Page 38 of Falling for Mr. Wrong
Damien
Damien’s phone buzzes on the counter, the nameRonnieflashing across the screen.
He wipes the sawdust from his hands and answers, his voice already shifting into the easy cadence he reserves for his friend. “Hey, man. What’s up?”
A beat later, he’s grabbing his jacket. “Yeah, hang on. Signal’s better out back.”
I watch him push through the back door, his voice fading into the yard.
The kitchen is quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge and the rhythmic tick of the old wall clock. I turn back to the cabinet fronts I’ve been sanding, my hands moving on autopilot, trying not to think too hard about last night… or this morning.
The floorboards creak behind me.
I glance up, expecting Damien — but it’s not him.
Colton Lawson is standing in the doorway, framed by sunlight, grinning like he just walked into a surprise party.
“Hey, stranger,” he says, like it hasn’t been years since we’ve been in a room together. Like we didn’t end things with more silence than words.
I straighten, my pulse jumping. “Colton.”
He looks around the kitchen, his gaze lingering on the stripped cabinets, the half-finished trim work, the scattered tools. “Didn’t expect to find you here.”
“This is where the work is,” I say evenly, though my fingers tighten on the sandpaper.
“Right,” he says slowly, stepping inside. “Work.”
There’s an edge under the word, subtle enough that anyone else might miss it. But I hear it.
Colton’s smile is easy, practiced — the same one that used to make my seventeen-year-old self melt. Now it just makes me wary.
“Mind if I steal you for a minute?” he asks, already nodding toward the front door. “Just to catch up.”
I hesitate, glancing toward the back where Damien’s voice is still faintly audible through the screen door. “I’m in the middle of—”
“Won’t take long,” he says, and it’s not really a question.
I set down the sandpaper and follow him out to the porch. The late-morning air is crisp, tinged with salt from the ocean. Across the street, my mom’s house sits quiet. For a second, I wish I were there instead of here.
Colton leans against the railing, arms crossed. “So… you and my brother, huh?”
I keep my voice neutral. “We’re… seeing each other.”
His eyes narrow just slightly. “Seeing each other. That’s one way to put it.”
I bristle. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I know Damien,” he says, leaning in a little. “Better than anyone. And I know you think you do, too — but you don’t. Not really.”
My pulse spikes, but I keep my tone even. “I think I can make up my own mind about who I trust.”
He tilts his head, smiling without warmth. “Then do yourself a favor. Ask him about the night Aaron died. Ask him why he really left town and didn’t look back.”
The words land like a stone in my stomach. “Why are you telling me this?”
Colton’s smile softens just enough to make it feel like a performance. “Because you were important to me once. And I’d hate to see you get hurt again.”
Before I can respond, the back door slams, and Damien’s voice carries into the house.
