Page 6 of Falling for You Again

We split a pulled-pork sandwich on a ciabatta roll with cups of chili on the side. As we eat, I tell her about the email I found and the deal Uncle Bear is apparently negotiating on my behalf.

“I can’t believe he didn’t ask you first,” Emi says when I finish. “Seems presumptuous, even for him.” She knows Uncle Bear. I lived with him when Emi and I met at trade school. She sees him around the apartment building. He lives on the floor above us, while my parentslive in an apartment on the floor below us. Bizarre, I know. But that’s my family. God forbid my parents socialize with me outside work hours, but we’ll live a floor apart from each other.

“I don’t know what’s worse: Uncle Bear selling or he and my parents conspiring against me.”

“Why is he selling?”

“He gave me some lame excuse about the cost of lumber and machinery upkeep. Two things, mind you, we deal with all the time—it’s nothing new. But get this: Dad said they’re selling because ‘they’re tired.’” I air-quote with my fingers. “He and Mom are only in their fifties. They’re too young to retire. Something else is going on with them.”

“Did you ask Bear if he’d sell to you instead?”

“His mind is made up. He’s already started negotiating with Savant.”

“Nothing is signed yet, though?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then you still have time.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.” I scrape my teeth over my lower lip, and Emi squints at me.

“You have a plan.”

“I do.” With a racing heart, I show her the invite. “We’re going to Savant’s gala.”

Emi leans back, perplexed. “I’m always up for a party, but how does this help you?”

“I know someone I think can help me.”

“Who?”

“What are you doing this afternoon?” I ask, purposefully avoiding her question.

“Wrapping up a proposal.” She glances at her calendar. “It’s not due until Monday. Why? What do you have in mind?”

“You and I are going dress shopping.” I haven’t seen my ex-husband in five years, and I want to make an impression.

Chapter 4

The List

I haven’t seen or spoken to Aaron since we amicably parted ways at Logan International six days after we’d met on the plane. We said goodbye right after he gave me the most soul-scorching kiss I’ve ever experienced to this day. While I secretly hoped we’d run into each other again—and even considered deliberately throwing myself in his path only to change my mind because pining over him and what could have been was torture—I’ve been fine with our decision. We agreed: no contact. What had happened in Vegas would stay in Vegas.

So far, we’ve honored our agreement, which we came up with over several glasses of champagne for me, some bourbon on the rocks for him, and a frenzied trip to the lavatory where I’d wrangled him to help me out of my wedding dress. I was already drunk at that point since I hadn’t eaten all day, and I had to pee. I couldn’t fit into the lavatory because of the yards of tulle in Cheryl’s dress. And it turns out, I was much more comfortable wearing just the white slip underneath, which became the perfect clubbing outfit in Vegas.

But more on that later.

I stuffed Cheryl’s dress in an overhead bin under the watchful gazes, raised eyebrows, and little smirks of nearby passengers who’d just witnessed my undressing before Aaron and I collapsed in our seats with mortifiedgiggles. “That’s the first time I’ve been undressed by a stranger,” I said. I couldn’t believe I’d talked him into undoing thirty-three tiny buttons, or that he’d actually done it. This guy would make some woman very happy one day.

He laughed. “It’s a safe bet I’ve never had a day like yours, and I don’t even know what happened.”

“Jilting grooms at the altar isn’t your thing?”

“Ouch. Marriage isn’t my thing. I’m Aaron, by the way. I probably should have introduced myself before I undressed you.”

“Meli.” I took his hand, noticing how smooth his palm felt compared with mine, which was riddled with calluses. I’d also noticed how thick and dark his hair was, appreciating how it flopped over his forehead when he’d bent his head to peer at the buttons on my back. I’d sneaked a peek over my shoulder. And his eyes ... They were a cool steel gray that glinted with blue flecks in a certain light.

“Is it short for Melissa?” When I looked surprised, he said, “I overheard the woman checking our boarding passes.” He rolled up the sleeves of his lavender dress shirt, revealing corded muscle beneath sun-kissed skin and a tattoo on his right forearm. I could barely make out the silhouette of two intertwined branches, one broken with an incomplete bird in flight, before his sleeve slipped down a little, covering the image that sparked a dull ache within me. The silent story etched on his arm seemed both powerful and sad.

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