Chapter 2

MELODY

"Frankly,I don't know what the problem is," I say, my words crashing against the rain drawing rivers down the windows. "Aside from what I said before. And yes, yes…" I flick both hands up. "I know the definition of insanity, and I'm positively not doing that. I don't think so," I add softly. "I'm just sick of going through this crap over and over again."

I even sound exhausted despite my perky appearance.

As if I haven't spent long hours prancing around in my fashionable heels, talking to people, taking calls from overseas, and even having an interview with a local TV station.

None of that has drained me, yet my inexistent love life has given me headaches for months.

And now I'm back to square one, going through the motions with a new man, waiting for something bad to happen.

Things are fine, perfect, I might say.

A successful banker, Thomas Everett is everything I'd want. Ten years older, attractive, fit, driven, intelligent, mannered. And, um… Oh. Always dressed to the nines.

And yet, some cranky, nagging version of myself wiggles her eyebrowsat meagain with skepticism.

She can be such a bitch.

I move my focus to Aretha just as a knowing smile sprouts on he lips.

"Tell me about your new guy," she says, picking up her notepad and pen.

A sigh of relief blooms on my lips.

"He's great. Perfect."

I roll my eyes, earning a quiet laugh from her.

I chuckle too.

What else is there to do?

"It's funny, isn't it?" I say, relaxed, before she nods and focuses on her herbal tea.

"Usually, people come here to complain about their picks."

"Not me. And heis good. Well, I don't know much about his emotional intelligence. We haven't gotten to that part. Other than that, he's, um… A high-value man through and through with money, looks, and status. And he pursued me. You know me. I never throw myself at them."

She listens attentively, her back straight, her fingers wrapped around her drink.

"Maybe I'm sending the wrong signals. How else can I explain these ‘high value' men that ultimately turn to nothing?"

"Are you having fun?"

"With him?"

She tilts her head down.

I ponder, although the answer is evident.

I have more fun in her office, sucking on butterscotch candies and watching her sip tea.

What does that say about my date?

"Fun as in…? In the bedroom?"

She gives me a small smile.

"Usually, it's in the bedroom," she says.

"We're not there yet. I'm not that easy, you know…" I say with self-deprecating humor, reaching for a cigarette again.

She sighs as if the world is about to end.

"Go on. Light one."

I shake my head, signaling I've changed my mind, and push my bag away.

"You're not that easy? Or you're not attracted to him?"

"Both."

"Have you tried having sex with them before?'

"You know I have."

Her eyes glint with amusement before I continue.

"It doesn't make a difference,which only provesthey aren't good for me. So what am I supposed to do?"

She closes her notepadafter writing a few more words and gives me her undivided attention.

"Only you can solve this puzzle. What should you choose? From what I see, you have no problem attracting high-value men. They seek women like you. You have what they have."

I interrupt her impatiently.

"They're not serious about me. And they don't care about me as a person. I started to think that something was wrong with me. And what's worse––"

"You don't even want them."

"Exactly. I don't even wantthem. Foolishly, I always expect things to work out somehow. And maybe the next one… is the one."

"Do you really need to find ‘the one'?"

I gesture dismissively.

"No. Of course not. But I'm not ready to quit. And then do what? Take early retirement and go on a trip around the world?"

"As I said…" she replies in a temperate tone. "It's the biggest puzzle of all. High-value men seem to have it all. They have their financial lives under control and make calculated moves while searching for a partner. Maybe you aren't what they're looking for. And that's all right. Women want these men for all the benefits that come with them. But… There's a big but. They sometimes lack in emotional intelligence, kindness, empathy––"

I slap my hands against my thighs.

"They don't care," I say.

"It's not that they don't care. They don't even think about it.They can provide for you. Offeryou a comfortable life, safety, and all that. To the right woman it means a lot."

A frown spreads across my brow.

"I don't need all that," I utter, annoyed. "I earn a nice living. And yes, I need safety. But that is not emotional safety to me."

"Yeah…They'renot good for what you need. So you need a high-quality man instead. Find him and get what you need from him."

I flick an eyebrow.

"Find him like… How? And what's the difference, if you don't mind me asking?"

"The high–quality man might not have external possessions. But… He is emotionally intelligent. Knows how to touch your soul, wrap himself around you and make you fall for him. He's not a…" she says, her hand moving up as I'm about to argue her point. "He's not a player. And you know the difference. You've had players. You've been with that guy… What's his name?"

She dips her gaze to check the list of my exes on her notepad.

"Ellis Wilton."

"Yes, Ellis," she says, happy she doesn't have to peruse the list to find him as my third boyfriend from the bottom.

"Yes. I'm not talking about players. Players play the field. They pretend to be high-quality men to make women fall for them. Sometimes, they pretend to be high-value men, and women fall for their tricks. Not you," she rushes to clarify. "I know you didn't buy Ellis' shit, but you know what I mean."

"Yeah. I do."

"Back to the high-quality men. They are not your usual date. Frankly, I don't think they date much. That doesn't mean they're not looking. They are, and they know exactly what they want in a woman. If it's any consolation, they also havea hard timefinding partners. You have to be like them to be worthwhile to pursue.They give a lot to the right person andexpect to get a lot back.The most important thing is they get you. And if you're lucky to find one, don't miss out on that opportunity, or you'll forever be my client."

Rain keeps falling over the teared-up windows while her words sink in.

"You need a man who can do everything, Mel. Fill your soul, nourish your mind, and pardon my French, fuck your brains out. And then, if you find him, you need to make it worksomehowfor both of you."

MELODY

I listento the rain for a few long seconds.

Domestic noises echo in the building, the old elevator bringing someone up before a door opens and closes upstairs.

The place is quiet again.

"All right… I guess we're done for the day," Aretha says.

"Yeah, yeah… We are," I murmur, reaching inside my bag, and fishing out my phone.

Still pondering, I power it up and wait for the screen to turn blue.

"Next Thursday, then?" I say, realizing I have no new notifications.

Flashing a dry smile, I flick my gaze to Aretha Stenson.

"Sure."

Her eyes glint as if she'd like to say something else.

Having an inkling of what's in her head, I push to my feet, run a cold hand over my skirt, and gesture in acknowledgment.

"I'll let you know if I need the other spot on Tuesday."

I'm sure I won't.

I've been paying for two weekly sessions for a month now.

The second I noticed my frustration had reached alarming heights, affecting my sleep andwork, I started to book two sessions.

I know how hard it is to get an appointment on short notice. Aretha Stenson isn't busy for nothing.

Shehas this uncanny ability tobecome your best friend for an hour and talk to you like she cares.

Unlike my real-life friends ormyfamily, she can give it to mestraight.

And she just did.

Although I don't know if I can agree with everything she's said. Even if it's true, and I need a high–quality man as opposed to a high–value man… Who says it's easier to find one?

At least, high-value men have pursued me.

What she's really saying is that I need to look outside my circles to find a high-quality man.

But…Would they really want someone like me? And even if they would, how am I supposed to find them?

Going to a book club? Or maybe a real club and dance the night away, hoping to find someone like that?

I doubt it.

Start a hobby to meet new people?

That would probably work.

Now, what hobby?Pottery? Drawing? Taking up a musical instrument?

Or going for the sports hobbies?

Hiking,? Bowling? Scuba diving?

I'm getting exhausted just thinking about it.

In the end, it's up to luck and fate. And fate has brought me Thomas Everett,who isa catch on paper, and Ellis Wilton, a closeted sociopath.

So, fate… Yeah, I have mixed feelings about that.

I could start a hobby, though. Even if I don't find a man, I could at least focus my energy on something else.

Forget about this whole ‘high–value' men and ‘high– quality' men thingy that makes me break in hives.

Why does it have to be so complicated? It wasn't for my parents.

And it wasn't for Jenna, my younger sister, who adores her husband––her high school sweetheart––and rambunctious twins.

Did I even have a high school sweetheart?

I seriously mull over an answer, busy gathering my things––my scarlet bag andcaramel–colored gloves.

Tossing my phone into my purse. I notice the pack of cigarettes at the bottom.

Ignoring them, I shrug my brown raglan–sleeve coaton, grab my bag, and walk toward the exit.

Dr. Stenson accompanies me to the hallway repurposed into a waiting area.

"You know your way out," she says, smiling before glancing around the space.

Cream walls outline a rectangular room with a teal plush couch, a glass–top table, a couple of chairs, and a water cooler.

I'm not in the habit of being nosy, yetfor some reason,I open my mouth.

"I thought I was your last client."

A glint of concern threads through her gaze as she checks the time on her watch.

"Yup… You were."

Her voice says otherwise, and I stop and look at her, waiting for her to erase that awful impression she has given me a lie.

Not that it's my business, but I prefer to trust my therapist.

Although, itmight just bea matter of privacy.

A smile grows across her face when she meets my eyes.

"I'm doing some pro bono work."

"Oh.'

I wait forno good reason. It's just thatherwords have piqued my interest.

Her smile is a bit crooked and tense.

"There's no secret. It's for the state."

I cock an eyebrow.

"The Department of Corrections and Community Supervision."

"Ohh…"

I act as if I know what she means by that and I'm still interested while my focus rolls back to my own problems.

So…

Did I have a high school sweetheart?

"Okay. I'll see you next week," I say, flashing a dazzling smile meant to overshadow my struggling interest inherbusiness.

"Sure," she says, more relaxed, stepping back and closing the door to her office.

I gather her ‘pro bono work' hasn't shown up yet.

Or maybe they're supposed to be brought in by a law enforcement official.

No need to know.

Pushing that thought away, I walk across the waiting area with a hand in my purse, digging out my phone again.

Thomas was supposed to call me and let me know if we had plans for the weekend.

Maybe spending some time alone would the better option, especiallynow in light of what I have discussed with Dr. Stenson.

Holding my bag and gloves with one hand, I drop my phone into my pocket.

No, I didn't have a high school sweetheart.

I was such a nerd and had no time for boys.

Honestly?

They weren't interested in me either. And I can't blame them. I was cold and unreliable like a snowflake.

My boobs were too small, which back then mattered, and there was no rhyme or reason to how I'd grown into my body.

I had skinny legs, flailing arms, and a rear like a tiny tin of cookies. My front was flat like cardboard, and my nipples looked like pimples.

Things have remedied themselves throughout the years.

Quite nicely, I might say.

I laugh quietly.

But everything had sort of come too late when all the crazy years of the hormonal-fueled passion had faded in the background.

Jenna was lucky. She found her man, and so did other friends of mine.

My mother had never admitted it to me––she came from a different era when people weren't so explicit about these things––but early attraction had been abigfactor in her sticking with my father.

My smile fades.

My parents were lucky too.

Despite having chemistry and perhaps a hint of madness, they became best friends before developing deep feelings for each other, and that was the key.

Sharing the same values and never letting each other down, no matter how difficult the journey, was instrumental in making their story last.

They have also never cheated on each other.

Why am I even thinking about that?

Annoyed, I curl my hand around the door handle a little too hard when my phone pings in the bag.

"Now, you come to life," I murmur, snatching the little bugger from inside my purse and swiping my finger across the screen.

A text message fills my view.

Thomas: Dinner and opera tomorrow night? Are you free?

A smile struggles to land on my lips.

Why does it sound like he's going down a list of names?

If I'm not available, maybe the next person is. A pragmatic man indeed.

We're not dating exclusively, anyway. Haven't even talked about it, and Thomas Everett might be good with numbers and fattening his bank account, but he also knows a thing or two about women.

I ponder.

I ponder hard.

Opera, dinner, and having somecompany for the evening? Or going to sleep early and driving to Connecticut thenext morning?

What does the weather look like?

Not great, I suppose.It's been raining for the past few days, and they said… Yup. It's getting cold this weekend, and it might snow again.

There's fog, and the roads are wet.

Horrible weather for a scenic drive.

I stare at the calendar.

March is just around the corner. Valentine's Day has passed, and I don't evenhave a memory ofit, except for the flowers. I receivedtons offlowers from a couple of exes who kept in touch with me because it made good business sense, and then there was Thomas.

And not only him.

I met Thomas and Emile, a French painter, at the same event, a business dinner at the Ritz–Carlton, a few days before Valentine's Day.

The food was delicious–I remember that–and the floral arrangements had caught my eye.

I kept talking about them, several people noted how much I love flowers, and Thomas and Emile took it a step further.

How did Emile get into the mix?

Several artists, fashion designers, and celebrities were invited to a fundraising event after dinner.

Emile… Yes, the Frenchman.

His looks weren't that impressive––not that it's a deal breaker for me.

Decent looking guy with spunk and wit above average.Cultured guy as well. He talked my ear off.

Then.

That was then.

We exchanged numbers.

He said he'd spend a few more days in New York, perhaps an entire week, and wanted to meet me for coffee or drinks.

That was before Valentine's Day.

He called me on Valentine's Day, an hour before a bouquet of roses arrived at my apartment.

The doorman picked it up before I reached my place, and with Emile's flowers and his call came his sincere apologies for notbeing able to meet me.

It wasn't like I'dmade plans with him myselfbutit stung a little.

I'm a big girl, though. I know when something else comes up, a different woman, another possibility, and I get tossed to the side after briefly being considered.

It was his way of dumping me and making it into an event. As courteous as his gesture was, it had stroked his ego more than it had flattered me.

Emile was strikingly different in a long line of bankers, prosecutors, doctors, and just plain well–off people.

I doubt he was the high-quality man Aretha has talked about. His ability to read me stemmed from his need to play games with me, but they all do that.

So Thomas was the obvious choice in the end.

I get ready to type when another message pops up.

Thomas: We can have dinner at my place after the show. I'll cook.

I read that again andstarttyping with one hand.

Me: Cook?

His answer arrives immediately, followed by a laughing emoji.

Thomas: Got your attention, huh? I don't seem the type, I guess.

Me: Not at all.

He seems the type of person who has a personal chef on payroll, not the kind of person who wears an apron and chops veggies for a stew.

Thomas: So?

I weigh my options.

Dinner at his place means sex.

Sex for the first time.

We haven't even kissed or felt each other up, which means it will be stressful, but nothing like a glass of wine can't take care of.

If we do that, I'll need to leave work early, get home, wash my hair, shave my legs, put on a peeling mask, scrub my face, and get dressed.

Then, I'll need to meet him and watch him cook dinner before hitting the sheets with him in his spacious bedroom––his place was on the market a few months back, so I have a pretty good idea of how his bedroom looks.

Hmm.

Everything sounds great.

He's probably a solid eight in bed, has a hard chest, hairy legs, and packsabove averageinches of fire.

I am such a cold-hearted bitch.

I breathe a quiet chuckle again. Since when have I become so cynical about everything?

Well… I've learned from the best.

That's why I need to end these silly games and find a serious man.

I stare at the screen, a frown on my brow.

Maybe he'll surprise me.

When it comes to how good I am in bed, I don't need to show unusual skill as long as I've checked off all the other things onhislist.

And I have.

He won't rock my world, and I won't rock his.

It's just ‘a thing' we both need to check off our lists to see if it's worth wasting our time with each other.

I type.

Me: Works for me.

My phone pings again.

Thomas: Good. I leave work around five. Pick you up at seven.

My thumb flies across the keyboard while I twist the handle, open the door, and, without looking, step straight into him––a world of chiseled muscles, fragrant smoke, a scent of aftershave, and, simply put, testosterone.