No Sweeter Love (Sweeter in the City Book 3)

by Olivia Miles

  When he finally emerged, he looked barely any different than when he’d entered. Claire pursed her lips to smother a smile. She loved Ethan, God did she, but the truth was there was a reason why Ethan could never settle down and fall in love—he was entirely too self-focused.

  “If I’d known it would take you half the day, I would have skipped my shower,” she quipped.

  “Hey, you thought this afternoon was bad? You haven’t seen the rest of the Parker clan. They can’t wait to get their hands on me, to look for any reason to criticize. Do I have any nicks on my face? I shaved in a hurry.”

  She stood and peered at his chin. It was a very nice, strong, square chin. His body was still warm from the shower. His skin smelled like aftershave. She frowned. What was wrong with her?

  “No nicks. Smooth as a baby.” Well, not really. More like perfectly manly and sort of sexy and . . .wrong. She really needed to get out there again. Clearly, she was ready.

  He looked down at his white linen shirt, frowning. “Should I tuck this in?”

  “If you’re tucking in that shirt, then I’m changing my dress,” Claire said, adjusting the back of her earring.

  “Sorry. I just . . .I get nervous around these people.” He ran a hand through his hair, dragging in a shaky breath.

  Claire laughed and reached over to take his arm. “These people are your family. How bad can it be?”

  ***

  Fifteen minutes later, she knew exactly how bad the night might be. As they approached the spot of beach where a bonfire was already crackling and glowing, the music seemed to stop, and slowly, face after face stopped their conversation to stop and stare.

  It seemed that the novelty of her arrival hadn’t dimmed since this afternoon. If anything, it had spread to dozens of more people, who were now practically pushing each other aside to have a good look.

  Claire felt her stride falter, and she didn’t dare look at Ethan, who had stopped talking and was no doubt following her gaze.

  “Here goes nothing,” he muttered, and all at once, Claire felt his warm, smooth palm slide against hers.

  “What are you doing?” she asked in panic, snatching her hand back. She stopped walking, aware that as she did so, every person on the beach was piquing with interest, craning their necks to see the lovers’ quarrel that was unfortunately out of earshot.

  He gave her a mild smile. “Claire, if we’re going to make them believe we’re a couple, we have to act like we’re a couple.”

  She chewed her bottom lip. He had a point there. “Yes, but holding hands. It’s so, so . . .” She hadn’t held hands with anyone since Matt.

  “Would you rather I put my hand around your waist?” His lips twitched, and Claire realized he was having fun with this.

  “I’m glad to see this is so easy for you!” She folded her arms across her chest defensively, but he just gave her a rueful smile in return.

  “Lighten up, Claire. You know what your problem is? You take life too seriously.”

  “I do not!” she scoffed, but she did. She knew it. And leave it to Ethan to keep saying it.

  “I mean, if you’re worried I’m going to take advantage—”

  “Ethan!” But now it was her turn to laugh. She did, but then remembering this ruse, turned from him, frowning. She hadn’t thought ahead this far. She hadn’t assumed there would be touching, or . . . She groaned.

  “Look, it’s a beautiful night. We’re on the beach. We’ll have a couple drinks, make a little small talk, and then we can go back to the cottage and put a big wall of towels between our two bodies.”

  “Ethan . . .” She sighed.

  “Is it so hard to pretend to be attracted to me?” he asked, and for a moment Claire thought she saw a look of hurt soften his eyes. “If it makes it any easier, pretend that Matt is there. Give him something to turn green over.”

  Claire gave a little smile. Wouldn’t that be the day?

  “Fine,” she said, gritting her teeth as she reached out her hand and let him take it. His grip was firm, his skin warm, and as they walked toward their waiting audience, Claire had the strange feeling that she could sort of get used to this . . .

  ***

  “So, together since the holidays!” Aunt Milly’s eyes seemed to pop on the statement, as if she couldn’t quite believe such a thing was even possible. “A solid six months!”

  Claire looked up at him through a gritted smile and said sweetly, “That’s right. Since New Year’s Eve, actually.”

  They both knew how each of them had really spent New Year’s—she’d gone to Vail with Matt and he’d gone to a masquerade party with that brunette with the long legs and the law degree. He was working on New Year’s, covering the best events of the year, not that he minded. Half the time his job felt like play, at least the research aspect. And when he mentioned reservations at the hottest restaurant in town, it was usually the icebreaker he needed to secure a date for Saturday night.

  Free drinks and the best tables weren’t the only perks of his job. Still, if he was honest with himself, going out four nights a week was getting old.

  “My, this certainly is promising,” Milly continued, giving her husband Les, who seemed to be struggling to keep his eyes from drooping, a firm jab in the ribs. “I don’t think Ethan has held onto a relationship for that long since—”

  “Les, you doing okay?” Ethan cut in. He swallowed hard, and did his best at playfully giving his uncle a friendly slap on the back. “Another round of drinks is in order, I think. Claire, want to help?”

  She smiled demurely, and hurried to follow him. Before they were out of earshot, Ethan heard Milly remark, “How sweet. They don’t want to be apart, even for a few minutes.”

  Behind him, Claire snorted, and by the time they pushed their way to the drinks table, they were both laughing uncontrollably.

  “What do you say we get out of here?” Ethan suggested.

  “But, Les’s drink?” Claire’s eyes crinkled in confusion, but Ethan shrugged away her concern.

  “Did you see him? The man was practically snoring on his feet. Once he settles onto a chair, he’ll be out for the night. Poor guy is used to having his ear talked off.” He shook his head.

  He’d gotten used to it over the years, the buzz of chatter, the seemingly endless amount of time his mother and her sisters could sit and talk. He liked it, especially as a kid, on the cool summer nights when his mother cranked his bedroom windows open. He’d turn on his side and listen to their laughter, the din of their voices from the back patio, where they sipped iced tea and reminisced about the past. It made the night feel less dark, somehow, less lonely. It made him forget that his father wasn’t there anymore.

  Ethan turned to Claire, who was standing patiently at his side, staring out onto the water that lapped softly at the sand not far from her bare feet. Her sandals were dangling from her fingers, the hem of her dress billowing in the breeze, and for a moment, Ethan felt a sense of peace wash over him, the same way it had all those years ago when the breeze filtered through his bedroom windows and the murmur of voices began to emerge in the dusk.

  Claire wasn’t a chatterbox. If anything, she was quiet. He liked that about her.

  He looked over his shoulder to where his mother was deeply engrossed in a conversation with his cousin Meryl and her fiancé, Eddie. He knew an opportunity when he saw one.

  He grabbed Claire’s hand again, sort of liking the excuse to hold it a little more than he should. It was small, light and feminine, but there was strength in it, and a security he hadn’t felt in a while.

  He pushed that thought away. No use going there, not when no good could come of it.

  “Come on. We’ll see enough of everyone over the next few days.” He winked, and Claire’s blue eyes sparkled as they turned and marched casually across the sand, through the mingling guests, and farther into the growing darkness, until the party was just a strange glow in the night, far behind them.

  He dropped her hand, feel
ing a strange distance from her when he did, and stared straight ahead, aware of her body next to his with every step. The big house that he’d grown up in loomed at the top of the dunes, just ahead. Ethan tipped his head toward it. “It’s still early. Let’s grab a drink.”

  They hurried the rest of the way to house, and Ethan didn’t exhale until they were finally inside, the door closed firmly behind them. The house seemed quiet and eerily still without the usual boisterous activity that filled it. The light in the kitchen was still on, and Ethan grabbed a beer from the fridge, holding it out to Claire. She wrinkled her nose, as he knew she would, and he offered her the next best thing.

  “A wine cooler?” She turned it over in her hand, mesmerized.

  “It was that or hard lemonade. It appears all the wine has been rounded up for the festivities.” He pulled open a drawer and found the bottle opener.

  “I haven’t had one of these since high school,” Claire laughed, popping the top.

  Intrigued, he leaned against the counter, studying her with interest. “You mean to tell me that you, Claire Wells, actually drank in high school?”

  “I didn’t drink.” She flushed. “I mean, once. I went to a party one night with Hailey and . . .my friend’s older sister was handing out wine coolers.”

  He grinned. “And let me guess, you got tipsy.”

  Claire pursed her lips. “I’m not such a good-goody, you know. We can’t all be rebels like you.”

  “And is that what you think I am? A rebel?” He tipped the beer back, feeling the foam chase its way down his throat.

  She shrugged. “Compared to me. Come on,” she said, tugging his sleeve. “I want to see your room.”

  He hesitated, took another pull on his beer. “There’s nothing to see in there but some old yearbooks.”

  As soon as he saw the delight in her face, he knew he’d said the exact wrong thing.

  “Well, then I sure as heck can’t miss this!” She was already off, down the hallway, before he could stop her, and, setting the beer down on the counter, he hurried after her, only to see her hurrying her pace, laughing as she bolted up the stairs. He tried to grab her arm, but she was too quick, and he grabbed a piece of her dress instead. She tripped, clambering up the stairs, laughing so hard he was laughing too. They were behaving like children, something he only did with Claire.

  She stood at the top of the landing triumphantly, panting for breath. “Which way is it?” she asked.

  He sighed, and vaguely motioned to the left. There was no use resisting the inevitable. When Claire set her mind to something, she usually found a way to see it through. “Last door. You can’t miss it.”

  The baseball pinup was still on the wood paneled door, and Claire tapped it with a finger, jutting her bottom lip at him to show how adorable she thought it was, and pushed open the door.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets and hovered in the door jamb. He hadn’t been in this room since he was a kid—now when he came back, he usually stayed in one of the guest rooms with the bigger beds. This room was a capsule, of a different time, a different place. A different person.

  “I don’t know why, but I assumed there would be some bikini pinups or something,” Claire joked, admiring the baseball posters that framed the two big windows with a view of the lake. She walked over to his desk, leaning down to study the framed pictures his mother had kept all these years.

  “Oh.” She gave a sad smile as she picked one up to study, and Ethan felt his blood still for a moment. He knew the photo, knew it well. It was one of the last memories he had of his father, a day on the lake, like so many others. He was eight in the photo, and he had a cast on his arm from falling out of a tree. He’d taken that day for granted, assumed that life would always be carefree, that people didn’t just leave you, but they did. Whether they were taken from you or they left on their own accord, nothing in life lasted forever.

  He eyed Claire, thinking of the tears she’d shed when her mother had died. He’d sat by her side, not knowing what to do or what to say, but somehow he knew that was enough for her. He understood. Not everyone did. That alone was some comfort, he supposed.

  “You resemble him,” she said, her smile a little hesitant, but something about the comment, the new perspective, made Ethan feel like just for a fleeting moment, a part of his father was alive again. “It’s the mouth. And the nose.”

  He swallowed hard, wanting her to put the photo down almost as much as he wanted her to keep talking. He never spoke of his father—at first it seemed too cruel, too insensitive toward his mother—but now, it was he who kept quiet when the man’s name was brought up, he who felt the strain of loss every time he walked into this house.

  Finally, Claire set the photo back on the desk, exactly where she’d found it. She was thoughtful that way, always careful not to overstep.

  “Now where are those yearbooks you promised to show me?” She tapped a finger against her mouth, looking around the room.

  “Hey, I never promised you that,” he said, flinching on the words for a moment. He never promised anything, but somehow, with Claire, it was always different. He gave in, didn’t resist, but then, she was different than other women. Different than most people.

  He made a grand show of sighing. “They’re in the bottom drawer of the bedside table. Don’t laugh,” he warned.

  Claire eagerly crouched down to retrieve the stack of books, starting with his freshman year and working in chronological order. She hooted in laughter when she saw his braces and bowl cut. “You were on the debate team?” she asked, eyes popping, as she stared up at him. “I don’t know why I envisioned you as football quarterback instead.”

  “I might have inflated my role on the football team,” Ethan said ruefully.

  “It charms the ladies, right?” Claire shook her head, smiling as she flipped to the next page. Ethan dropped beside her on the bed, taking in her familiar sweet scent that mingled with the warm summer air. The old house still didn’t have air-conditioning, and crickets croaked from the half-open window, filling the room with all those summer smells and sounds you didn’t find back in the city.

  He relaxed as she flicked through the book, getting caught up in the memories himself.

  “Do you ever keep in touch with anyone?” Claire asked, moving on to his senior yearbook.

  Ethan tensed. “Oh, a few that still live in town. The rest have moved on. You know how it is.”

  “Who’s the girl?” she asked, leaning forward to study the picture with interest.

  “Oh, just a prom date,” Ethan said coolly, but inside his blood was on fire. His chest began to pound as he waited for her to turn the page. He didn’t want to look at that picture, didn’t want to remember that face.

  “She’s pretty,” Claire remarked. “Another heart you broke along the way?”

  Ethan smiled tightly. “Something like that,” he managed.

  Only it was nothing like that. And it wasn’t something he wanted to discuss. Even with Claire.

  “I left my drink downstairs,” he said, suddenly needing to be out of that room, away from the small single bed and the photos and . . .all of it.

  She looked up at him in surprise. “Okay.”

  “Can I get you anything?” He was already walking to the door, eager to be away.

  “No,” she said, closing the yearbook. “But I think I’ll come down with you. I’ve embarrassed you enough for one night.”

  “Just wait until the bachelorette party,” Ethan laughed in an attempt to lighten his mood. “I don’t even want to know the things my sisters will be sharing with you then.”

  He suddenly stopped walking, his chest tightening when he considered his statement. But no, he told himself firmly as he slowly walked down the stairs. No, surely even his sisters knew better than to bring up that . . .

  At least, he could only hope.

  Chapter Six

  Claire opened one eye, and then, ever so slowly, the other, only releasing her pen
t-up breath when she noticed the towel was safely wedged between her body and Ethan’s, and that he was wearing a T-shirt, and hopefully some kind of pants, although given his exasperating and endless desire to rattle her up, she didn’t dare test the waters by tugging on the blanket.

  She rolled out of bed and smoothed her hair. Despite the unseasonably warm weather and the lack of so much as a lakeside breeze all night long, she’d worn the most modest pajamas she owned—flannel pants and a matching long-sleeved collared shirt, buttoned all the way to the very top, thank you very much—and now the thick material stuck to her skin.

  The windows were open, not that they’d helped, but now Claire opened the French doors and stepped onto the patio, hoping some morning country air would cool her head.

  Last night had been strange, and it wasn’t just because she’d held another man’s hand for the first time since Matt. She was struggling with how . . .natural it felt to stand side by side with Ethan at the party, to laugh with his family members, to exchange secret smiles with him as they sipped their drinks. She picked up a rock from the edge of the patio and skipped it into the water.

  Ridiculous. Of course it felt natural with Ethan. He was her closest friend. She knew him. She was comfortable around him.

  So why did her stomach start to knot every time she thought of the way it felt to stand beside him, and have him look at her like that—like she was more than just a friend?

  “You’re up early,” Ethan’s husky voice behind her accused.

  Claire turned, smiling guiltily—she hadn’t even checked the time, but who could sleep with all that sun filtering in—and nearly fell back against one of the Adirondack chairs when she saw Ethan grinning back at her. He was propped up on one elbow, still in bed, his brown hair tousled this way and that, his grin positively wicked. She swallowed hard as he reached down to scratch his stomach over the tight white T-shirt he wore, and then stretched his arms, yawning dramatically, making the cords of his muscles pull against his skin. Her entire body stiffened as he slowly brought himself up to a sitting position and then reached for the blankets, wondering if she should look away now, before she saw something she shouldn’t. Even boxers felt wrong. Wrong! But to her great relief—and strangely, a twinge of disappointment—he was wearing cotton pajama pants in what appeared a considerably more seasonably appropriate material than her own.