Falter: The Nash Brothers, Book Four

by Aarons, Carrie

  I’m getting closer to her, without even realizing I’m doing it. One second, I’m halfway across the room, then standing in front of the desk, and now I’m almost brushing my leg against the chair she sits in. But damn, when she said friend discount, and with her sitting here, alone in my apartment …

  I like it. I like her, in my space … no one else around.

  For the last five years, I’ve fought every urge. I’ve swum in the opposite direction of my instincts, and the upstream stroke has robbed me of so many things. I can’t do what feels natural, I had to give up partying and drinking in order to save my soul.

  But this? Wanting Ryan Shea? That’s something I just can’t battle anymore. I don’t want to. The pure animal attraction, with something deeper running through the center of it that I’m not ready to acknowledge … that is one thing I can lose myself in without fear of losing myself.

  Stepping fully into her space, I put out my hand, hoping she’ll take it. Ryan looks nervous but lays her palm over my own, and I pull her up gently. The door to my apartment is open, and I can hear the muffled noise of the lunch crowd, including my family, down in the restaurant. It smells like cardboard boxes and mozzarella sticks, and the chime of the new clock on my wall alerts us to the fact that it’s three p.m.

  These are all the things I notice right before I pull Ryan to me and kiss her.

  Because once my lips are on hers, I can’t think. And I don’t mean, I can’t think straight. I really mean, I’ve lost all ability to connect rational thoughts.

  Her mouth is warm and pliable, searching as my tongue slips in and begins dancing with hers. It’s been five years since I kissed a woman, and at first, I can’t find my groove. I’m fumbling and too excited, and all I want to do is grind every part of myself into her. It’s kind of pathetic, but then Ryan shifts her angle and we click into place.

  The meeting of our mouths is sensual, hurried, breathless, and … right. It’s just so damn right that I don’t know why I’ve waited so long to kiss her. Ryan tastes better than any liquor, sweeter than smooth summer wine and spicier than cinnamon whiskey. It takes every muscle in my body to keep us upright, to stop myself from stumbling backward with her into my bedroom. Now that I’ve had a taste, there is no way I can’t drink the whole bottle.

  I’m an addict; stopping after the first drink is not possible for me.

  Her hand comes up between us, and she pushes my chest until our mouths pull apart.

  I’m still in a haze, half-drunk off her taste when I realize she’s talking. “I … can’t. I’m not … looking for this.”

  I must nod because Ryan’s eyes are pleading for understanding, and the silence between us is tense and getting more awkward by the moment.

  Oh fuck, how damn wrong I was. I should have been very afraid, terrified even.

  Because it’s completely possible I’ll lose myself in this woman. And never get the old Fletcher back.

  19

  Ryan

  Another day, another class with my middle schoolers.

  Sometimes, I wish our summer course was more than once a week, because I’m beginning to grow restless without much else to do. My boss keeps calling, asking if I’d like some remote work, but …

  I don’t know, I just can’t seem to muster up the energy to want to do it. Working with the kids is bringing me so much joy, and I know that not one project she could pitch me could measure up to it. I’ve been trying to sit still, like Presley says, and only do things that make me happy.

  But it’s so damn hard. Not moving at a fast pace forces you to think, it forces you to open up all the ugly thoughts you shoved down in a box in the back of your brain, and sealed tight. You have to unpack the turmoil in you, and I’ve never been good at that.

  What I do know is that I like teaching the computer course. I like going to yoga three times a week, especially since they’re free. I’ve taken up walking in the mornings, all over town before a lot of people are up. And sitting under the stars at night.

  That last one sounds cliché, but there is nothing like a country sky at night. I’ve never seen so many stars, never had such darkness, with no artificial light sources around. It makes a person feel really damn small.

  I’m halfway through a dusk walk, the AirPods in my ears playing some murder mystery audiobook, when I hear the clomp of feet behind me. It’s not unusual, I’m walking around the lake slash reservoir at prime running hours. After work, but not too late.

  A hand on my shoulder, though, now that startles me.

  “Ah!” I jump to the side, thinking someone is pushing me or falling into me. It’s one of those knee-jerk reactions where you kind of just freak out and flail your limbs because you’re surprised but also disoriented with headphones in your ears.

  “Ryan, it’s me!” I hear a deep voice say over the voices narrating my audiobook.

  I rip out my wireless earbud and whip around, my heart beating fast, to see Fletcher standing there. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”

  “I’m sorry, I called your name twice.” His lopsided grin has my eyes fastening on his lips.

  My gaze doesn’t stay there long, because the man is shirtless. I can’t help the way my eyes run down his naked torso, along the lines of his pecs, the way a bead of sweat drips off one nipple. I’ve never been particularly drawn to a man’s nipples, but hell if I can’t stop looking at Fletcher’s. My eyes drop lower, to his abs. They’re not sculpted out like someone on a romance novel cover, but there are six defined bumps that are possibly even sexier than the ripped and toned muscles of a body builder. Just the peak of muscle underneath normal, human flesh makes him more approachable, which I think makes me more attracted to him. He’s not the typical pretty boy, Roman god I go for … there is a real down-to-earth quality about him.

  Fletcher has the kind of chest hair that is sexy, without being too much, and it darkens in color as the trail of it slips beneath his waistband. He has on simple black running shorts and black sneakers, with wireless headphones around his head. I wonder what he’s listening to.

  “Uh-huh …” He clears throat, and I realize I’ve been staring at him for far too long.

  Tapping my one earbud to stop my book, I fight the furious blush working its way over my cheeks. “Sorry, just … in shock I guess you could say.”

  He gives me a look as if to say, “yeah, about my body.” Hmm, how adorably cocky.

  “Again, sorry. I just saw you and didn’t want to not say hi.”

  “I guess it would have been awkward if we were both running around the same lake without saying hi.” A nervous laugh comes out of my mouth.

  Also, because you kissed me in the most toe-curling way two days ago and I can’t stop thinking about it. Which I do, right in front of him … start thinking about it. I can tell he’s thinking about it, too.

  Lord, that kiss was good. It was the kind of kiss that warms you up from the inside out, like sitting in front of a fire on a cold winter night and allowing sweet, rich hot chocolate to fill your tummy.

  “You pushed me away when I kissed you.”

  Another giggle bursts from my lips. “Talk about not making this awkward.”

  In truth, I was being a coward about it, and he was being more of an adult even with our three-year age gap.

  I had pushed him away. The reaction my brain and heart had while Fletcher was kissing me … it scared the crap out of me. It was enough that I thought he was the first decent man I’d met in ages, but then he had to go and kiss me into oblivion and …

  Shit.

  I sigh. “I know I did. Fletcher … I told you my dating history. It’s not hard to make the assumption that I jump into relationships. I am the type of girl who practically lives with a guy after the first date.”

  “Well, my apartment is definitely not big enough for that.” The joke has him smiling, and me giving him a glare.

  “I’m serious. I don’t know how to … go slow. I’m not even sure I’m ready to try to
date someone, when I don’t even know what I want for myself.”

  Fletcher nods and then gives me a look that says he’s going to level with me. “You may jump in too quickly, but I’ve never even jumped in. The longest relationship I’ve ever had was probably a two-month fling in high school where I only hung out with the girl with other groups of people. I’ve spent the last five years completely avoiding dating, so all I know is slow. Or should I say, my dating speed is like one mile per hour, the car is barely even rolling.”

  That makes me smile, because he’s so good-looking and honest, it’s a wonder how he’s still on the market.

  Fletcher continues. “I think we should stop ignoring this connection between us. There is that spark, and it’s rare. Even I know that, and I haven’t been in a relationship … well, I think we established, ever.”

  “What I’m trying to tell you is that I feel that spark way too often. I can’t trust that feeling anymore, because it always burns me.”

  He shakes his head, that boyish smile of his making my heart do a backflip. “Nah, I don’t buy that. You might have been attracted to those guys, but you didn’t feel the spark. Your mind has just convinced you that a certain kind of lust is that spark. Think about it, hard. Do you think about me the same way you did with those other men? When we’re together, isn’t it different?”

  His questions hits me square in the chest, and I realize I haven’t met this Fletcher yet. For the entire time I’ve known him, he’s been the goofy, emotionally weak, work in progress. The baby of his family, the injured one that they worry about and who takes the crutch they’ve given him and leans on it.

  But this man? He’s wholly charming. Self-assured and giving me the business while he pulls zero punches. Shirtless, not to mention. He’s my dream guy on a silver platter, and even though I made a promise to myself, I feel that resolve weakening.

  “Maybe it is,” I whisper, but we both know that in this case, maybe means definitely.

  “Just give me a chance. We’ll go slow. Snail’s pace slow.”

  It could be the sweat dripping down his chest, or the way his denim-blue eyes sparkle in the setting sun, but a sureness swamps me, stealing every last inch of will power.

  “Okay.”

  Just one word, but I feel my whole world go topsy-turvy.

  20

  Fletcher

  In the days after the town hall dance, I made my bid to the town council about the clock tower.

  I got a call that they’d chosen my contract and would love for me to build it.

  Not only does it pay, literally, to be a hometown boy … but it helps that I probably bid thousands of dollars lower than the other builders in order to win this project. That, and they know I’ll do a hell of a job.

  So, for the past week and a half, I’ve been working on it around the clock. From sketching in the silence of my new apartment, to rendering concepts on the design software Forrest bought me for Christmas, to spending time out in the barn, picking out the perfect materials. The vision for it consumes me, and all I want to do is work on it.

  I have a deadline of five months from now, but I feel like, with all the creative energy flowing through my veins currently, I could get it done in a week. I know that’s not possible, there are mechanics to be worked out, and models to be shown and metal that will be welded over its frame … but I’m just so fucking happy to be doing something I love and showing it to our town.

  There wasn’t a question where I wanted to bring Ryan for our first official hangout. I’m calling it that, because if I say the word date, I feel like she’ll freak the fuck out. But I want to show her a side of me that not many people see up close, so that she feels more comfortable.

  That isn’t to say I’m not nervous as fuck as I lead her into the barn I use as my workshop.

  “So, this is it …” I say, my voice wavering with struggle as I shove open the red, metal barn door.

  Ryan insisted on driving here herself so that we didn’t ride over together. She can tell herself all she wants that this isn’t a thing. But, we both know that the minute I helped her out of her driver’s seat, and our hands touched, there was an electric current that sprang up between us and hasn’t stopped since. My flesh can feel its proximity to her, and I don’t miss the way she keeps rubbing the goose bumps off her arms.

  “Wow, Fletcher …” Her face, so foxlike in its shape, alters into an expression of awe.

  While she’s gazing at my pieces, I take the moment to study her. Her lashes are impossibly long, making her look utterly female, but with those sharp cheekbones, you know there is bite under the surface. She’s wearing a fire engine red T-shirt and paired with the black shorts and her jet-black hair, she looks like hell on wheels. But there is a softness there, too, one she’s only let me get glimpses at.

  “You built all this? I’m … well, damn I’m so impressed. You’re really good.”

  Ryan moves around the barn without permission, though she doesn’t need it. Once I let someone in here, they can look at whatever they like.

  Her delicate hands run over a few chairs I’m in the process of staining, she takes a look at the drawings for the clock, has a glance at some tiny soldier figurines I’m making for the boys, and then moseys around just taking it all in.

  “It’s a true talent that you can do this. Most people have no creativity in their brains. Me included.”

  I wave her off. “I’m okay at working with my hands.”

  It comes out as more of an innuendo than I meant it to be, and Ryan’s gaze is pinned to my hands.

  Quickly, I recover. “People’s brains just work differently. Some would say what you do is an art. I’m hopeless with computers, Forrest keeps trying to get me to set up a Facebook page and it scrambles my mind.”

  Ryan’s lips stretch into a smile. “I guess you’re right. Take Lily for example, I’d never have the patience to put up with annoying library patrons all day.”

  “I can second that.” I nod.

  A ringtone chimes up between us, and Ryan reaches hastily into her pocket. One look at the screen and she silences it.

  “So, can I play with a saw?” The expression she wears is downright trouble.

  But damn, is she sexy. “I think we’ll start with sandpaper. I didn’t bring you here to have any fingers cut off.”

  We focus on one of my chairs, sanding the rough edges.

  Her phone begins to ring for the fourth time since we came out here, and her face gets tighter with every call.

  “Do you need to get that?” I ask, wondering if it’s her ex.

  The way she’s staring at her cell, as if it might jump out and bite her, I’d bet it is. No one gets that look if it isn’t someone who has scorned them or someone they deeply don’t want to talk to.

  “No. It’s just my mother.” The way Ryan says this, you’d think it was the grim reaper calling her.

  “Are you two … close?” I’m not trying to pry, but it seems like the next logical thing to ask.

  She shakes her head, her eyes distant. “No. I grew up in foster care.”

  Shock works its way from my chest to my gut. “I … didn’t know that.”

  I’m not sure if I should tell her I’m sorry? I’m not really sure what to say, because I’ve never encountered someone who grew up in foster care. For all of its good qualities, Fawn Hill is not exactly worldly. The majority of the residents are made up of heterosexual couples who have two kids and the white picket fence. We don’t have a lot of crime, or outsiders, and for that, I do feel I’ve missed out on a lot of the world. It’s a wholesome place to live, but it doesn’t detail the experience of many people living in our country.

  “Yeah. I don’t talk about it much.” Her voice is clipped. “Anyway, what is this?”

  Ryan is changing the subject, and we both know it, but I let her. If she doesn’t want to open up about it, I’m not going to force her.

  Moving to see what she’s looking at, I find the piece I’m
trying to design for Mom.

  “It’s a family tree for my mother. I’m trying to make it a little abstract, for a large wall over her couch that she’s kept empty since she moved in.”

  “It’s really beautiful,” Ryan says quietly.

  I’ve whittled and carved a large oak tree from a beautiful slab of oak. All the branches have a member of our family’s name on it, with wooden leaves carved for the offshoots of their individual families.

  “You don’t have anyone on your branch,” she points out.

  I shrug. “Never met anyone to carve into it permanently.”

  “Why is that?”

  I knew this question was coming, but the potential pitfalls of the answer leave me anxious. I haven’t bothered to get close to a woman in five years, so admitting the disgusting ways of my past is something I haven’t had to face. But, if I want Ryan to put stock in our connection, if I want her to feel able to talk to me, I have to talk to her.

  “I started drinking from the age of about fourteen and didn’t stop until I was forced to go to rehab by my family. In high school, it wasn’t all the time … until probably senior year. I’d show up drunk to class, to baseball practices, and if I wasn’t at those places, I was loaded. But, as I came to find out, I’m an alcoholic. A highly functioning one. I could have five shots of tequila and talk to you as if I was as sober as a priest. No one thought anything of it, at first; my friends and brothers just thought I partied harder than them. But then, it started consuming my life. I couldn’t get out of bed without drinking a beer. I couldn’t make it through a day without ten drinks under my belt. After high school, I just lapsed into this junkie lifestyle. I was messing around with drugs, though alcohol was always my wife. She was the love of my life, and I was blacked out for the early part of my twenties. I’m not even sure who I slept with, or where I ended up at the end of the night. Half the time I had it, I wasn’t even really conscious of having sex. That sounds disgusting, horrifying … but it’s true. I was so wasted, I don’t even remember those girls’ faces.”