Page 13 of Fall For You

I look at her in surprise. “What are we talking about?”

“That ‘it’s your funeral’ crack. Was that his asshat way of reminding me—of reminding us both, I guess—that I wasn’t here when your dad died, that I missed his funeral?”

“No,” I say automatically. “Of course not.” Truth is, I guess it could be. I have no idea what goes on in either of my brother’s heads most of the time—and that’s fine by me. But it doesn’t sound like something Cash would think to say. Not to mention the fact that I’m pretty sure Jo’s statement isn’t even accurate. I think she probablywasstill here when Dad died. She just hadn’t known it at the time. “I think that’d be a little too on the nose, even for Cash.”

“Well, whatever,” Jo replies in unconvincing tones. “Thank you for defending me.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, and then quickly shut up, before any unwanted words fall out of my mouth. I’m vividly aware that she’d also defendedme. And that I should probably be thanking her, as well. But I can’t. It’s entirely too likely that what I’ll end up saying is something along the lines of, “I’ll always defend you.” And while that’s more than likely true, it’s also more than a little pathetic.

“Look Jo, it’s getting late and I’m tired. So why don’t you clear out now—all right? We can pick this up again tomorrow.”

Jo nods once and picks up her glass. But then she hesitates. She puts the glass down again, untouched, and says, “You know, Valentine’s Day is right around the corner. Which means we’ve got a lot of work to do, especially if you want this dinner to really slap, and not a lot of time in which to do it. I’dreallylike to be able to get started first thing in the morning. Can’t we just talk a little bit more about it tonight? It doesn’t have to be for long, but I’d sure love to hammer out at least a few of the details.”

“Gimme a minute,” I tell her before heading into the kitchen. One of the nice things about owning a restaurant like this is that I rarely have to cook dinner for myself—there’s almost alwayssomething left over that I can snack on. And one of the best things about having a competent staff, is I can trust them to know their business and to close up on their own.

Apparently, however, I can also trust them to meddle inmypersonal business whenever they feel the need; even going so far as to give my baby brother a call whenever they think I’m at risk of making a fool of myself.

Or was I actually supposed to believe that Cash’s showing up here tonight was nothing more than coincidence? Not too likely.

If I can meet with Jo now and avoid having her stop back here tomorrow; I figure that’s gotta be a good thing, right?

Even so, I’m about ninety-five percent certain that what I’m about to do is gonna turn out to be an even bigger mistake than whatever they thought they were saving me from.

“C’mon,” I say as I re-enter the dining room, a short while later—bag of food in hand. I head toward the interior door that leads to the second floor and nod at Jo to follow. “Let’s go upstairs—we can talk there.”

She gets to her feet, slinging the strap of her messenger-style bag over her shoulder, and crosses the room to join me. “So, what’s upstairs, anyway?” she asks as I’m unlocking the door that leads to the stairwell.

I answer without thinking.,“My apartment.” I hear the sharp intake of breath, along with the startled hitch in her step and turn in time to catch a look of wide-eyed trepidation on her face.

I shake my head, feeling weary. “What now? You wanted to talk, right?”

“Yes, but…”

“Well, this is probably the only place in town where I can guarantee we’ll be able to talk without being either overheard or interrupted. Besides, my personal computer is up there. And I have all my notes for the dinner on it. So if you’re gonna need any kind of details, we’d probably have ended up there, anyway.”

“Okay,” she says, shrugging as though it doesn’t matter either way—which it shouldn’t.

“Okay, good,” I reply, still hoping I know what I’m doing, still halfway convinced that I don’t. Then I hold the door open and motion her to precede me.

Jocelyn

Carter’s restaurantis housed in one of the historic buildings that line downtown Main Street. I’m impressed with what he’s done with the space, so proud of him for everything he’s achieved. And I really wasn’t lying when I told him that I wanted to help him with this dinner he’s planning. We made a good team, once upon a time. And, especially now, since I have to be in town anyway, it just makes sense.

I really did think I’d be able to keep things professional between us, but I guess I hadn’t considered how hard it would be to ignore all the same things that always fucked us up before. Things like chemistry, force of habit, FOMO, sheer, bloody-minded stubbornness—hisandmine—and my own, out-of-control imagination. Everything that kept us from walking away from each other when logic, logistics, common sense and even public opinion, were all suggesting that we should.

I did think we were doing okay when we were in the restaurant. But that’s a public place, after all. And I guess I thought the knowledge that we were being observed would keep us both on our best behavior—which might even have worked, if Cash hadn’t stuck his nose in. But taking this private? Moving our conversation to the intimate confines of Carter’s apartment? That’s just added to the complications. Because there was a timewhen his home was supposed to be mine. And there are parts of my heart that still remember that.

The apartment in question takes up most of the building’s second floor. The rooms are spacious and uncluttered—by which I mean there’s not much here in the way of furniture. Ceiling fans, set high in the steeply pitched ceiling, probably help to keep the temperature in the apartment at reasonable levels—when they’re turned on, which they’re not currently. All classic Carter.

One of the first things I noticed when I walked through the door is the bank of windows (big enough to walk through) that line the front wall and open onto the covered balcony that runs along the length of the building and shades the sidewalk below.

I can imagine standing out there on the Fourth of July, cheering as the annual parade passes by below me. Or on New Year’s Eve—drinking a glass of champagne as fireworks light up the sky. Or even sitting out there, any day at all, to enjoy an early morning cup of coffee as I watch Heartwood wake up around me.

Not that any of that’s ever going to happen, of course. Not for me, at least. But hey, I can still dream, right?

I think this place has the potential to be turned into something really special if someone who knew what they were doing (in terms of decorating and interior design) were to take it in hand. Unfortunately, those have never been Carter’s strengths.

We were together as a couple for nearly five years—the four years that I was in college, plus another five-or-six-months or so on either end. During that whole time, Carter was living in a trailer that someone had set up on his family’s land. The aesthetics are the same in both places. In other words, basic furnishings, minimal décor, and no discernible attempt at style;none of which ever seemed to bother him, to be honest. And it doesn’t look like much has changed, in that respect.

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