Five Ways to Fall (20 page)

“Accident in his wood shop about nine years ago.” I really don’t want to get into this with Reese. She’s got her own family issues and if I throw mine into the mix, we’ll become all about feelings instead of fun.

She lets out a low whistle. “A carpenter losing his arm? That’s a raw deal.”

“Yeah.” I throw my car into first gear and have us heading down the driveway, the oaks I used to climb as a child—when I was already completely disillusioned about my parents’ marriage—providing us with cover along the way. “He definitely took it hard.”

“I can’t believe you’re letting me take it all without even a blow job.” Reese’s eyes brighten as she surveys the contents once again, this time standing on her front porch.

“How about we don’t joke about shit like that with Jack in the house, okay?” His Escalade is in the driveway, so I know he’s home. That’s the last thing I need him to hear. Plus Reese just saying the words “blow job” is killing me right now. “And consider it fair trade for all the hours you’re going to be putting in with me this week.”

“Do you know who loves raspberry jam?” One eyebrow arches expectantly, holding up a red jar. “Mason.”

I chuckle, already seeing where her evil little mind is moving. “Let me guess . . .”

“Maybe I’ll eat it right out of the jar in front of him. With a spoon.” She grins viciously, and I have to stifle my loud laughter.

“He’s giving it to your best friend now, so maybe you two should try to get along.”

She cringes. “Right, I forgot about that. Thanks for reminding me . . . again.”

Wary of standing here any longer, I back up a few steps. “I’d better get out of here before Jack fires me.” If I don’t, I’m liable to do something stupid. Like kiss her, because that’s all I’ve been thinking about doing the entire ride home. Jeez, I need to get laid. It’s been weeks. That’s a new record for me.

“Not with this, he won’t.” Reese waves a tinfoil package of meatloaf leftovers in my face. “In fact, he may even sell me to you if he thinks it’ll get him more of Wilma’s home cooking because unless Mason’s cooking, the only thing that gets used around here is the microwave.”

“Mason cooks for you guys?”

She rolls her eyes. “Sometimes. Tofu and seaweed and . . .” Her face scrunches up with displeasure. “I don’t eat it.” Reaching behind her to grab the door handle, she stalls a bit and then offers, “Thanks for coming with me to shoot my ex and his wife today.”

“Anytime.”

“I had fun today.” And then she frowns as if she’s surprised by that realization.

“It
was
fun,” I admit with a smile. “I can’t remember the last time I spent an entire day with a woman without getting laid. Hell, even with sex, I don’t think I’ve ever spent an entire day with a woman.”

She shakes her head at me but there’s a smile at the end of it. “Where are you going now?”

“To a cold shower,” I admit, taking several reluctant steps backward, away from her. I’ve never been so excited to jerk off in my life. “See you tomorrow morning?”

With a wink and a fake lusty voice she offers, “Think of me,” before cracking the door and stepping through.

And . . . I’m rock hard again.

Like I wasn’t already going to be thinking about her.

Chapter 15

REESE

“I come bearing homemade preserves from the Indian River grove district.” I drop the box down on the counter in front of Jack.

Newspaper in one hand, chopsticks in the other, he first glances at the crate and then up over his bifocals at me. “You paid for those, right?”

“
Paid?
” I pause for effect and then wink. “They were a gift. There’s some homemade cooking here, too.”

That piques his interest. Jack’s a lot of things, but a good cook is not one of them. He frees a hand to reach in and pull out a jar. “What were you doing in the Indian River grove district today?” His brow furrows as he reads the label, adding, “At the Bernard
Morris
Grove.” By the suspicious look on his face, he’s already made the connection.

“Oh, you know . . . just helping out a friend.” I leave it at that, reaching for the chocolate milk jug in the fridge, feeling his inquisitive eyes boring into my back. “Are Mason and Lina here?”

With a sigh, he lets the question that I know is on the tip of his tongue go and answers mine. “They went out to dinner and a movie. They seem to get along well. She even took him shopping today for some new clothes and things.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Lina will discover how weird your son is soon enough and run for the hills.”

He chuckles. “Well, she’s best friends with
you
, so she must be
extremely
tolerant.” Pausing to watch me fill a glass—I drink out of the jug only when Mason’s around nowadays—, he finally asks, “Have you spoken to your mother in a while?”

“No. Why?”

He pulls his glasses off. “She called the office this afternoon, looking for you. Asked that you call her back as soon as you got home.” He watches me carefully. “It sounded important.”

“Huh.” First my cell phone, now Jack? If this were a typical woman, there’d be cause for concern. But what is important in the world of Annabelle usually doesn’t translate to important. Though I have to admit that I’m intrigued.

“Yes . . . ‘huh.’ My thoughts exactly.” His mouth twists with distaste as he asks, “Please do call her back, sooner rather than later. I’d prefer not to get daily phone calls from my ex-wife.” Once Annabelle gets something in her head, she’s like a dog on a bone.

That’s why I immediately pull my phone out. “Well, let’s just see what Mommy Dearest wants, shall we?”

Her deceptively soft voice—still seductive at forty—fills my ear on the second ring. “Reese?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you have your phone with you today?”

“I did.”

A pause. “So you screened me.”

“Nice to hear from you, too. It’s been a while. I just got home and Jack told me you called him.”

“I’m surprised he gave you the message.”

A sharp pain shoots up my jaw and I realize that I’m gnashing my teeth. That’s always been a problem for me around Annabelle. At one time, I even wore a mouth guard at night because I was grinding my teeth subconsciously. It wasn’t until I moved out that the constant throb abated. She’s probably into the martinis tonight. It’s sometimes hard to tell because she holds her alcohol so well. “What do you need?” That’s what this is about—let’s be honest.

She huffs a sigh. “Ian and I are holding a charity ball in November and we think it would look best if our
entire
family is in attendance.” So this is a political thing. I guess she’s found someone perfectly suited to her, as concerned about his appearance as she is about hers. “I’ll send a suitable dress for you to wear. Have you gained any weight? And I hope your hair isn’t still that hideous color. You’ll need to have that fixed, if it is.”

I roll my eyes but don’t respond.

“I have the perfect escort for you. He’s a—”

“No.” We’ve been down this road before. When I was sixteen, she made me go to a stuffy country-club Christmas party with one of Barry’s law firm partners’ sons. The guy was a twenty-four-year-old med student with aspirations of becoming a gynecologist. Call me sexist—I don’t really care—but in this day and age of equal rights and women becoming doctors, I wonder about men who choose to poke around in vaginas all day long as a career. Naturally, I spent the entire meal interrogating him on his intentions and his motivations.

Much to Annabelle’s horror.

“Well, I can hardly trust you to bring a suitable man with you. Look what you married.”

“I’m not going, Annabelle.”

“What do you mean you’re not going?” That slight, distinctive whine escapes now. She has definitely been drinking.

I’ve never said no to Annabelle, as much as I’ve always wanted to. Sure, I’ve put up a fuss, I’ve made myself out to be the spoiled little rich brat, I’ve usually made great strides to damage our relationship further by the end of the night, but I’ve never just given her a flat-out no. I’m not sure if I ever believed it was an option.

And now that I have said no, she has no idea how to handle it. “That’s impossible. There will be publicity behind this and eyes on us and on me, on our family values.”

Annabelle and family values? There’s an oxymoron.

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine without me there.”

“After all that I’ve done for you—”

“I’ll think about it and let you know.” There’s no way in hell I’m going, but I’ve picked a bad time to argue with her. The woman is the master at painting herself the wounded war hero. When she’s drunk, it’s tenfold. I can’t deal with it right now. I live four hours away from her now, anyway.
Good luck, Annabelle.
“I’ve gotta go.”

“Fine.” The phone clicks, leaving me staring at my phone in bewilderment.

“Anything important?” Jack asks, feigning disinterest.

“Yes. Earth-shattering. Annabelle’s having a party and she wants me there to make her look like the respectable, loving mother.”

“You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do, Reesie. You’re an adult now.”

I smile. “I know. Thanks, Jack. I’m tired. Going to call it a night.” I collect the two jars of raspberry jam from the box. “If you see Jiminy Cricket tonight, tell him I have something he wants and am open to negotiations beginning in the a.m.”

Jack watches me pass, shaking his head. “Weren’t you two going to start acting like adults?”

“Soon.”

Lying in bed, I find myself staring up at the ceiling for a good hour, trying to rid myself of the ache that comes with thinking about Jared and what I saw in the paintball hut. But there was a part of today—a few hours, out in the grove with Ben—when I felt steady, like I’d stepped off of this emotional roller coaster I’ve been riding. There’s magic in the air up there, in the walls of that big, old house. I can feel it. The kind of magic that has protected generations of life from its precious beginning until its fragile end; has watched love blossom and then die, has listened to the sobs of a broken heart and the eventual laughter again. And much like the people within it, though slightly run down, it still stands proud, welcoming new people into its life.

Between the silent strength and comfort of the house and the expanse of the grove, I found myself able to take deep, lung-filling inhales of fresh air, after months of only shallow draws of something stale and altogether unsatisfying.

Or maybe it wasn’t the magic or the fresh air at all. Maybe it was the company.

On impulse, I grab my phone and scan through my speed dial.

“You missed me that much already?” a very groggy Ben answers.

I feel my mouth pull into a smile of its own accord. “How was your shower?”

He heaves a sigh. “Quick and productive. I was almost asleep.” I’m immediately hit with an image of him stretched out in his bed. Naked. This isn’t good. Those kinds of fantasies were always reserved for one guy and one guy only. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Just . . .” I hesitate. “Thanks for today.”

“You already said that.” There’s a smile in his voice.

“Right, I did.” He’s going to think I’m an idiot.