by Julia London
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2016 Dinah Dinwiddie
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503937796
ISBN-10: 1503937798
Cover design by Eileen Carey
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Epilogue
If you enjoyed this book, connect with Julia London online!
About the Author
One
New York City
April
The first time Melissa broke up with Harry was on a Wednesday night, because Harry had come home later than he’d said he would. Okay, a lot later. Late-late. But he couldn’t help it—his crew had run into a problem installing a support beam under a bridge and it had taken a colossal effort by dozens of men to right that sinking ship.
When he walked into their little apartment, he knew he was in trouble. Melissa was sitting at the bistro table with an empty wine bottle before her and the dregs of said bottle in her glass. There was a plate of food in Harry’s spot: congealed spaghetti and something else he didn’t want to examine too closely. “I’m sorry—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” she snapped with a queenly flick of her wrist. “I’m done.”
Done. What did that mean, exactly? For the evening? With him? Harry wanted to ask, but as he was a veteran of this relationship, he knew better than to seek clarification when that much wine obviously had been drunk.
Melissa’s blue eyes narrowed; she knew he didn’t know what she meant. She came to her feet. Clumsily. And swaying a little when she pushed her long dark hair back over her shoulder. She had on a very short skirt and heels that made her look hot, and, God, Harry wished he’d made it home on time.
“I’ve had it with you, Harry. You’re always late. You come in looking like some Game of Thrones character with your shaggy hair and your dirty clothes,” she said, gesturing wildly in his direction.
“Well . . . I work in bridge construction,” he said calmly. “It’s kind of a dirty job. I apologize for my hair, but you know that I wear a hard hat most of the day.”
“So you can’t get a haircut?” she cried, and pitched forward, catching herself on the table.
This was the first he knew that his hair was an issue. He dug in his pocket for a hair band and pulled it back into a short tail.
“Oh, yeah, that works,” she snapped. “Here’s the thing, Harry. You do whatever you want,” she sang, casting her arm wide, “and then you expect me to sit here and wait with a dinner I slaved over.”
Here they went with the same sort of argument they’d been having a lot lately. “I don’t expect you to wait, Melissa. That’s why I told you to go ahead without me,” he reminded her. “And, to be fair, it’s spaghetti.”
Fire leapt into her blue eyes.
“Not that I don’t appreciate it,” he hastily added. Jesus, he didn’t want to do this right now. He was tired, he was hungry, and that damn support beam was going to cost him more money he didn’t have. “Come on, baby . . . you know what I’m trying to achieve.”
“I didn’t move in with a bridge guy, I moved in with an engineer! A project manager,” she said, enunciating clearly, as if he didn’t recall what he’d been when they’d first met. “A guy on track to be partner.”
“I’m still an engineer,” he pointed out. “And you could say I am the sole partner in my firm.”
“You know what I mean,” she said dramatically, and tried to dislodge herself from the tight space between the chair and the table, knocking both pieces of furniture out of place and somehow managing to twist the chair around so that she was even more pinned in than before.
“I’m probably using more of my degree now than before,” Harry said. “I can honestly say I am more of an engineer now than I was with Michaelson’s.”
“Don’t try to worm your way out of this,” she said, pointing at him with such deliberation that she almost fell over the chair. “I don’t want to be with you anymore,” she said, suddenly tearful.
And now, the waterworks. Drunk waterworks were the worst. “Come here,” he said, opening his arms wide. “Let me give you a hug.”
“I’m done, I’m done, I’m so done with you,” she moaned.
Wow, it was that kind of done? Harry was a little surprised. “Come on, Lissa, you’re drunk—”
“And whose fault is it that I’m drunk? You made me drink the whole thing because you were late.” The effort she put into the word “late” served the dual purpose of making a point and freeing her from the trap of the chair. It banged into the counter as she stumbled away from the table, teetering on her heels.
“Technically,” he said, catching her before she fell right off those stilettos, “I think you did it all on your own. Don’t cry, baby. Things will look better in the morning.”
“This isn’t what I signed up for,” she said, slapping his hand away. “You never said anything about building bridges and spending all your money on it and then selling the apartment.”
So that’s what was behind this. She’d known about his desire to create his own company since they’d met. But he guessed that she’d assumed he would somehow stay on at Michaelson’s in his cushy job with the great salary for the foreseeable future, even though he’d been very clear that he had goals. Big goals. “I need the cash,” Harry reminded her. “If I’m going to get this business off the ground, I need to make some investments. Do you know how much those big cranes cost? They’re not cheap.”
“Why can’t you borrow the money? Why do you have to sell our apartment?”
Sometimes, Melissa forgot that it was his apartment. She was quite successful in public relations and owned an apartment that she’d sublet once they’d decided to move in together. “We talked about this, baby.” He reached for her again.
Melissa slapped his hand from her.
“You don’t even like this apartment. We’re downtown, and you want uptown. When I get a couple of contracts under my belt, we’ll get a bigger, better apartment on the upper west side, just like you want.”
“Nope. Not me,” she said, swaying again. “Because I’m done, Harry!”
She lurched away from him. She almost made it to the bedroom door before she rolled off a heel and onto her ankle, and crashed into the door frame. With a wail that should have brought a SWAT team, she managed to catapult herself through the door and slam it shut.
Harry took his hair out of its q
ueue and dragged his fingers through it. She was just drunk. She didn’t mean what she’d said—she wasn’t really done with him. They’d been together eighteen months now, they were committed. And Harry loved Melissa.
He wished he could make her understand what it was like to have a dream of something, how it drove you, ate at you, made you get up every morning and do something about it. But she didn’t get it. She’d fallen into public relations work by chance, and she’d be happy to give it up if something better came along.
In contrast, Harry had always known he wanted to be an engineer. He’d been interested in building things since he was a boy. After graduating with his pricey engineering degree, he’d landed a job at the prestigious Michaelson’s, a huge firm out of Pittsburgh with offices in New York and Chicago. For several years he’d worked designing bridges for big road projects. He loved the design work, but Harry learned he was not cut out for office work. He wanted to build the bridges he designed. He wanted to get his hands dirty and pour the concrete himself.
A year ago, he’d saved enough money and made enough contacts to go out on his own. At first, he got lucky. He won two subcontracting bids for small bridges with a larger road construction firm. Those two contracts had been a blast. He was like a kid with a big erector set; he loved that rough-and-tumble world of big construction. He loved seeing supports poured and beams seated and the bridge going up, piece by piece.
The best part about it was that Harry had done precisely what he’d set out to do when he told his parents he was going to Cornell for an engineering degree. “I want to build bridges and roads,” he’d said. His mother had been horrified. “You’re too smart and too talented to waste time with labor,” she’d said. But Harry was certain of what he’d wanted, and he’d gone after it.
After two successful jobs, Harry’s third bid had nearly ended him with unforeseen cost overruns before he could even get started. Both his mother and Melissa had immediately jumped on board the I-told-you-so train. “Isn’t it time to give up this foolish idea, Harry?” they’d said. “Hasn’t this taught you anything, Harry?” they’d asked.
The only thing it taught him was to be careful of the teams he hired and to build in a better contingency. His family and his girlfriend could say whatever they liked, but Harry was single-minded about it. He knew what he wanted and he was willing to work his ass off to get it.
He just had to figure out how to get Melissa to see what he saw in their future and to believe in it, too.
Harry turned back to the bistro table. He picked up the plates, walked into the kitchen, and started cleaning up.
Melissa wasn’t better in the morning.
Harry had slept badly on the couch and was up at dawn combing through a stack of invoices. The work required to get his firm off the ground was equally grueling on the job site and in paperwork. Someday, he’d have people to do this crap for him. At least that’s what he kept telling himself.
He was eating his second bowl of cereal when the door of the bedroom creaked open. Melissa emerged with a very large suitcase. She was wearing yoga pants, running shoes, and a soft jacket. Her hair was in a tight ponytail at the top of her head, and dark circles shadowed her eyes.
Harry slowly lowered his spoon back into his bowl and looked at the suitcase. “What’s going on?”
“God, don’t shout,” she said, pressing her hand to her forehead, and jerked her enormous suitcase through the door.
Harry felt a tic of panic in his chest and slowly stood, staring in disbelief at her suitcase. “Lissa? What’s going on?”
She sighed. She stopped trying to move the suitcase, and covered her face with her hands for a moment. And when she dropped them, he could see tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Harry. I really am,” she said softly.
He strode across the room, but she shook her head and folded her arms across herself. “I don’t . . . this is not what I want. You know it’s not. I thought when we moved in with each other that we were building toward a future. That we’d get married and have a family—”
“We were. We are.”
“You are. But I feel completely left out. I hardly see you. You’re working so much that we never see our friends any more. And you’re losing money and selling the apartment. It just feels like things changed and I didn’t get a vote.”
“That’s not true, Lissa. I was up front with you about what my goals were when we first met. I told you I wasn’t fulfilled at my old job. I told you I wasn’t a desk guy and I was starting my own company.”
“I didn’t know that meant that I’d never see you or that we’d be struggling financially. I know what you’re going to say—to give it time. Well, I’ve given it a year, Harry, and it feels like you’re clinging to this idea, and you don’t see that it’s not working, and in the meantime, I’m supposed to wait it out.”
“Be patient, Lissa. Have a little faith. This is just a rough patch. Can’t you hold out a little longer? I’m this close,” he said, holding up his thumb and forefinger an inch apart.
She sighed sadly. “So close that you are selling the apartment. And then what? What will you sell after that?”
When he thought of the future, he didn’t think of selling something else. He thought of the bigger, better apartment he would buy for her. Harry was confident that by investing a little he was going to get the break he needed. “Look,” he said, moving cautiously forward. “I’ve had some great contracts with bigger firms. But there’s no gain without some risk, baby. I will get bigger jobs. But in order to do that, I have to have equipment and manpower.”
“You keep talking about this crane,” she said. “Where is it even going to go? Where are we going to live?”
He took another step forward. “What about your place?” he suggested.
“My place is a studio. And it’s rented.”
She did not say that the rent was all hers, too. Hell, she probably had a lot more in the bank than he did. She was a senior account manager at a top New York PR firm.
“Even if we moved there, it wouldn’t resolve the bigger issue of us wanting different things,” she said.
“Don’t you love me?” he asked.
“Oh, Harry,” she said, her eyes tearing up again. “Of course I do. But I have to be true to myself, and this isn’t working for me. I’m sorry, I really am.” A single tear slid down her cheek, and she bowed her head.
“Ah, Lissa,” he said soothingly. He hated to see her cry and reached for her elbow. This time, she didn’t slap his hand away, so he tugged her forward.
“Melissa.” He kissed her neck. “We’ll work it out, baby.”
“You always say that,” she muttered.
“And we always do.” He kissed her cheek, then lifted her chin and kissed her lips while he nudged her enormous suitcase away with his boot. “I promise you, I’ll make it up to you,” he said, and put his hands on her hips and began to move her backward, toward the bedroom.
“I’m not backing down,” she said, but her arms went around his neck.
“I know you’re not,” he agreed as he filled his hand with her breast.
“And you’re not forgiven for last night,” she said as he managed to get her through the bedroom door.
“I’m on my knees, begging for forgiveness right now,” he said, and with his foot, shut the bedroom door behind them.
Two
May
There were five people in the divorce recovery group, three of whom had survived recent, painful divorces from their “soul mates,” one in the midst of a nasty and protracted divorce, and one . . . Well, one was Lola Dunne, whose divorce was neither terribly recent nor enduringly painful.
Lola’s group mates included John, a balding, overweight, bespectacled man in his fifties who had discovered his wife was having an affair when he walked in and found her with her legs in the air, her panties on the floor, and a much younger man banging away; Betty, a well-dressed, slender woman whose children had grown up and left the nest, at
which point she realized she was through raising children, including her husband; and Paul, a big guy who was partial to canvas coats. Paul never said much, but when he did, it was about the bitch who’d taken his money and the best years of his life.
Last but not least was Sara, whose marriage had been suffering death throes for over a year. Sara and Zach Miller had a lot of money, and neither of them was willing to part with it. Their divorce was so acrimonious that every red cent was being counted, every tit had to match a tat, and not a single memory of the last fifteen years would be allowed to go untarnished.
In comparison, Lola’s experience was so mundane, she felt guilty for even mentioning it at group. She wished she had something a little juicier to offer, but alas, her divorce was simple—she and Will had grown apart. No children, no pets—they just walked away from it. Like the six years they’d been married had meant nothing. Which wasn’t true, at least not for Lola. But Will? Maybe.
Okay, well, that had all happened more than a year ago, and Lola was embarrassed she’d ever let Sara talk her into coming. She’d met Sara in a yoga class and had been attracted to her sleek, blonde bob, her coordinated Lululemon outfits, and her take-charge-and-kick-some-ass attitude. In contrast, Lola’s yoga clothes were Old Navy all-purpose capris with whatever T-shirt she could find. And her attitude was that everything was fine, just fine.
They’d started with an occasional coffee, had bonded over being divorced . . . well, more accurately, they’d bonded over Sara’s ongoing divorce. At first, Sara had been sympathetic and outraged for Lola when she’d filled her in on the basics of her split from Will. But Sara’s divorce was just beginning. Each week, her split was growing into the Worst Divorce Ever, and Sara refused to let anything or anyone top her drama.
Lola knew this, and she should have known better than to allow Sara to persuade her to tag along with this group, because she didn’t have an ax to grind like Sara did. But Sara had begged her, had complained she hated going alone, and Lola . . . Lola was that friend who never said no. To anyone. Ever. Even when it was so clearly evident that she should. Present a need, and it was genetically impossible that Lola did not attempt to fix it. It was kind of a problem.