What it Takes to Fall

by Ellis, C. R.

  “Sorry I’m a little…” Every word in the English language evaded me when my eyes landed on Bryce’s bare, chiseled torso before he quickly finished throwing a t-shirt over his head. The ridges of his abs, the tousled state of his hair, and the intoxicating scent of his shower gel hit me all at once.

  Turned on. Hot and bothered. Tongue-tied.

  Okay, so not every word evaded me.

  How can my timing be both perfect and cruel at the same time?

  “Early?” he asked, the corner of his mouth pulling into the slightest smirk.

  I nodded and cleared my throat, trying to pretend I wasn’t still picturing the smooth plane of muscle hiding underneath his plain black tee. Good god. The man shouldn’t be allowed to own clothes. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. I thought there’d be more traffic.”

  He shook his head, dismissing my apology before reaching out to take the bags from my arms. “No worries, Uno. Come on in.” He stepped back, and I followed, eager to see the place Bryce called home. “So…this is my place. Well, the less chaotic version. It usually looks like a tornado came through and left behind an entire toy store. Come by five minutes after Peyton gets home and you’ll see what I mean.”

  I smiled at the thought. Somehow, picturing Bryce as a dad just felt right. Like the unknowns and questions I’d had about his life the past couple years now made sense.

  “This is nice,” I said, my eyes roaming across the open space.

  The front door led right into the living room, which was small, but Bryce had utilized the space efficiently. A brown microfiber couch sat on one side of the room, angled toward the entertainment center, with a small table separating it from a matching recliner. On one side of the entertainment center sat a box overflowing with blocks and books and various toys, and on the other side was a ride-on plastic car and a plastic miniature grill.

  Photos of Peyton adorned the walls, some candid, and some from a birthday party. The largest was a photo of them together; Bryce’s arms were outstretched, and Peyton was sailing through the air with a look of pure glee etched into her features. The happiness captured by the photographer was palpable and apparently contagious because I felt my lips tug into a smile and a warmth fill my heart.

  “That was her first birthday.”

  I jumped at the sound of Bryce’s voice right beside me, unaware that he’d already set down my bags in the kitchen and come back.

  “It’s a great shot. She seems like a really happy baby.”

  “She is. Mostly. Colic was a special kind of torture for both of us when she was younger, but now she’s sleeping like a champ, and we’ve got a good routine going. I’m not sure that will still be the case when she gets back from Washington, though.”

  “I’m sure you’ll both adjust back into your routine once she’s home. How much longer will she be up there?”

  “Couple more weeks. That’s the plan, anyway.”

  “Having doubts?”

  “I’d be lying if I said no, but I know this is good for both of us. I just wasn’t expecting my separation anxiety to be worse than hers. Every time we FaceTime she’s happy, and I know she’s having a good time. David and Louise live on a farm; I really can’t compete with that. Yesterday she ran away from the camera while we were talking because she saw the pig outside. She’s obsessed with him. Never thought I’d be replaced by swine.”

  I laughed, peeling my eyes away from the photos to catch Bryce’s smile.

  “It could be worse, Bryce. One day she’ll be ditching you for a boy.”

  His eyes went round, like he’d never contemplated that scenario before. “Yeah, but I’ve got, what, like twenty years before that day comes?”

  “More like fourteen. Fifteen if you’re lucky.”

  Bryce groaned and let out a few muffled curses before following me into the kitchen. “On that note, I think it’s time to bust out the wine. I’ve got sauvignon blanc or a cabernet; I wasn’t sure which would work better with your plans for dinner.”

  “Let’s go with the cab.”

  Bryce grabbed glasses and uncorked the wine while I started pulling out ingredients and asking where to find the pots and pans I’d need. We fell into an easy groove with Bryce perfectly filling the role of sous chef. He started the sauce while I got the chicken prepped and into the oven.

  I plopped myself on the counter and grabbed my wine, taking a sip and watching Bryce as he finished chopping onions and garlic. His movements were rhythmic and methodical, like he was totally in his element.

  “Do you cook often?” I asked, willing my brain to stop thinking about how sexy he looked in an apron. It wasn’t one of those lame ‘Kiss the Cook’ aprons, which usually elicited an eye-roll from me; just a plain red one with a few stains that gave it authenticity.

  Bryce in glasses? Hot.

  Bryce in glasses and an apron? It’s a miracle I wasn’t drooling.

  “Not as often as I’d like,” he replied, interrupting my totally-not-sexual-at-all thoughts. I forced my eyes away from his chest to the pureed tomatoes he was pouring into the saucepan. “I enjoy cooking, but it’s not easy to do it alone with a toddler. Occasionally I’ll cook for myself after Peyton goes to sleep though. What about you?”

  “I love it. It’s one of the first things I remember doing with Nana and Pops when we were little. I’d get a whiff of whatever Nana was cooking, and, at first, Sophia and I would watch her and Pops from a distance. But when they realized we were curious, Pops found kid-friendly recipes so we could help. Eventually, it became a big deal for us to all cook as a family on Sundays. I could ask if they still have the recipes if you want them. For when Peyton’s older.”

  Bryce looked up, and I couldn’t read his expression. A smile slowly spread across his face. “I’d like that. Thanks, El.”

  A comfortable silence settled between us while Bryce set the table and I finished the sauce and threw a salad together. (I guess he’s lucky after all.) Soft music drifted into the kitchen from the small dining room, and I smiled as recognition dawned. I’d only mentioned my love for Ed Sheeran’s music in passing the night we played Mario Kart, and I wasn’t even sure Bryce had been listening.

  After filling our plates and refilling our glasses, Bryce picked his up and held it out. “To being lucky,” he declared with a smirk that was equal parts smug and sexy.

  “To blank slates,” I countered. We both let the words hang in the air for a few seconds. His smirk softened into something apologetic, so I quickly added, “And to getting lucky.”

  He laughed, the sound dispelling any remaining tension. “You said it, not me.”

  We dug into the food, and as soon as the first bite of crispy, golden deliciousness hit my tongue I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I had sat down to a homemade dinner outside of work with someone other than Milo or my family. These days it was protein bar breakfasts and too-tired-to-bother-with-it microwavable dinners.

  But as I looked around and saw a high chair with one of those rubber bibs hooked on the side, I realized Bryce probably only did sit-down dinners. Just one of the ways our lives are so different.

  I shook the thought off, determined not to over-analyze things.

  “Actually, there’s something else we should also toast,” I said after a few minutes of eating in silence. “I talked to Sophia and my grandparents about the idea for adding a venue to the property, and they all loved it. I can’t believe it’s really going to happen!”

  He leaned forward and covered my free hand with his, his eyes bright with the same excitement I felt. “El, are you serious? That’s amazing! I told you they’d all be supportive.”

  We clinked our glasses, and I waited until he was mid-sip to ask, “Think you can handle being under me a little longer than we originally thought?” Bryce choked on his wine, and I didn’t even try to contain my grin. “Professionally, that is.”

  He coughed to clear his throat, and I almost felt guilty for my little game.

  But then he said, “I
’m prepared to be under you for as long as it takes, El.” He paused to scan my face so slowly that my cheeks flooded with heat. “Professionally, of course.”

  I opened my mouth to hit him with a witty comeback, but my brain chose this moment to focus entirely on the image of his abs. Of what they’d look like under me.

  “The question is,” he mused, smirking as I finally refocused my attention on his face. “Can you handle me? I mean, longer hours might mean some late nights together. And you know what late nights can lead to…”

  My mouth gaped. “Wha…uh, what’s that?”

  “Mario Kart showdowns. And definitely a pool rematch.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh?” he echoed, tilting his head to the left. “What did you think I was going to say?”

  “I don’t know. Something…else. Inappropriate. Dirty.” I tried—and failed—to keep the lust out of my voice. I’d never been big on innuendo or dirty talking. But with Bryce…everything was different. I craved it with him. It was like the tiny glimpses he’d given me of that side of him were just enough to make me want more.

  “Who’s the gutter-minded perv now?”

  “Guess you’re rubbing off on me.”

  He arched a brow and shook his head before leaning forward to narrow the gap between us. I sucked in a breath and locked my eyes onto his lips. “Nah, El. There will be no guessing about it when I’m rubbing off on you.”

  That. That’s what I wanted from Bryce. Is classy dirty-talking a thing? Because I think Bryce is an expert at it.

  “Noted. Hey, speaking of things you’re humble about…” I trailed off and jumped up, remembering the surprise I had in my purse for him.

  A few seconds later I made it back to the table and handed Bryce a white 8”x11” frame.

  His lips parted into a grin that practically encompassed his entire handsome face as he scanned the certificate. “El, you didn’t have to do this.”

  “Bryce, I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to. I told you, I feel bad about how we left things. Especially since we forgot about your certificate.”

  “Well, I love it and appreciate the gesture. Thank you.”

  “And, about that night…I want you to know I’m sorry for how I handled things. I—”

  “No, El,” he interjected, quickly shaking his head. “Your reaction was entirely justified. I should’ve told you about Peyton sooner, and I’m sorry for implying you wouldn’t have been able to handle the situation. The truth is, the more I think about it, the more I hate that I didn’t call you after I moved back.”

  “We both could’ve done things differently. Hindsight’s a tricky thing. But you know I didn’t run because you told me about Peyton, right?”

  “I do now. I wasn’t sure what to think at first; my thoughts were all over the place. But I knew something was up by the way you reacted to that call. Everything okay with Soph?”

  “Yeah. She just…it’s complicated. But she’s fine.” I stopped myself from explaining the situation with Helen because she was the last person I wanted to talk about right now.

  Especially considering the fact that Bryce had been right to try and convince me not to go through with meeting Helen five years ago. “Trust is earned, not granted freely,” he’d said.

  Funny how those words held so much more weight now.

  “Glad she’s okay.”

  I nodded and refilled my wine glass, searching for my next words.

  “Stop,” Bryce ordered, though it was more of a plea than a demand.

  “Stop what?”

  “Worrying. Overthinking. Stressing. Doing whatever it is that’s causing these lines,” he explained, reaching out to run his fingertips over my forehead.

  I hadn’t even realized I’d knitted my brows, but they softened at his touch.

  “Sorry. Am I that obvious? I just can’t seem to turn my brain off. A month ago, my life was basically on cruise control. Now it’s more like a game of Mario Kart, and I’m on the damn rainbow road course.”

  “What are you most stressed about?”

  Figuring out the next steps for the venue.

  The potential for failure.

  The future in general, and all the variables it held.

  Meeting my mother. Being anything like her.

  Wait, what?

  “Well, the most immediate stress, I suppose, would be the inn and venue and what comes next.”

  “That’s an easy one, Uno.”

  I arched a brow. “How so?”

  “Are you forgetting who your badass architect is? Or that he also has a business degree?”

  “Badass, huh? And here I thought you were just a pretty face with a knack for drawing straight lines.”

  He tried to look offended, but couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Psh. I’m a pretty face who can draw straight lines and come up with a solid business plan. Among other talents.”

  I crossed my arms and studied his pretty face. His tone was flirty and teasing, but his eyes were sincere. “You’re serious? You’d really help with the business logistics too?”

  “Would that lower your stress level?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Then yes.” He heaved a sigh, like my confusion about his willingness to help confused him. “I’ve got more free time on my hands than I know what to do with while Peyt’s gone. And you’ve got more than enough on your plate. Let me lighten the load, El.”

  “I don’t know, Bryce. Won’t that make things a little too…complicated?”

  He shrugged and gave me a tight smile. “Maybe. But I’m willing to give it a shot. You and I are taking things day by day, yeah? Take the same approach with the inn. There’s no urgency, no reason for a self-induced deadline that only stresses you out. Okay?”

  “Day by day,” I repeated, nodding my head mechanically while I contemplated his suggestion. “I can do that.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  And just like that, Bryce McKnight managed to take a tiny bit of the weight off my shoulders. This feeling—this trust tickling my heart—was risky. Dangerous. It was either laying the foundation for something stable and long-lasting, or it was setting me up for one hell of a fall.

  We’d both finished eating, so Bryce leaned over the table to pick up my plate. I gripped his wrist and stopped him.

  “Bryce?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you,” I replied, edging forward in my seat to peck his cheek.

  His lips curled into a smile as he slowly pulled back and took my plate with him. “Any time, El.”

  I gathered the rest of our dishes and followed him into the kitchen to help, but he wouldn’t have it. He insisted he was just going to rinse them off and would finish later. I acquiesced and wandered into the living room while he rinsed because Nana taught me to never argue with a man offering to do dishes.

  “All done,” he called a couple minutes later, rounding the corner at the same time I traced my fingers along the strings of a guitar.

  I jumped back and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. It was open, and I was curious. You play?”

  “A little. Started teaching myself when I was seventeen. I needed an outlet for my anger about being shipped off to Washington, and it was either this or drag racing.”

  “Drag racing? Really?”

  “It was an all-boys prep school. Options were limited.”

  “Why that school, Bryce?”

  “My father grew up with the head master, and I guess he thought it was his best shot at making me ‘see the light’ or some shit like that. Back then my parents and I butted heads about everything, especially my future. They meant well, but I didn’t see that at the time. I refused to listen when they tried to teach me the ins and outs of winemaking, and they shut down any of my attempts to talk about alternative careers. The only reason I was able to study architecture was because I double-majored.”

  “Wow. I knew you didn’t always see eye-to-eye with your parents, but I guess I never realized how…challen
ging your adolescence was.”

  “That’s probably because, with you, I never had to think about those expectations. I got to live in our ‘B and E’ bubble. Plus, you were, what, fourteen when I left? Things were different then.”

  “Things are different now, too,” I countered.

  Everything about the look in his aqua eyes echoed my words as he studied me. It was as if he was seeing me for the first time—like he wasn’t the boy who taught me how to pop a wheelie when I was eight. “You’re right, they are.”

  When I couldn’t handle the intensity of Bryce’s gaze, I dropped my eyes back down to the guitar and tried to convince my heart to go back to its normal rhythm. I wanted to ask him to play something for me, but that felt too intimate. Maybe someday…

  “So, should—”

  “Do you wan—”

  “I should probably go,” I said, shifting on my feet and twisting my fingers together.

  Bryce looked down at his watch and frowned. “It’s barely eight.”

  “I know, but I have some work I should get done tonight.”

  Bryce disappeared into the kitchen and came back out a second later with his hands behind his back. “That’s too bad. Guess I’ll just have to eat this all myself then,” he said, pulling a pint of cookies n’ cream ice cream out from behind his back.

  My favorite flavor.

  I’d have been impressed about him remembering that, but we’d debated the merits of cookies n’ cream versus chocolate chip cookie dough on more than one occasion as kids.

  “You don’t play fair, Wario.”

  He smirked at the moniker. “Never claimed to. I like it dirty, remember?”

  He wiggled his eyebrows and bit his bottom lip, and I was pretty sure I’d never seen anything sexier than the sight in front of me. I think I like it dirty, too.

  “You keep saying that, and yet…here I am, still waiting for you to prove it.” I took the extra spoon and dipped it into the carton, making a show of slowly licking the ice cream off and batting my eyelashes.

  He reached out and tucked a chunk of hair behind my ear, letting his hand linger, waiting for me to react to the contact. “Oh, Uno,” he trailed off with a tsk-tsk-tsk sound. He leaned in, his lips brushing the outer edge of my ear. “Just you wait. You’ll see.”