Can't Stop Loving You

  ALSO BY MIRANDA LIASSON

  Heart and Sole

  A Man of Honor

  The Mirror Lake Novels

  This Thing Called Love

  This Love of Mine

  This Loving Feeling

  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 Miranda Liasson

  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: 9781503941533

  ISBN-10: 1503941531

  Cover design by Eileen Carey

  For my parents, who filled my childhood with books and love.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  The only reason Arabella D’Angelo set foot inside her cousin Lucy’s wedding was family guilt—of the big, whopping Italian variety.

  “We go as a family,” her father, Vito, had announced—more like pronounced in his heavily accented English. So there they were, Bella sitting there with her good friend town veterinarian Ethan Cohen, who’d been more than happy to stand in as her date. She couldn’t think of a better person to help buffer the awkward comments of her former high school classmates, many of whom had come into town for the wedding.

  On one side of her father, her sister, Gina Maria, gave her a sympathetic glance. Gina’s husband, Manuel, kept glancing at his watch, probably thinking that the clock was ticking on the babysitter, and if they could just get home before exhaustion set in, there might still be time for Saturday-night fooling around. On the other side of Vito, Aunt Francesca sat, her posture rigid, looking like she’d come straight from the confessional.

  “This wedding feels more like a funeral,” Aunt Fran said, draining her wine. “Remember the weddings we used to go to in Italy when we were young, Vito? Dancing, celebrating, good wine, not this cheap stuff.”

  “I can’t comment on the dancing, Francesca,” Vito said, glancing at his cane, “but I have to agree with you on the wine.”

  Only her younger brother, Joey, looked happy. Probably because he was eighteen, and thanks to his many cousins, he’d have all the booze he wanted, plus a chance to hit on the junior bridesmaids. What wasn’t to like?

  “Bella, go bring a plate of cookies for us, huh?” her father called out. He was old school; the parents command, the kids hop to it. Or rather, the female kids. His body might be recuperating from back surgery, but he hadn’t lost his army drill-sergeant tone. Post-op pain had simply bumped his demeanor from a nine to a ten on the surliness scale.

  Bella got up and ruffled Joey’s hair, which earned her a duck and a what-the-hell look. She pointed a finger at his face. “Behave yourself,” she warned.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he answered, carefully smoothing his hair back into order. “Just like you taught me. Schmoozing, boozing, and some making out with the ladies.”

  She shot him a severe frown, but his ability to charm mutated it into a half smile. Bella could have smacked her baby brother upside the head and made him do the cookie run, because over her dead body would he become the kind of man who allowed himself to be waited on hand and foot by women, but the opportunity for her own escape was too tempting. “Sure, Pop. Ethan and I will go.” She nudged her friend. “Right, Ethan?”

  “Anything for you,” Ethan said with his usual pleasant smile, reluctantly setting down his own glass of wine.

  “Such a nice guy,” her father said, throwing a hand up into the air. “How come you don’t marry him?”

  “She doesn’t love me,” Ethan said with a shrug and a wink. As they left the table, he added so only Bella could hear, “Although God knows I’ve tried to get you to.”

  She turned to face him and put a hand on his arm. “I do love you. I’ll always love you. You’re my best friend.”

  A stab of guilt gutted her. She kissed him on the cheek. The psychologist in her wondered what to do about Ethan. They’d had a thing a few years back, which had ended amiably, but every time he broke up with his current girlfriend, he kept wanting to get back together.

  “My father loves you so much, he’s forgotten you’re Jewish,” she said.

  “No, he hasn’t. He just knows I love you enough to convert and raise the kids Catholic.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Thank you for coming tonight. I’m not sure I could’ve faced this crowd without you.” Ethan had helped her get on her feet again after the worst crisis of her life, and she owed him everything. They’d been drawn to each other because of their mutual history, but the spark just wasn’t there. Now, he was still smarting from his last relationship and she was on the brink of making some major life changes, although she hadn’t told her family yet—or Ethan, for that matter.

  Despite her best efforts, she just hadn’t met any men who were . . . normal. Not even halfway. Of course, living for all these years in their sleepy tourist town of Mirror Lake, Connecticut, hadn’t exactly given her a potpourri of guys to choose from, even if her friends had made it their main mission in life to fix her up.

  On impulse, she diverted Ethan away from the cookie table and hung a sharp right toward the bar.

  “Godfather’s not going to like this,” Ethan said, glancing behind his shoulder at where her family sat.

  “My dad can wait a little.” A few minutes later, they stood near the cookie table, Ethan holding two full shot glasses.

  “What is it with you I-talians?” he asked, stressing the long I. “I’ve never seen so many homemade cookies in my life.”

  Bella popped a palle di neve, a snowball cookie, into her mouth and gave a shrug. “It’s what we do. People get married, we bake.”

  He handed her a shot glass full of whiskey and clinked his own glass to hers. “Mazel tov,” he said.

  “Salute!” she replied and chugged down the drink. It burned, hot fire sliding down her esophagus, but not enough. She wished for numbness, something one or two shots could never give her. Having half her high school class here was making her nervous. Bringing back all kinds of memories she’d rather forget. Not to mention she kept scanning the room, looking for a tall, sinfully handsome man with gypsy-black hair, olive skin, and a wicked, barely-there smile that used to make her knees go weak.

  He wouldn’t even look the same, she was certain of it. Nine years since she’d seen him last was a long time, and the boyish features she remembered were surely long gone. He’d probably gained thirty pounds. Gone bald. Suffered from the pox. She could only hope.

  “You all right?” Ethan flashed her a concerned look. “It’s like a damn reunion here. You sure you don’t mind hanging around with the only Jew from Our Lady of the Lake High School, class of 2004?”

  “It’s all
right, as long as you don’t drink too much like at the last wedding and ask the DJ to play ‘Hava Nagila.’”

  “I’ll try to behave.” He set their empty glasses down on a nearby table. “By the way, you look drop-dead gorgeous in that red dress. Roman will appreciate that.”

  She gave him what she hoped was a stern look. “Ethan.”

  “I know he’s here . . . somewhere. His mother brought her lab-mix rescue into the clinic the other day and told me he was coming.” Ethan seemed to be watching her reaction carefully.

  She had not dressed to impress Roman Spikonos. She was over him. He was long ago. However, there was nothing wrong with wanting to look your best if you just happened to run into your first love twelve years after you broke up with him, was there? And no other combination inspired confidence more than a lipstick-red dress and heels.

  “Oh, hello, Bella, dear,” her elderly third cousin from Delaware said, giving her a hug. “So beautiful, sweetheart. And this is your boyfriend?”

  “My best friend, Helen,” she said, kissing her on the cheek. “Ethan Cohen.”

  “That’s not a typical Italian name,” Helen said.

  “Our name was Cohenini but we shortened it when we came to this country,” Ethan said without missing a beat.

  “Oh,” Helen said. His reply must have satisfied her, because she turned to Bella. “You’re over thirty now, aren’t you?”

  “No, not quite thirty, actually,” she said.

  “I thought you were thirty-one,” Ethan said. An “oomph” escaped his lips, the result of a strong right elbow to his ribs.

  “Wait right here. Loretta and I have a nice young man for you to meet!”

  “Italian matchmaking,” Ethan whispered. “A favorite pastime of your people. Second only to arranged marriages.”

  “Watch it, or they’ll take you on as their next project.”

  “I’m telling you, Bella, I’m a great catch. Besides getting along so well, we have all the same living habits. You’re organizationally challenged, and I am, too. It could be a perfect match.”

  “Organizationally challenged? My life is very organized!”

  “Professionally, yes. But let’s face it, you’re messy. Someone unkind might even say you’re a slob.”

  She couldn’t help smiling. Ethan was the kindest person she knew. He knew almost everything about her and still loved her. She wished she could love him big and bold and awful, with the kind of love that rips your soul apart and leaves you knowing there’s no one else for you in the entire world. She’d felt that once, when she was very young. Except she almost hadn’t survived the soul-ripping part.

  As for Ethan, her inability to love him like that wasn’t for lack of trying. If she were foolish enough to wait to find a man who had rocked her world like the one who had when she was eighteen, she’d be a white-haired old woman living in a run-down Victorian buried alive under the wardrobe items she’d failed to put away. With seven stray cats to keep her company.

  She wasn’t going to be that woman. Her girlish expectations had only led to tragedy. It would be far better to find a nice man—but not Ethan; he deserved better—who didn’t make her feel like she had a fistful of exploding firecrackers in her stomach. She was determined to be more sensible. Lower her standards, accept someone decent if not thrilling. This was real life, right? Besides, there was that thirty problem right around the corner.

  At least her three best friends were chomping at the bit to help her. As an early birthday present, they’d vowed to help her meet the man of her dreams, each promising to introduce her to a nice guy they knew personally. Why she’d agreed to that cockamamie scheme, she had no idea. Only her sister and her closest friends knew this—but she was thinking of leaving town for good. Joey was leaving for college next year and . . . she intended to leave, too.

  One of her mentors from grad school had let her know about an opening in her practice in Chicago and asked if Bella would be interested in applying for the job. It was a great opportunity, and the icing on the cake was that it was in the city where she’d always dreamed of living.

  Not that her life wasn’t very fulfilling. She was a psychologist, a damn good one. She loved her job. The practice she and Maggie McShae, her best friend and business partner, had started was building nicely, and they got along well as friends and partners. Together they’d made their office on Main Street beautiful and relaxing, full of feng shui and calming influences that hopefully made clients want to unburden themselves of all their problems. It was evidence that she’d finally succeeded at something, after all those years of struggle, of feeling like she was the object of everyone’s scrutiny.

  Lucy, the bride, whizzed past, a vision in white, towing her groom behind her. She was six months pregnant. Bella’s father hadn’t said anything about that, short of sharing an eye roll with her long-suffering aunt. He hadn’t passed any judgment, either, something he was very fond of doing. Seemed like Bella was the only one who felt his quiet disapproval drape over her like a veil, as it had for years.

  And, oh, Lucy looked so happy. Glowing, really. Bella saw it in the way she looked at her new husband, how he held her as they approached the dance floor, how he gently caressed her baby bump, like Lucy and the baby were precious to him. Like they couldn’t wait to get their life together started. Bella couldn’t help but feel her stomach seize up into a ball of knots.

  Twelve years ago, there’d been no wedding for her, only a pregnancy. In high school, no less, and she’d lost the baby at nearly five months. The town had long since stopped talking about it, but bits of it persisted in sideways glances from judgmental old ladies, and in the awkwardness that lingered on the edges of her conversations with people who didn’t know her very well.

  That incident had shaped her, forged her character, taught her who her real friends were. It had toughened her and made her extra guarded with her heart. Another reason to leave. Here in Mirror Lake, she’d never quite escaped the label of that girl who got pregnant in high school, poor thing. Just once, she yearned to know what it was like not to have to steel herself against people’s curious questions, or their sympathy, or any preconceived notions they might harbor. She wanted to know what it felt like to be normal, unblemished by past mistakes. Here, her slate would never quite be erased clean. And that was the biggest reason of all to get out.

  “Bella, hi,” someone called from behind her. She turned to find Christy Abrams, one of her old soccer teammates from high school, standing in the bar line. “You look great,” she said.

  Christy still had a sunny, welcoming smile. She now wore her strawberry-blonde hair in a chic chin-length cut with highlights. Cute. “You, too.”

  “Well,” she said, smoothing down her dress over her hips, “never quite lost that baby weight after the last one. Dave and I have three now, two boys and a girl. Here’re their pics.”

  Christy flipped through her phone, displaying shots of freckled kids with various gaps in their wide grins. “They’re beautiful,” Bella said, and she meant it. A pang hit her, an old one. The baby she lost would have been almost twelve years old now. Twelve! Still hard to think about, but maybe tonight was just stirring up those old painful memories.

  “We live in Jersey. Dave runs an architectural firm, and I do the accounting. I heard you’ve got an office downtown. Got any kids?”

  “No, no kids.” She was careful to keep the smile on her face from turning melancholic.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Hey, no, it’s all right. Really. Oh, you’re next,” she said, pointing to the space in front of her in the bar line. “So nice to see you.”

  “Great to see you, too. I’m sitting by a bunch of the other soccer girls—Janet, Corinne, Stacey—come on over, okay?”

  “Oh, thanks. Sure. Sounds fun.”

  It didn’t sound like fun. She hadn’t seen them in light-years. After she’d gotten pregnant senior year, she’d had to leave her Catholic high school, an
d they’d all stopped being her friends. Not that she blamed them or even held any grudges after all these years . . . it was just awkward for everyone. And for a girl who’d done everything perfectly up until then, it had been a hard blow.

  A blow that was long past. She’d gotten through it, all of it, and had come out on top. She had nothing to be ashamed of. She was successful now. A great education, a great job. But she was lonely. She wanted to find that special someone, have a family and a yard and a dog. Did it only seem that all of her classmates had three kids and counting?

  Helen was back, towing Cousin Loretta. “Come this way,” she commanded. Before Bella could protest, the two women had steered her away from Ethan, who signaled to her that he was going to talk to a nearby group of old friends, and toward a table where a man in a green tweed sports coat waited. He smiled as they approached. With horror, she realized it was Les Vanderhaven. The guy who’d had a crush on her all through high school. He’d settled a couple towns over and she rarely saw him, except that he did her family’s taxes and she knew from her aunt that he still occasionally asked about her. She must’ve stopped moving because the women actually nudged her forward.

  “Les, dear, she’s ba-ack,” Helen said in a singsong voice.

  He looked a lot older than thirty, and not just because of his receding hairline. His middle was paunchy and he looked so . . . pale. Belly-of-a-fish-washed-up-on-the-beach pale. Like he never saw the light of day in that CPA office of his.

  Ew. Bad visual.

  “Hey, Les, great to see you,” she said, giving him a hug. He’d always struck her as being a little hapless, and that impression still held.

  “Bella, hi! God, you look great! Your aunt told me you were coming tonight and that you weren’t dating anyone. Wow, you look fabulous!” He raked her up and down in a way that told her he was still interested, and that gave her the creeps.

  Les stood. “Hey, how about we get a drink?”

  She was about to say no when he grabbed her arm and started walking. “You know I’ve been divorced for a year,” he said, pushing up his glasses. “Melanie left me for a tax attorney. Except they embezzled some funds from the nonprofit they worked for and they’re both serving time. Go figure.”