The Fall in Love Checklist

by Sarah Ready

  I look down. A splotch of blood seeps through my white linen shirt. “It’s okay,” I say. I’m trying really hard not to cry. “I guess it stretched the wound when I fell. Don’t worry about it. I’ll call a taxi and…” I make to stand, but the tray sticks to my pants. Pathetic, vulnerable, idiotic, weak…can I add anything else to the list of things I am around this man?

  “Here. Let me help,” he says. He gently pulls me up. Then my eyes widen as he reaches around. His hand trails in the air over my back. I can feel him, even though he’s not touching me. He peels the paint tray from my pants. Then he scoops me up.

  I squeak and wave my arms.

  “Cretin. You can’t just pick up—”

  “Don’t wobble. You’ll hurt yourself.”

  “What are you…” I trail off.

  It’s the oddest thing to be picked up by a strange man and held against his warm chest. He’s wearing a soft flannel shirt that rubs against my check. The heat coming through his shirt warms me and I hold myself still so that I don’t give in and melt against him. He carries me up the stairs and nudges open a wooden door. It opens to a large renovated bathroom. There’s white mosaic tiles, a clawfoot tub, a towel warmer, a polished and shining antique dresser with a copper sink.

  He sets me down next to the bathtub.

  “Thank you, I’ll manage from here,” I say.

  He clears his throat. “I’ll set bandages and clean clothes outside the door.” Beneath his tanned skin I think I see the faintest reddening in his cheeks.

  “Thank you. I appreciate it. I’ll call my driver. He’ll be here in a few minutes.” I need him to know I’m not some pathetic discarded woman all alone in the world.

  “Of course, Miss…” He pauses.

  I realize he doesn’t remember my name.

  “Miss Daniella Drake.” I hold out my hand. Yes, I’m covered in paint and a little blood and I’m starting to feel woozy, but good breeding always wins.

  He quirks an eyebrow. “Are you a relation of John Drake?”

  “My father.”

  Something strange flashes in his eyes.

  “Ah,” he says.

  “Do you know him?”

  “No.” He runs a hand through his hair again. “I’ll let you be.” As he closes the door he pauses, then, “A Phillips head is a type of screwdriver. In case you were wondering.” His eyes fill with laughter.

  Mortification washes over me.

  I clear my throat, then nudge the door shut and lock it.

  I may not know anything about construction or tools, but I do know one thing.

  There is no way I can live in this house or anywhere near him.

  8

  Jack

  * * *

  The chance of a lifetime just fell in my paint tray, and I’m not letting her get away. I rush to the medicine cabinet and pull out gauze and antibiotic, then grab a pair of jeans and a T-shirt from Sissy’s closet. I hold the jeans up, maybe a few inches too long, but they’ll do.

  A plan is rapidly forming in my mind. All the pieces are clicking together.

  I don’t believe in coincidence. Everything happens for a reason. And there’s a reason Daniella Drake’s here and I think I know what it is. The universe wants my proposal to go through. The stars have aligned so that I can help hundreds of families. Rose Tower will get built.

  Rick Atler said I needed to woo the Drakes for a chance to get my project through. Well, there’s a Drake taking a bath in my tub and I’m going to woo the ever-loving heck out of her.

  I brush aside my misgivings. I won’t let myself fall for her. I won’t share my feelings with her. This isn’t about love anymore. It’s about absolution. Two decades in the making, but finally I’ll have absolution.

  Daniella and I may not have had the most fortunate first meeting, or second meeting, and I’m fairly certain she doesn’t like me all that much, but none of that matters. Not one bit. I grimly set the clothes and medical supplies down outside the bathroom door.

  I saw her judging me and looking me over with ladylike disdain. She made her disapproval pretty clear as soon as she opened her eyes in the hospital, and again this morning. She’s all prim and proper, with her pearl buttons cinched up to her throat and her diamond-studded ears.

  I hear her splashing around and muttering to herself. I give a small smile. She sure is wound tight.

  I feel a stab of discomfort at the thought of misleading her. I push it aside.

  I’m not fully sure why she was in the hospital. None of my business. I’m not sure why her weasel fiancé dumped her. Again, not my business. Even her overbearing mother is none of my business. The only part of this that’s my business is convincing her to rent my room. She came here with that purpose in mind, and now it’s my job to close the deal.

  I’ll get her to sign the rental agreement, then I’ll figure out how to woo her. Not to get her to fall in love, or hurt her. I’d never. But woo her. Befriend her. Give her what she needs, for one small favor in return. She may even have fun. And right now, I think the one thing she needs in her life is a little more fun.

  I hear the door open and watch as she looks around the hall. I put a reassuring, friendly smile on my face.

  “Everything alright, Miss Drake?” I ask.

  She turns and the light from the bathroom spills over her. The T-shirt hangs loosely on her and I focus on the creamy skin of her neck. A lock of gleaming hair curls against her collarbone.

  She clears her throat and I shoot my gaze back to her face. Her mouth is a tight line.

  “Fine, thank you. I’ll have the clothes dry cleaned and returned as soon as possible.”

  She pulls at the T-shirt and jeans. They swamp her. Sissy must be at least four inches taller.

  “Since you’re still here, I could show you the unit. No point in wasting a trip out.”

  “No, I’ve decided against—”

  “It’s down the hall.” I lead the way, hoping either curiosity or good manners will make her follow. “The apartment takes up most of the second floor. It has a bedroom, a bath, and a living room. The kitchen downstairs is shared with the owner. Originally, the apartment was for my sister, but she decided to take the downstairs bedroom instead.” I open the door. “After you, Miss Drake.”

  “Fine.” She gives me a cool smile and steps in.

  I watch her rather than looking at the apartment. I’ve seen it. I haven’t seen her reaction. I want her to like it. I tell myself that I want her to like it because she needs to like my work if she’s going to help get my project through. It’s not because I’d like to hear that little hitch in her voice again, like she had in the kitchen when she said it was beautiful.

  She walks forward and her shoes click on the hardwood floor. Her fingers trace over the blue linen couch and settle on the chunky sea glass-colored throw. She looks at the modern painting over the fireplace, splashed with dozens of bright colors. She sniffs. I wonder if that sniff means she doesn’t like color. I hold my tongue. This room is opposite the beige and white outfit she’s wearing. She doesn’t say anything as she walks to the bedroom. The walls are periwinkle, there’s a vase of fresh daffodils on the nightstand, and a purple Amish quilt on the bed. I used a lot of girly colors in here. It was before I realized Sissy preferred decorating in black with a highlight of gray and a bit more black.

  Miss Drake is quiet. So quiet that I’m worried she’s too polite to say she hates it. Her small shoulders are tense. She hasn’t turned around.

  “I can paint it beige if you don’t like the colors,” I say. “Or white. Beige and white.” I need her to live here. I need to woo her.

  “No,” she says quickly. “No.”

  My stomach twists. She doesn’t like it.

  “Could I do anything to make it more to your taste?” I ask. I recognize the feeling in my gut. Desperation. She’s going to walk.

  No absolution.

  No her. That bit hurts more. Don’t ask me why.

  She turns a
round. There are tears in her eyes. I take a step back, stunned.

  “Miss Drake?”

  She sniffs and gives me a wobbly smile.

  “It’s perfect,” she says.

  There’s a hard thud in my chest. I can’t stop looking at her lips, at the small curve that shakes between hesitation and happiness. My hand lifts and I realize that I was starting to reach for her. I lower my hand.

  Her forehead furrows. “Thank you for showing me. But I can’t take it.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  She clasps her hands in front of her. She looks tired. I’m an idiot, she recently had surgery. Has or had cancer.

  “Here, come sit on the couch.” I lead her to the living room and help her sink into the plush couch. She lets out a small sigh.

  “You’re the perfect tenant. Move in today. I’ll bring up your stuff. You can rest. Recover.”

  Her eyes flash.

  I hold up my hands.

  “Apologies. None of my business.”

  There’s an awkward pause. Then she asks, “How’s your friend?”

  “My sister,” I say. “She’s doing good.”

  She nods and we sit in silence. She’s studying the painting on the wall. “I’ve never seen so many colors in one room.”

  I don’t know if she thinks that’s good or bad.

  “What are your reservations about renting? I can try to relieve them.”

  She folds then unfolds her hands. It must be a nervous gesture. They’re fine boned and pale. Her nails are painted a soft beige. She has delicate hands. I’m a large brute next to her. She’s like a nervous deer at the edge of the woods, afraid of the meadow. How am I going to convince her to stay? Convince her to get to know me enough to love my work as much as I do —then have her convince her father that my project is the best. Can she even do that?

  She lowers her head and I study the line of her neck. She looks so tired.

  The light from the window lands on her hair. Individual strands flicker between coppery red and gold. The fire flashes before my eyes. That blistering fire that roared through my childhood home.

  My lungs clench at the memory of scalding smoke. Burnt flesh.

  I can’t do this.

  I change my mind. Scrap all the plans that formed after Daniella told me she was a Drake.

  I can’t.

  No matter how much I need this project to go through. I can’t.

  I won’t be wooing Miss Drake.

  My breath tightens. Am I going to let her walk away? A part of me wants her to stay. I could still show her fun, I could still be her friend.

  She turns to me and narrows her eyes. Like she can hear my thoughts.

  “Do you live here too?”

  “Downstairs,” I say. I swallow tightly as I imagine her living above me. Her on top and me on the bottom.

  She folds her hands and sets them in her lap.

  “Mr. Jones, may I be honest?”

  “Call me Jack,” I say.

  She nods. “Jack.”

  My body responds at the way her prim accent rolls over my name.

  “You,” she says.

  “Hmmm?” I ask. To be honest, a lot of the blood is moving away from my brain and heading somewhere else. Hadn’t I decided I wouldn’t be wooing her? Parts of me aren’t listening.

  “You are my reservation,” she says.

  Blood rushes back to my brain. “What do you mean, me?”

  “You’re a player. An advantage-taker. You see a downtrodden woman and all you can think about is taking advantage of her.”

  I flinch. “That’s not true.” Okay, it’s somewhat true, in an upside down sort of way. But she doesn’t know that. And I changed my mind.

  “Oh really?”

  “Really.”

  She stares me down. “Don’t look at me like that,” she says.

  “Like what?”

  “Like in the hospital. With pity.”

  “I’m not. I don’t—”

  “Yes, you do. I was there in the hospital, too. I saw your face.”

  “What?”

  “Exactly. That look. So, Jack, what did you like best in the hospital? The part where I made a fool of myself over you? Or the part where I looked pathetic with my fiancé? Or that bit where I was pitiful and desperate? Or how about the moment where my mother decided the reason I was dumped is because I’m inadequate? You’ve had a front row seat and now you want to have a screw for the after show. Because pathetic women are easy. Is that it? Well, I’m not in the market for your kind of rental agreements.”

  Wait. What?

  She stands up. Her back is ramrod straight and her cheeks are full of color. I stand too. I may have wanted her help so I can bring affordable housing to the city’s families, but I’m not a creep.

  “I don’t know where you got this impression from. But I’m a decent guy. Heck, even a nice guy. I might not be a Rolls Royce-driving pencil neck like your fiancé—”

  “Pencil neck?”

  “—and I might not have a bulging bank account and a stick up my butt to match.”

  “Excuse me?” Her eyes narrow.

  “You’re excused,” I say. I narrow my eyes back. “Get your head on straight. I’m trying to rent a room, not seduce you.”

  She scoffs, and I lean toward her.

  “You know what part I liked best the other day?” I ask.

  She purses her lips and doesn’t answer.

  I lean even closer until our noses are almost touching.

  “I liked the bit when you were a human being instead of a charm school robot. I liked those two minutes when you were nice. And hell, I admit it, I liked that bit when you got dumped by pencil neck because that meant you were available.”

  She gasps. Her mouth hangs open but no more sound comes out and I am this close, this close to kissing it shut.

  But she ruins the effect by stepping back and putting on her armor.

  “I rest my case. Good day, Mr. Jones. You won’t be hearing from me again.”

  She leaves the apartment and I follow her down the narrow hall. This is it. It looks like I won’t be seeing her again and for some reason that makes chest hurt.

  “Right,” I call after her. “Next time you need a good screw, don’t call me.”

  She stomps down the stairs. “Go ahead and take your Phillips head and shove it where the sun don’t shine, mister.”

  The front door slams behind her. I stop at the bottom of the stairs and look around the living room. What just happened?

  “Woo her,” I say. “Befriend her. Don’t insult and infuriate her.”

  Unbelievable. I just ruined a decade’s worth of work. I’m done for. It’s all over. And strangely, that doesn’t even feel like the worst part of all this. I won’t be seeing her again.

  “Bro,” I glance up. Sissy stands in the doorway of her bedroom. She’s laughing at me. I glare at her.

  “Wasn’t that the chick that loooves you?”

  “That chick,” I say, “is from one of the richest families in the state. She was also probably the only chance I had of winning the Rose Tower Project.”

  “And she just told you to shove a screwdriver where the sun don’t shine?” Sissy starts to laugh.

  Ah, the pleasure of having a little sister.

  I narrow my eyes. “Why are you home?”

  She shrugs. “It’s possible that I was suspended.”

  “For?”

  “Sooo…I may or may not have allegedly broken into the school records room and published documents concerning the discrepancies in budgetary allocations between the boys’ and girls’ sports funding—”

  I hold up my hand. “When do I have to go in?”

  She bites her pinkie nail. “Tomorrow morning.”

  “How is this going to convince me to not send you to boarding school?” I ask.

  “Dude. Unfair. Also, I’ll be worse at boarding school. And I’ll keep running away to come back here. Over and over. I’m not goin
g.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “It’s for your own good.”

  “Bull. You promised Dad you’d look after me.”

  I clench my jaw. “I’m looking after you by sending you to boarding school.”

  “That’s not the real reason you want me to go and you know it.”

  “Sissy.”

  “You’re scared. Nope, don’t deny it, you are.”

  “It’s for your own good.”

  “I’m the only family you’ve got that’s—”

  “I have a family.”

  “—still alive.”

  I flinch and turn aside. From the corner of my eyes I see her shoulders slump.

  “Sorry, Jack,” she whispers.

  “It’s alright.” I avoid her eyes and stare at the closed front door. “Dad’s alive.”

  She shrugs.

  “I’m not trying to punish you, I want what’s best. I can’t give you everything you need. This school has an Ivy League acceptance rate of twenty-five percent. Think about that, you can’t get that kind of future in Stanton.”

  “I don’t care about that,” she says.

  “You will.”

  “Bull. You’re scared to let anybody in, even someone as amazingly awesome as me. Someday you’re going to admit that when you push people away it’s the same result as them leaving you. It just sucks sooner.”

  I shake my head. “We’re going to have to agree to disagree on this one.”

  It looks like she’s about to go back to her room, so I address the reason she’s home in the middle of the day.

  “I want you to write a letter of apology.”

  “No way. What they’re doing is wrong. You have no idea. They’re taking the booster money from the girls and giving it to the boys. It’s bull.”

  “It’s life.”

  “Then life is bull. Dad wouldn’t make me write a letter.”

  “I agree. Dad would’ve helped you break in and then blackmailed them.”

  She nods. “Good old Dad.”

  “Not a good example to follow.”

  She tilts her head and gives me a considering look. “You know, Dad wouldn’t let the Rose Tower deal fall through so easily.”

  “I’m not either. I’m handling it.” Sort of. I just need a new plan.