Some Sort of Love (Happy Crazy Love #3) (26 page)

To my husband, for understanding, patience, love, and inspiration.

To my girls, the light of my life.

To my early readers: Crimson, Laura, Lauren, LeAnn, Margaret, Melanie, Melissa, Rachel, and Sarah…thanks for giving me feedback, inspiration and encouragement. #peenqueens4life

To Melissa Gaston, you are pure gold, and I love having you in my corner.

To Candi Kane, my Chicago girl. Thank you for all you do!

To Jenn Watson, where would I be without you? Wait, don’t answer that. Thanks a million for your time, your talent, and your friendship. You’re the best!

To Rebecca Friedman, agent extraordinaire and generous soul, I can't wait to work more with you!

To Social Butterfly PR, Give Me Books, The Literary Gossip, and Love N. Books for all the help with publicity. You rock!

To Kayti McGee, my sister from another mister, for endless cheerleading,visits to the D, and believing in GrisMel. You get me.

To Sierra Simone, angel of mercy, drinker of gin, keeper of feelings. There would be no Levi and Jillian in the world without you. No words for how grateful I am that you spent your retreat buried in this book.

To Laurelin Paige, goddess of guidance, I don’t know what I did to deserve all the patience and generosity you show me! Thank you for all you do to keep Melanie Harlow from winding up so hard she snaps.

To my fellow authors and friends who have been so generous and inspiring: Lauren Blakely, Geneva Lee, M. Pierce, Corinne Michaels, Claire Contreras, Helena Hunting, and all the ladies of FYW—you inspire me every day!

To the Dirty Girls, for good times past and yet to come—can’t wait to see you again!

To my Harlots—there is no funnier, smarter, sexier, more supportive group of readers than you. Thanks for all the love and humps! I adore you!

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Melanie Harlow likes her heels high, her hair pink, and her history with the naughty bits left in. In addition to the HAPPY CRAZY LOVE series, she’s the author of the FRENCHED series (contemporary romance) and the SPEAK EASY duet (historical romance). She writes from her home outside of Detroit, where she lives with her husband, two daughters, and one insane rabbit.

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The HAPPY CRAZY LOVE Series…

SOME SORT OF HAPPY

SOME SORT OF CRAZY

SOME SORT OF LOVE

The FRENCHED Series…

FRENCHED

YANKED

THE WEDDING NIGHT (Mia and Lucas)

FORKED

FLOORED

The SPEAK EASY Duet

THE TANGO LESSON

Keep reading for a special sneak peek at the opening chapters of PLAY ME by Katie McCoy!

Chapter 1

Ella

It wasn’t going to fit. Just looking at it, I could tell. It was too big. Way, way too big. But still, I took a deep breath and tried to relax. There wasn’t much I could do now. Somehow he was going to make it fit. It was too late to turn back, I told myself.

Keeping my gaze on Mark’s face, I watched as beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead, wrinkled with concentration. We were both sweating. I bit my lip and closed my eyes, knowing it would all be over soon. My heart pounded in my chest.

I held my breath and braced for contact. I heard Mark let out a low grunt and then nothing.

When I opened my eyes, my piano was in the middle of my new apartment. I hurried over to help him tilt it off the dolly, gently maneuvering it close to the large bay windows that took up an entire wall of the loft. It looked fantastic sitting there, beautiful and gleaming. Like it belonged. Afternoon light was streaming in and already my fingers itched to play a few notes, test the acoustics in the room.

“I told you it would fit,” Mark said, making the same expression of displeasure as he did when I messed up during rehearsal. Which seemed to be more often than not these days. The closer we got to the competition, the worse I seemed to get in rehearsal, my hands growing more and more clammy and my nerves through the roof.

“Thank you for helping me move it,” I told him, still surprised he had agreed to do so.

“Well, you were probably going to hire some idiot who would damage it. Better if I just took care of it.”

I ran my hand over the piano’s polished black surface. It took up most of the space in the tiny first-floor loft I had rented in Lower Nob Hill—there was barely any room for my bed and I hadn’t even bothered with trying to get a table or couch in there as well. Not like I could afford them with how much I was paying for rent. But it didn’t matter. The piano was all that mattered. And somehow, Mark had managed to maneuver it through the narrow door without getting a scratch on it.

“Thank you,” I told him again, but the frown didn’t budge, his attention turned to the state of the apartment. I had loved it since the moment I saw it, the old three-story building with six identical lofts, two on each floor, with their own beautiful set of windows that curved outwards. It felt a little like a fishbowl. But in a good way. Like, if a fish had to choose its fishbowl, it would probably choose a fishbowl like this.

Peering out my windows, I could see into the apartment immediately next to mine—or at least I would be able to if their curtains hadn’t been drawn. You should probably buy curtains; I made a mental note to myself. Looking up, I could see the ceiling of the apartment above the one next door, but not much more.

But when I looked back at Mark and his frown, suddenly I could see everything in my apartment that he had disapproved of. The lack of space. The creaky floorboards. The ancient sink and bathtub. I quickly pushed his doubts away. He was only my instructor now—he didn’t get to tell me where to live, even though he kept trying. He had found nothing but fault with my new place.

“Just continue to stay with your parents,” he kept saying, the one and only time he and my folks were in total agreement. “Why add to your stress with another move?”

But he didn’t understand that as much as I loved my parents, it was time to move out. I was twenty-five and had never been on my own. I had always planned my move back home to be temporary, just to get my bearings after the break-up and find my own place. My parents had clearly been hoping I would stay forever, like my sister. But they still couldn’t understand—after years of practice and graduating from the conservatory—why I had chosen to focus on classical music instead of jazz like Nina. Like them. They respected classical music, of course, they just thought it was a bit old-fashioned. They didn’t mean any harm by it, I knew that, but it was still frustrating to be around people who didn’t listen to what you wanted.

“We’re a family of free spirits, Ella,” my dad would always say. “We like to improvise, not follow sheet music.”

But I needed to follow sheet music. Just like I needed to move out. But they also thought I should focus on an instrument and genre that didn’t have so many solo performances—the very thing that tended to trigger my panic attacks. They didn’t understand why I continued to put myself through the stress of performing and they definitely didn’t understand why I had entered the Menuhin Competition.

“I’m going to go,” Mark said, smoothing back his perfect hair.

I remembered being so enamored with him those first few years. Back then I was just out of the conservatory and he was the best piano teacher in San Francisco, so of course I sought him out. I wanted to win the newly established Menuhin competition and he was considered the best person to prepare me. The competition was how I was going to prove to my parents that I could succeed as a musician. It wasn’t the money I was interested in, but the opportunity it would allow. The winner of this competition would have a hundred doors opened to them. Secretly I hoped it would allow me to teach. Even though I had a few students, mostly kids, winning the competition would give me respect and attention in the classical world. I would be able to take on students like Mark took on me. And charge them the same exorbitant fees. Because I would be worth it. And I would be able to keep my current students at their current cost. But I was getting ahead of myself. I had to win the competition first.

My palms began to sweat just thinking about it, the skin on the back of my neck prickled. I had made it through the first few rounds of smaller performances, but each time had to cope with the panic attacks. I hated it, but besides small coping mechanisms and tricks to keep me from passing out before I got on stage, there wasn’t much I else I could do to battle them. It didn’t help that Mark insisted it was all in my mind and that if I just tried harder, I could be over them.

Was there anything more pathetic then a concert pianist who was terrified of performing? If so, I’d love to find out so I could feel slightly less like an enormous loser who had chosen the worst possible career path for herself. But I loved classical music and I loved the piano. I didn’t know how to do anything else. Even so, I was getting to the point if I didn’t win this competition—if I couldn’t prove to my parents, to Mark, to myself that I could make a living through my playing—then I would have to seriously reconsider what I was doing with my life. Either I’d conquer my panic attacks, or they’d conquer me. I had made it through the first few rounds of the competition and I wasn’t ready to admit defeat just yet.

Mark had cared about the music just as much as I did. It wasn’t his fault that we hadn’t worked out romantically. As he had explained, I was just too young. And undisciplined. And unfocused.

His talent had definitely been the thing that attracted him to me in the first place, though he was quite handsome as well. Tall and blonde, with classic good looks, he was known throughout San Francisco for his legions of female fans, as well as his talent as an instructor. “Greek statue” was his nickname, though I was starting to wonder if it was more in reference to his stoic personality rather than his attractive face.

Even though he was nearly ten years older than I was, we had connected over our love of music, and I had moved into his place soon after we started working together. But I had felt a strange relief when I ended things. I had found his touches and kisses enjoyable, but it always felt like there was something missing. Perhaps it was me. Mark certainly thought so and made sure to tell me that our age difference—namely my immaturity—was the real reason I couldn’t handle a relationship with him. Apparently my lack of sensuality in the bedroom was the reason it never would have worked out anyway. That wasn’t a surprise. It had been at the root of all my other break-ups. I was starting to believe that part of me was defective. Along with all the other defective parts of me. Too bad I didn’t come with a warranty. My libido would hardly be the only thing I would send back to be replaced.

But then I thought about one of my neighbors that we had passed on our way in. Tall and lean, he had been wearing a torn shirt and five o’clock shadow. Dark hair, thick and mussed like he had just rolled out of bed, and well-muscled arms that were decorated with tattoos. Normally I preferred my men clean-cut, with clothes that didn’t look like they had survived a natural disaster, but my entire body had gone hot at the sight of him. His brown eyes had caught mine for just a second and I was pretty sure that everything below my waist had melted in that moment. It was a startling sensation, but not entirely unpleasant. One that I definitely wasn’t too familiar with.

“Uh, Ella?” Mark said, bringing me out of my red-hot memory. I felt myself blush as if Mark could read my mind. He wouldn’t approve. “I’m going to leave now.”

“Oh, yes,” I said, shaking my head. “Thanks so much for your help, Mark.”

“Well, just repay me by getting the fifth stanza right next time,” the Greek statue said and left.

As the door closed behind him, I was suddenly aware of how quiet it was. Back at Mark’s place or at my parents’ house, there would be music—jazz or classical—emanating from every nook and cranny, whether it was my father listening to his favorite records in preparation for his class on music theory, or my mother blasting the latest album she had been sent to review, or my sister, Nina, playing the horn in her own room. It had never been silent.

I flopped down on my mattress that was shoved into the corner closest to the kitchen that I was sure I was never going to use. Cans of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup were what I lived off of. All I needed to survive was a can opener and microwave. Unless my life depended on me locating the box I had packed it in. Then I was a goner.

I surveyed my apartment. It was small, but it was mine. I got a thrill. I was on my own, truly on my own. And it was quiet.

Even though the thing I wanted to do the most at the moment was play, I knew that there was a good chance I’d get lost in it and lose track of time. I really needed to unpack, so that I wouldn’t be scrambling to look for my clothes and toothbrush and other necessary items in the morning. I also needed to figure out which bus I needed to take to get to the location for the upcoming round of the competition next week since I was so used to coming across the Bay from my parents’ place near Berkeley.

My excitement dipped as nervousness rose in my chest, squeezing my heart painfully. No, no, no. The last thing I needed right now was a panic attack. Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself that the next round of the competition wasn’t for another week. I had plenty of time to practice. And now I could practice on my own, without Mark or my parents interrupting to tell me what I was doing wrong. This move was a good thing, I told myself. It was going to help.

I set about distracting myself with my unpacking. I hadn’t brought much—unlike my sister with her closet overflowing with colorful clothes, I had a rather small, extremely versatile wardrobe. Black went with everything, after all. After I had hung everything up, I was pleased to see that I still had plenty of room in my closet. Despite not having anything else I needed to put in there, it was still nice to know I had space if I needed it.

The closet door had a full-length mirror, making it hard to avoid my reflection when it was closed. My hair had come loose during my unpacking, so I quickly smoothed it back into its usual bun—the most efficient way to style my long black hair. I also didn’t mind the way it made my eyes look bigger, though my dad always joked that I couldn’t change that no matter what.

“You look like one of the things in the
Gremlins
movies,” he would always say. “But the cute one.”

In the mirror, I noticed that my loose black shirt was covered in dirt, which I brushed away, making sure none had gotten on my black pants. Getting dressed was easy when everything matched, which was good, since I had a tendency to hit snooze on my alarm more than I should. My quick and easy morning routine was the only thing that kept me from being late for rehearsal every day.

There was a small dresser in the closet where I put my few foldable items, mostly pajamas and lingerie. It was the one piece of my wardrobe that had any color. I was a fan of pretty lacy things, just not of showing them off. Even when I had been with Mark, I had only shown him my more conservative bras and panties. Somehow, I had sensed that he wouldn’t have approved of the more…interesting items I had. Those, the thigh-high stockings, push-up bras, and silken thongs, were carefully arranged in my top drawer. It was a part of myself that I never felt like sharing. But a part that I really liked indulging. I had a hard time passing up La Perla or Agent Provocateur lingerie. My unofficial motto was: when in doubt, buy panties. I seemed to be buying a lot of panties these days.

I unloaded the box that held my meager collection of electronics—my phone charger, which I immediately plugged in right next to my bed to charge my phone, and my second-hand laptop, which I mostly used to watch classical performances. Next I took out the bedding, placed the extra set in the closet and made my bed, which at the moment consisted only of a mattress on the floor. There was no way a bedframe could possibly fit in this apartment. But I didn’t mind. I liked how cozy it all was. And how it was all mine. And if I wanted to sleep on a mattress on the floor, well, then I was going to sleep on a mattress on the floor.

The sun was beginning to set, so I took my first shower in my new apartment and was thrilled to find that the water pressure was strong and the water was steadily hot. The city outside was still awake, lights on in every house on the block across from mine, but I found I liked the darkness of my apartment—it made it feel even cozier. I put on my favorite silk cami and short set—a recent splurge—and sat down at my piano. The first notes echoed beautifully in the room and I soon lost myself in the music.