Page 3 of Fall For You

But he’s stopped in his tracks and pivoted to face me. “What’re you doing? Are you…smelling me?”

“Hm?” I ask, feeling dreamy for a second as a flood of memories inundate my exhausted brain. Then reality splashes me in the face. “Oh, no. God, no. You said you’d brought food, right?” I gesture at the bag he’s carrying. “That’s what I’m smelling.”

That damn smirk is back in place. “The bag is sealed, Jo. You must be part bloodhound if you think you can pick up a scent through that.”

Ignoring the small part of me that’s wondering—did he just call me a dog?—I shrug with elaborate unconcern. “I can’t smell anything. Which is why I’m still not convinced you’re telling the truth.”

He studies my expression for a long moment then says, “You know I walked over here, right?”

“No. But what’s that got to do with anything?”

“It means I don’t have my truck with me today. So, you might as well quit scowling at me, because there’s no way you’re getting a ride in it.”

“Ha-fucking-ha,” I growl through gritted teeth. I cannotbelievehe went there. “I see the last eleven years haven’t done much to improve your sense of humor.”

“No,” he says, the smile falling from his face like a tree-limb in an ice storm. “There hasn’t been much that was funny.”

Then he turns and stalks away from me, heading into the front room where Vi greets him delightedly; leaving me alone, seething in the hallway.

“Welcome home, Jo,” I mutter to myself as I close the door. “What the hell else were you expecting?”

CHAPTER

TWO

Carter

So much formy good intentions! I swear, my plans for the morning didnotinclude needling Jo within minutes of setting eyes on her. But here we are. The two of us have always been exceptionally good at getting underneath each other’s skins and I guess her eleven-year absence hasn’t changed that.

It hasn’t changed a lot of other things either, unfortunately. Like how she looks and how I respond to her.

She still looks like home—which might not sound all that hot to you, but that’s how it struck me on my first trip home from college. She looked like everything familiar, comfortable, desirable, mine; like everything I’d been missing, without even realizing I’d been missing it. I’d been struck speechless, back then, by the realization. And, if anything, that feeling is even stronger now.

Perhaps because I’m older, or she’s older, or I have a bigger stock of memories to draw from. I know how she tastes now. I know how her skin feels, soft and warm beneath my palms. I know how her voice sounds, all husky and low, whispering secrets in the dark. I know the bite of her nails in my shoulder,the slide of her thighs as her legs wrap my hips, the look of surrender in her eyes…

But I also remember the pain of betrayal, the agony of loss. That sense of disbelief giving way to fury—at her, but also at my own stupidity—was fucking soul destroying. And I won’t go there again. I can’t.

Vi Barnes is in good spirits, not surprisingly since I’m sure she’s missed Jo even more than I have. But I also feel like she’s looking a little peaky today—although she denies it when I ask. Which is also not a surprise; she really is every bit as stubborn as her niece.

I’m wishing now that I could have had a moment alone with Jo (without the snark) so that I could’ve questioned her about her aunt’s condition; things like how she slept last night, whether or not she’s eaten anything yet today, if she’s been taking her meds like she’s supposed to. I’d also like to get a sense of what Jo’s take is on Vi’s current mental state. Has she noticed any unusual confusion? Is she blaming it all on the concussion?

On the other hand, maybe I don’t want to broach that subject. Because if Jo’s not back for good, if she’s truly planning on disappearing for another ten years, that changes what she ‘needs to know’ when it comes to Vi’s prognoses. Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss.

“Sit down, Carter,” Vi scolds, in fretful tones, interrupting my spiraling thoughts. “I’m getting a crick in my neck from trying to look up at you.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I answer meekly, seating myself gingerly on a venerable looking chair whose resale value I probably don’t want to know. I’ve always been slightly uncomfortable here. Everything inside the house—less Jo and myself—is an antique. Some are irreplaceable or expensive; others are delicate, fragile, or threadbare; but all of them are old. And, like Vi herself, perhaps not as sturdy as they once were.

Vi used to joke that the whole reason she opened Remnants and Relics (one of two competing antique stores that grace our downtown square) was so that she could divest herself of some of the excess furniture her husband’s family had been amassing for years.

There are only two things you need to know about that. Number one, I’ve never been altogether sure that she was joking. And, number two, given the sheer number of items currently crammed into the parlor, it doesn’t appear the scheme has worked.

“Oh, Jo; there you are,” Vi smiles at her niece who’s followed me into the room.

Jo murmurs assent, but she’s still glaring at me suspiciously, scowling like I’d been caught doing something heinous. Before I can inquire as to exactly what her problem is, what she thinks I’ve done wrongthis time, Vi turns to me and asks, “Did you know Jo was back?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I answer quickly, before Jo can find it odd. Or before she can confuse Vi further by pointing out that we just saw each other at the door a moment ago. “Luis and I were discussing it at the restaurant just this morning.”

“I still don’t understand how you found out,” Jo grumbles. “Ididn’t even know I was coming until a couple of days ago.”

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