Only You

by Addison Fox

  “I know. The summer has flown by.”

  “Your sister got married, didn’t she?”

  Tandy nodded, and the two of them exchanged the usual pleasantries along with a side of wedding gossip. “Wendy Meyers is the next one to get married. Next month, as a matter of fact,” Tandy said.

  “I’m looking forward to it. The invitation just came last week.”

  A merry twinkle lit up Tandy’s sweet brown eyes. “I hope you’re bringing that gorgeous plus-one you’ve been out and about with.”

  “Plus-one?”

  “Your secret’s out. Melissa Newton said she saw the two of you coming out of Hal’s on Sunday.”

  Harlow forced her smile, refusing to give in to the sudden confusion at being the subject of gossip. This was how things were done in her world, and she could hardly complain about it after getting the latest updates from Tandy on everyone else they knew. “That’s funny, I never saw her. She should have come over to say hi.”

  “Oh you know Melissa, she never wants to interrupt.”

  No, the woman only wanted to get gossip and share it with whomever would listen. Melissa had probably followed her and Fender to the Met, too, if Harlow had to guess.

  But she didn’t say any of that. Instead she pasted on a smile and gave an airy wave. “He’s a friend.”

  That gaze twinkled even harder. “A friendly friend?”

  “Perhaps. Jury’s still out.”

  “Well good luck to you, and hopefully I’ll get to meet him at Wendy’s wedding in a few weeks.”

  We’ll see about that, Harlow thought as Tandy jumped up and headed toward the reservoir and her own run for the day. Harlow waved back at her friend and waited until she was out of sight before letting her smile fall.

  She wasn’t ashamed of Fender—not at all. Yet she’d failed to mention his name to Tandy and had casually changed the subject.

  Why?

  It wasn’t who he was. She didn’t care if he was a mechanic, and she didn’t care what her friends thought of him. It was who she was. And try as she might, she couldn’t imagine that he’d think well of her once he met her vapid, wealthy social circle. The import and focus they put on society weddings and dinner parties and who knew who suddenly felt empty and cold.

  It scared her to think that introducing Fender into that world might make whatever tentative relationship was growing between them wither and die on the vine.

  Yet how was she going to avoid it?

  * * *

  The large brownstone on Cherry Street rose up before Fender as he stood at the front door of his mother’s house. Technically it was his house too, but he hadn’t claimed the address in nearly a decade. Instead, he’d chosen a one-bedroom apartment about fifteen blocks away—close enough to home to get there easily, and far enough away to have space.

  It worked for him and, best as he could tell, it worked for his mother, too.

  But it didn’t change the fact that he loved the large brownstone like it was a member of the family, and in a lot of ways it was.

  He, Nick, and Landon had marveled over the place the first time Louisa had brought them there. After she’d seen the three of them on the playground, she’d somehow suspected their lives weren’t ideal and she’d reached out to the school and then social services.

  Their first meeting had happened back on those school grounds, he and his brothers summoned to the principal’s office about a week after the conversation through the playground fence. The counselor had talked to them all, as had social services, and he could still remember the churning feeling in his stomach when he thought that he might have a way out of the dank, dismal apartment he shared with his father. How desperately he’d hoped for that outcome, even as he was scared to death his father would find out about the whole thing and get after him for it.

  They’d had several visits with Louisa supervised by social services and he’d been asked a ton of questions he didn’t want to answer. But in the end, reason had won out, and his own testimony, testimony from Turner and June Monroe, and enough local complaints brought against his father convinced authorities to have Fender removed from Trent Blackstone’s custody.

  A few weeks after that, Mama Lou, as they’d begun calling her, had brought them to the brownstone she’d just purchased. It certainly didn’t look like it did today, he mused, remembering the aged wallpaper, the semiworking plumbing, and the endless four stories’ worth of baseboards that he, Nick, and Landon had spent weekends painting.

  He’d loved it.

  Had loved watching it all come together. Had loved the pizza they’d share after a day’s work. Had loved how she asked them about school, soccer, movies, video games, and whatever else had their fancy. Landon loved comic books so Mama Lou became an expert on that. Nick loved sports so there were reams of sports magazines and almanacs lying around, and hours of conversation over the odds of the Jets or the Giants making the playoffs.

  And he’d loved cars. Posters, models, and magazines filled the room she gave him as she encouraged him to focus on what he loved. Although she understood football better than brake pads, that didn’t stop her from asking him about shop class and taking an interest in whatever his latest project was.

  “Fender?”

  His mother stood behind him, twin canvas bags hanging from each hand. He quickly moved down to take the groceries from her, then followed her up the steps.

  “What are you doing here, sweetie?”

  “I just came to say hi.”

  “Hi.” She kissed his cheek before digging her keys out unlocking the front door. The smell of home greeted him, a mix of the flowers she always kept around the house and the lingering scent of home-cooked meals.

  Although she’d perfected brunch pretty quickly, dinner had come a bit harder. They’d suffered through more than a few burned dinners when they were kids as she learned new recipes for oven-baked chicken, and lasagna, and shrimp casserole. They might have had a lot of stinkers, but in addition to the pancakes and waffles she’d perfected, meatloaf and spaghetti became staples. Since the meal was always hot and the table full of laughter, Fender had never complained.

  “What brings you over at three in the afternoon? Not that I’m not happy to see you.” She tapped his arm to get him moving from where he stood in the living room. “Because I’m always happy to see you. Let’s get some of that in the fridge.”

  He carried the bags into the kitchen, the warm-yellow walls as welcoming as she was. He unpacked while she put the stuff away, then he took the Coke she pulled out for him when they were done. She snagged a diet for herself and gestured toward the table. “I’ve been patient long enough. What’s going on?”

  “My father’s back in town.”

  The soft smile faded, all traces of gentleness following suit. “When? Why?”

  “I don’t know. Chili called Nick about it, and he came to tell me.”

  Louisa took a seat, her face going an ashy gray color. “It’s the campaign, isn’t it? One more reason I should have left this all alone.”

  “No, Mom. No way.” He took the seat opposite her. “Why would you think that?”

  “It’s churned everything up. The stuff with Gretchen Reynolds. The attention the borough run has gotten in the paper, along with Nick’s purchase of the Unity. He must have seen it all and decided to come make trouble.”

  “You’re assuming Trent Blackstone knows how to use the internet or even cares. I don’t think that’s it.”

  “Then what do you think it is?”

  “Bad timing.”

  He’d worked through it in his head—had thought of little else since Nick left his office earlier—and no matter what scenario he came up with, he kept coming back to bad timing. He’d do some digging and make that call to Cade, as well as a few other calls to nose around, but he wanted to consider the situation first and get his ducks in a row.

  There was no reason to think the old man was keeping up with him—Trent hadn’t made a single outr
each in over fifteen years—so it could all be a major coincidence. A crappy coincidence, but one all the same.

  It was also the reason he had no interest in putting himself or his family on Trent’s radar before he had to. His mother’s campaign had made the news, but it was still a local borough run. She hadn’t exactly turned into Oprah or even gained status as a local celebrity. Nor did the borough run imply wealth, which was really the only thing Trent Blackstone cared about. If something didn’t keep him in money to fund his vices, the man had little interest in it.

  The last time they had seen him was shortly after Nick was drafted into the NFL. The old man had come nosing around, and Nick had put the kibosh on that faster than he ran a forty. Fender hadn’t even found out until Nick was about to leave for training camp, and they’d had a knockdown fight over it.

  Nick had maintained it had nothing to do with Fender and everything to do with his new NFL-player status. Fender had heartily disagreed and brought on the worst fight the two of them had ever had. In the end, Nick had apologized, owning up to the fact that he should have confided the details. They’d moved on, but it had taken a long time for the ghost of Trent Blackstone fade away from Park Heights.

  Which made it that much more frustrating that the spectral chains had begun to rattle once more.

  Although Fender normally wouldn’t scare his mother this way, especially without all the details, she needed to know, and to keep her wits about her. Her involvement in the community had grown, and they weren’t going to be able to restrict her movements. Not like he’d even try it.

  At least not yet.

  If his father gave him any reason to think Mama Lou was in danger, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect her.

  “What do you think he wants?” Louisa asked. The usual warmth and vitality she always projected had vanished. For the first time, Fender wondered what weird-ass shit had hit them all this summer. It certainly hadn’t been quiet and carefree, nor had it been without some really strange events. The lives they’d all built—the steady, forward progression that had pushed him, Landon, and Nick into adulthood—had taken a beating this summer.

  The news of their mother’s life before she adopted them. The way Gretchen Reynolds had tried to mess around in Landon’s business to screw with their mother. The return of Landon’s birth mother to Park Heights. Nick almost not getting the brewery. All had ended well on that one, with him and Emma finding their way. And Landon had found Daphne, so things had worked out there, too.

  But what was going on?

  And why did Trent’s return to Brooklyn feel more ominous and menacing than anything else that had happened?

  “What he always wants,” he said. “To make trouble. To run some sort of scam or glom on to someone else’s. Anything to make a quick buck.”

  “Well he’s not welcome here.”

  “No, he’s not,” Fender agreed. But he wasn’t sure that would stop his father.

  Chapter Eleven

  Fender walked into the lobby of the apartment building on Fifth Avenue and almost turned around and walked back out. Marble echoed beneath his shoes and the cool air-conditioned air of the lobby fought back the thick soup that had accompanied him from the subway. Luxury in the midst of the city.

  And the very thing he’d mentally battled since the news his father was back in town.

  The building was elegant and understated, but the wealth was obvious. The woman who lived there wore that wealth with ease. And he was the street rat raised, for part of his life, by someone who not only coveted what others had, but would think nothing of trying to take it.

  Which was why he needed to leave, not give his name to the doorman.

  Like a steady drumbeat, that reality had pounded through him since Nick’s visit to his shop the day before. No matter how he looked at it, there was no way he could continue something with Harlow. It had taken Mrs. W. exactly three nanoseconds to see there was a spark between them. The rest of their table the previous Friday at the End Zone had caught on a few moments later. There would be no keeping a relationship with her under wraps.

  Which meant there was no keeping it from his father.

  And fuck it all, how was it he’d reached his thirties—his goddamn thirties?—and still lived in fear of his father.

  The doorman waved him toward the elevators. “Twelfth floor, Mr. Blackstone. Ms. Reynolds is expecting you.”

  The elevator gave a smooth ride to twelve and he stepped off into a polished lobby. A small table hugged the wall, a Tiffany lamp lit at its center. The hall had a warm, welcoming glow to it, with four apartments spaced off the central entrance. He scanned the doors saw the small plaque bearing “12D” on the last one to his right.

  He knocked, and before he could even consider heading back to the elevator, the woman of his dreams stood on the opposite side of the threshold. The urge to goggle was strong, but he forced himself to stand there and not touch her. She was light and beautiful and stunning and fresh, and in that moment, he realized he hadn’t touched her because of one reason and one reason alone.

  He was afraid to.

  The reality of his life—the one that had haunted him since birth and couldn’t ever be erased—would ruin that light and freshness as surely as he stood there. If he tried in any way to claim her, that reality would spoil all that she was.

  “Come in.”

  Harlow gestured him inside, and he shoved his hands in his pockets, moving through the door and quickly taking a spot several feet away from her. The slightest dip marred the space between her brows but otherwise she showed nothing as she turned to close the door.

  Don’t be a bastard, Blackstone. Tell her why you’re here. Why you can’t stay. Why you have to leave for her own good.

  “You look handsome.”

  He glanced down at the gray slacks and the dark button-down he’d paired with them. “I fix up every now and again.”

  “I like it.” The light scent of her tickled his nose as she moved up close. Her hand pressed to his chest as she leaned in for a kiss. Ass that he was, he took it. Nearly took more before holding himself back.

  Her voice was husky and warm when she spoke. “I also like the jeans and T-shirts so perhaps I’m a bit biased.”

  She stepped back, the soft curls of her hair brushing against his cheek as another wave of her scent enveloped him. Immediately, his mind filled with images of tangled bodies wrapped up in each other, and he could imagine her rising up above him, sheathed in moonlight.

  The image hit him so hard he felt it to his toes and nearly stumbled where he stood. It was only the fear of looking dumber than he already felt that had him shifting his stance and righting himself.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “I have reservations a few blocks away, at Delano’s.”

  “I haven’t been there in much too long. Excellent choice.”

  Fender wasn’t so sure about that, but he was pleased his internet research had paid off. The steak house’s menu had sounded like a good choice when he’d looked up places in her neighborhood, and the pictures on the site made him think they’d have a quiet table to themselves. Which had seemed like a good idea when he’d booked it on Monday. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  “Ready to go?”

  “Sure.” He shrugged and gestured toward the door. “I’ll follow you out.”

  Again, that slight dent dipped in her forehead, but she didn’t say anything. He wasn’t immune to the body language that had grown stiffer the longer he stood in her front hallway like a raging ass, but he knew of no other way to get through the evening and get the hell out of Dodge. It was too late to cancel now. He’d come all this way, and she’d dressed up, and he’d embarrass her with her doorman if he headed back out the way he’d came.

  Right, because the doorman’s opinion is the problem here.

  He hoped like hell his internal monologue wasn’t at all visible on his face. Instead, what he needed to do was cool the hell down an
d focus on getting through the evening. Treat it like a farewell dinner or something. Enjoy dinner with a hot woman, have a good steak, and call it a night.

  End of story.

  But watching the light swish of her hips as he followed her out the door, Fender realized just how foolish he’d been. He should have cut and run while he had the chance. Instead, he was going to have to buck up and take his punishment.

  One savory bite at a time.

  * * *

  Harlow painted on her sweetest smile for the host as he led them to their table. She recognized the man—Delano’s had been one of her father’s favorite places—and had appreciated the sweet welcome he’d given her when she and Fender walked in.

  It had been that kind face that had helped her keep it together. That and the fact that she wasn’t actually interested in making a scene in public.

  What had possibly happened since the flirting and the kissing and the all-around perfect day she and Fender had shared on Sunday? Other than the unfortunate reminder in the park the day before of just how nosy her friends could be, she had looked forward to their date all week. Yet here he was, acting like a man headed to the gallows.

  She wanted to ask him what was wrong. Just have it out and push it into the open, but he continued to look uncomfortable and . . . unapproachable.

  For all his stoic demeanor and bad-boy appearance, in all their interactions, she hadn’t found him to be unapproachable. Aloof, maybe. Certainly reserved and protective of whatever it was that went on in his stubborn head. But not the cold, almost harsh figure he cut this evening.

  He seemed so separate. So out of the moment. And so obviously wishing he were somewhere else.

  She’d nearly turned on her heel and walked out. But then there’d be that whole making-a-scene thing, and she’d already spotted one of her mother’s friends on the far side of the restaurant. Millie Farrell hadn’t waved yet but it was only a matter of time before the woman saw them.

  When Harlow realized they were being seated clear on the opposite side of the room, in a quiet, dark corner, she took a deep breath. Perhaps Millie wouldn’t seem them. Maybe she’d even get out of this with her pride intact.