got here.

  But here he was.

  He dragged his phone out of his pocket and pulled up her number. The urge to text was strong, which was why he ignored it and hit her number instead.

  “Fender.” His name floated through the phone, smoky and a little breathless.

  “Hey. I—” He broke off before catching himself. He wasn’t going to fuck this up. Nor was he apologizing to himself—or to her—for calling. Or for the short notice. “I’m in the city and wanted to see if you were free.”

  “I am. Where are you?”

  He told her, surprised when she unerringly directed him to a coffee shop on the opposite corner from where he stood.

  “Hal’s Coffee Bean?”

  “That’s the one,” she confirmed. “I’ll see you there in fifteen.”

  It only took her ten.

  Fender had barely picked up two coffees from the end of the bar when Harlow breezed in, a summer dress the color of the inside of a watermelon wrapped around her long, lithe body.

  “Hi.” She floated over, her lips finding his for a quick kiss before she stepped back and smiled.

  “Hi.” He juggled the cups into one hand and used his free one to pull her close, pressing his lips to hers. The din of the coffee shop faded away as their bodies met, her mouth opening beneath his.

  She tasted sweet, like strawberries, and he took a few leisurely moments to savor the taste—and her. Her tongue pressed to his, quic
kly shifting leisurely to urgent, and Fender fought to keep his head instead of doing what he really wanted to do: Sink into her and forget where they were.

  Forget himself entirely.

  He clung to that thought like a lifeline, and pulled himself back and away from the temptation that was Harlow.

  “I’m glad you’re free.”

  “I’m glad you called.” She plucked one of the coffee cups from his hand. “Mine?”

  “They’re the same. I went with a plain latte.”

  “Nectar of the gods.” She pointed toward some empty chairs in the back corner of the shop, and he followed her there. There were a variety of people scattered through the tables and conversation corners, all wrapped in their own discussions.

  Their own lives.

  “I am hopelessly nosy.” Harlow settled into her chair. “Someone in here’s writing the great American novel, and I want to peek over their shoulder and read along.”

  “My money’s on that one.” Fender pointed to a woman in the corner, her hands flying over her keyboard.

  “You don’t think it’s him?” Harlow nodded toward a young guy who sipped his coffee, stroking his goatee with his free hand as he stared at his computer screen.

  “Goatee boy?” Fender asked before considering the man more closely. “No way. Too angsty.”

  “Isn’t writing the great American novel supposed to be angsty?”

  “Shouldn’t it be fun?”

  “It sounds like hard work.” Harlow took a sip of her coffee, turning her attention to the woman he’d pointed out. “Although she does look more committed. He looks like he’s playing at it.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And,” she added, leaning a bit to take a closer look, “there’s a small smile on her face. She does look like she’s enjoying herself.”

  “Passion beats drudgery any day.”

  “Point Blackstone.” She tapped her coffee cup against his. “So who else is here on a date? Besides us.”