Ready to Fall (A Second Chance Bad Boy Next Door Romance)

by Anne Connor

  “That’s right. Yes. We mainly deal with commercial and multi-use properties. We actually just acquired something new, but there’s a little bit of an issue with it.”

  “Oh? You didn’t mention anything to me,” Mom says.

  “Nothing too serious, I hope?” Richard chimes in.

  “No, no. Just a little contract dispute. It’s nothing. But I won’t bore you with all the stupid details. Eric is more worried about it than I am.”

  “That’s Eric. He was always the slightly more neurotic of my sons. Drew here was always a cool customer.”

  She punches my shoulder playfully. It’s like I’m back in high school and my mom is trying to embarrass me in front of a girl.

  “Anyway, I just stopped by to help mom with the attic a little bit. Get some of my old crap out of her way.”

  I start to get up from the table, but it seems like Richard wants me to stay. For him, chatting isn’t just a formality. Small talk isn’t just a means to an end, something to fill up a quota of time before business is discussed.

  He’s laid back, his tone ambling and conversational.

  “How’s the fiancee treating you? I heard all about her from your mom.”

  “Oh…” My mom shoots Richard a glance and shakes her head in quick, small bursts.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Trouble in paradise? It seems like you’re going through a little bit of a rough patch, son.”

  “Something like that. It’s actually good to be away from it all. I took my Mustang up here. Good to feel the breeze in my hair for once.”

  “Good for you. Hold onto that. When you’re my age, you’ll be lucky to have any hair.” Richard puts a hand on his head. He’s balding slightly, but he still looks great.

  “Oh, I’m not afraid of going bald,” I respond. “I think an older man with a bald head can look distinguished.”

  “Tell that to my ex-wife!”

  The three of us laugh, but all this feel-good talk and closeness is making me feel itchy.

  “You’re not older, Rich. And anyway, some things get better with age,” my mom says, looking at Richard with a sympathetic smile.

  “Like me,” he responds. “Or a nice cheese.”

  “Or wine,” I add, separating myself from the table. “I’m going to go check out the attic. You need me to do anything up there?”

  “No, no. Rich helped me clear some of the stuff out. Take anything else up there that you want. I probably would have ended up shipping it to you, anyway.”

  I make my way up the narrow stairs to the attic. It’s just as dusty as I remember. I don’t blame Mom for wanting to sell the place, and if it were up to me, I would do a full gut-renovation on it until the thing is fucking unrecognizable.

  All that remains, tucked in a corner of the attic, are a few boxes and the spare couch we kept up there for guests back when the space was usable as a spare bedroom. All the Christmas decorations and board games are gone.

  I recognize the boxes right away as the place where I had tucked away all the mementos I collected from high school. Yearbooks, football trophies, my science fair ribbons, my bowling ball and shoes - everything that would remind me of my life before moving to the city has been set into the boxes.

  These things aren’t just reminders of the past - they’re everything we’re supposed to keep as reminders of the past. That’s what they’re for. That’s why we have them.

  And here mine are, packed up into some shitty, dusty boxes in a house I don’t live in or even visit much anymore.

  I dig into the box and open up the back cover of my Senior yearbook. I don’t want to look at pictures of my old classmates - I’m friends with all of them on social media and can see pictures of them whenever I feel like it. I don’t want to see pictures of them from Senior year of high school. No one actually looks good in high school, and to make matters worse, it was the early 2000s.

  Instead, I go straight for all the messages my classmates wrote to me, and seek out the message from the girlfriend I had Senior year.

  I don’t have to look far. I know exactly where that loopy pink handwriting is - right in the top corner of the back cover.

  Drew, don’t ever change! You’re a truly special guy, and I hope you have fun in college. I hope we can still be friends!

  She didn’t even sign it. She didn’t have to.

  It’s strange, in a way. I had so many girlfriends in high school and college, and so many cheap, disposable one night stands before settling down with Clarissa. It’s like Amanda represented all of them, the way she kept her message anonymous. Or maybe she didn’t sign it because she thought I’d never forget her.

  The truth is that this simple message means both things to me, all at once.

  When I get back to the kitchen with my box of memories, Richard is still sitting at the table with mom.

  “I’m just going to put these things in the car. I’ll be back in a minute. I’m not particularly keen on rushing back to the city. If it’s okay with you, maybe I could stay here tonight.”

  “Of course you can, Drew. Maybe we can go into town for a movie.”

  “That’d be really nice. I wish I could disappear for longer than just a weekend, but I know it’s not possible.”

  “Listen, Drew,” Richard says as I turn to leave.

  “Yeah?”

  “What if you could get away from it all, just for a little while?”

  “I’d love it, but I don’t know how I can maneuver it. Eric doesn’t want me leaving the state. And maybe New Jersey.”

  I put my box down on the floor and sit down at the table.

  “Listen. I might have a little opportunity for you.”

  Richard looks at Mom and then back at me.

  “I own a small building in Brooklyn, and my superintendent is going to be on vacation for a couple of weeks. I was going to hire someone to look after things a few days a week, and make the trip down there myself the other days, but would you like to do it? Fill in for my super?”

  I look at the man blankly and rub my chin. Honestly, it’s not a crazy idea, and I know I’m more than capable. I’m familiar with simple plumbing and maintenance, and it would give me the opportunity to get away for a little while, but still be nearby in case I need to get into the office quick.

  “What are we talking? How many units?”

  “It’s a twelve unit building. Four floors. You’d have a unit in the basement. It’s actually nice. I stay there when I’m in the city. The building is very quiet, and the tenants are great. I would only be able to pay you about $100 a day, but I don’t think you’d have to actually do much. Just stay there in case anything happens.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t accept payment. You would be doing me a favor.”

  “So you’re saying you’ll do it?”

  I put out my hand and we shake on it.

  “You have a deal.”

  Molly

  Ever since meeting the famed Drew Anderson, it’s been impossible to get him out of my mind. His height, his scent, the way he carried himself and the way he acted so entitled to anything and everything was absolutely infuriating but absolutely captivating, all at once.

  The only thing I haven’t done yet is check to see whether he has Instagram. I shouldn’t do it. Only bad things happen when I discover a hot guy’s Instagram. I’ll get fired from my job on the first day. A quick check under my desk, just opening the app for what’s supposed to be a one-minute break, will certainly devolve into me looking at all his posts, and being paranoid all day that I accidentally clicked “like” on something from 73 weeks ago.

  But I can’t help thinking about him. And there’s no harm in just thinking about him, right? It’s just the invention of my own mind: imagining what he’s doing, wondering what kind of pen he uses to sign all those contracts he must have passing by his desk every day.

  Ugh. Really? No. I don’t care about any of that.

  Obsessing over this guy is the absolute last thing I need right now. I have m
y job starting this week, the new apartment to get settled into, research to do. And it’s not like me to obsess over a guy.

  But maybe it should be me. Even if only for a little while. Maybe Jess is right.

  But I know I can’t let my heart get involved where my head knows it shouldn’t.

  And anyway, it’s not like I’ll have a chance with Drew again. No matter how much Jess prods me about going back to that bar, there is no way I’m going to a place that charges $15 for a shot ever again.

  I have my shopping bag containing my new outfit and shoes in tow and I’m walking up the stairs to my place, and all I can think of is him. I recall his shoulders, the way he trotted over to me and Jess with a little spring in his step, like the Drew Anderson parade was making its way down Fifth Avenue with horns and whistles, even though he was just another suit guy among many in the bar that night.

  God, those shoulders. His arms. They make me think bad things.

  I get to the top landing of the stairs and hear the familiar sounds of masculine voices traveling up. There’s very little in the way of a buffer between them and me - it’s all steel and wood, and their voices bounce off the walls and the banisters.

  I peek my head over the railing to get a look at them. It’s three guys, like I thought. They’re not bad looking - probably in their late 20s, nice suits, nice ties. If I could see their watches and their shoes, I’m sure I’d be able to see that those accessories are nice, too. They look like guys who would be friends with Drew. Maybe they actually are his friends. His colleagues, even.

  It’s nice. Good location. And it actually doesn’t need much work. Just knock down a few walls and make the units bigger.

  My heart sinks into my Chuck Taylors. What the hell? Even though I just moved into the building, I know what they’re talking about.

  Years ago, when I was a kid and my family lived in the apartment I was born in, the building was sold to investors just like these guys, and we were forced to get up and move.

  I guess, technically, we weren’t forced to move. We had the option of buying the apartment after the new owner renovated and converted it to a condominium. But with the only options being purchasing it for an amount of money that was way beyond my parents’ reach and moving into another rental, it really wasn’t a choice at all.

  And now, I guess it’s happening with this building, too. This time, I’m one of the lucky ones. I haven’t made a lifetime of memories here, like some of the older tenants have.

  We just have to get the old guy to sell. Shouldn’t be too hard.

  And they talk like arrogant jerks, just like Drew does.

  As I’m leaning over the banister, my hair falls into my eyes. I move to brush it away and my keys jingle in my hand. The three men one flight down from me direct their gaze upward.

  Shit!

  I’ve been caught staring at these guys. What is it with me and getting caught looking at rich dudes?

  But this is nothing like when Drew caught me staring at him. I’m not interested in these three guys.

  Wait. I’m not interested in Drew, either.

  By now it’s dead silence in the stairwell and I feel like a complete dope.

  Someone up there? One of the voices makes its way up to me.

  I glance over the banister to them, each of their faces peering up at me. One looks impatient. Two look amused. I can tell that as soon as they realize it’s a lady who was spying on them, their attitude has changed.

  Like I’m not a threat. It doesn’t matter if I hear their plan to make the building into something it’s not.

  “Oh. Hi. Hey.”

  I peek over the railing at them and wave, my keys jingling in my hand again. I squeeze them to stop them from making so much noise.

  “Hello, Miss,” one of them says, waving to me.

  “Hi. Sorry for interrupting. I was just trying to get my keys.”

  “Do you need help finding them?” another one of the guys calls up to me.

  “No, I’m fine.” I walk backwards away from the railing until my back is against the wall of the hallway outside my apartment and their faces have disappeared.

  “Sorry for interrupting you! Have a good evening!” I call out, jamming my key into the lock on my door and slamming it shut behind me.

  Those guys have some nerve, trying to make me feel like an intruder in my own home.

  Maybe I’m being overly judgemental again. What were they doing wrong, anyway? They were just standing around the building. I was the one eavesdropping. Maybe they’re even friends of Drew’s.

  They certainly dress like it.

  I drop my purse down on the kitchen table and make my way into the kitchen to pour a big glass of wine for myself.

  I might need a bigger glass to be able to wipe out all thoughts of Drew Anderson.

  “You are absolutely more than welcome to come over, but I don’t know how much fun I’ll be.”

  This is not my idea of a Sunday afternoon - especially not right before starting my new job. There’s a drip coming from the pipes under my kitchen sink, and I’m not getting through to the owner of the building. I called a few times this morning and afternoon, and repeated attempts to get him or the super have been unsuccessful.

  Between this and not being able to get my mind off Drew, I’m a little bit of a mess.

  I’m not a diva. I could probably go out and get the tools I need to fix the problem. I’m handy. I know my way around a wrench. But I think it best not to meddle with the issue, and just call the professional to take care of it.

  But for some reason, the super isn’t answering his phone.

  I cradle my phone between my ear and shoulder as I search my linen closet for a bucket to catch the dripping water beneath the sink.

  “Okay, good.” Jess responds. “Because I’m outside your building. I’ll be up in a minute. You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I respond with a huff as the phone nearly falls from my shoulder and into a pile of dirty towels in my hallway.

  “Okay, but you sound like you’re out of breath or something.”

  “Just come up, will you?”

  Jess doesn’t have a key to my place, but she might as well. She’s over constantly, except on the weekends if she has a guy over at her place.

  Maybe she’s right. Maybe I should have hooked up with Drew on Friday, whatever that means.

  What would it mean, anyway? A kiss? Me sprawled out beneath him on a stupid mahogany desk in his office? A quickie in the bathroom?

  I hear a knock at the door, and even though I know it’s Jess, I hope it’s someone to take a look at my sink.

  “Who is it?” I call, peeking through the peep-hole, unlatching the chain and unlocking the deadbolt.

  “It’s the handyman. I’m here to make you feel all better.”

  There’s Jess, dressed in short shorts and a black tank top.

  “Oh, really? Where are your tools, then, Mr. Handyman?”

  She skips past me and collapses onto the couch.

  “It’s Ms. Handyman. Handyman isn’t a gendered term. Just because it has the word man in it.”

  “Oh, okay,” I say, rolling my eyes and going back into the kitchen.

  “What’s the problem, anyway? I thought you said the building was in good shape.”

  “It is. And the owner is very nice. It’s just this little issue with the sink. And I don’t want to let it go too long and have it become a big problem. You know. Nip it in the bud while it’s still manageable.”

  I get down on my hands and knees to slide the bucket into place under the sink to catch the drip. I go to turn on the faucet to wash my hands, and then realize, of course, I shouldn’t be doing that.

  “Have you ever tried relaxing, Molly?” Jess puts her feet up on the coffee table as I go into the bathroom to wash up.

  “Oh, what a good idea. I guess I never thought of it like that.”

  “I’m just saying. It’s not a big deal. It’ll get fixed when it gets fixed.
Worrying about it isn’t going to get anyone here to take care of it faster.”

  “You’re right.” I open the freezer and start to grab a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, but quickly put it back.

  “So, how was the rest of your night on Friday? Get everything done that you needed to yesterday?”

  “Yeah. I did, actually. I did a little bit of reading on the Andersons, and then I did some reading on the folks at the paper, and then -”

  “Did some reading on the Andersons, huh? You mean you obsessively searched for every picture of Drew you could find, right?”

  “No. It’s not like that.” I look away to hide the smile I can’t help from growing on my face.

  “It’s exactly like that. You should have seen how red your face got when he hit on you at the club. And now you regret not hooking up with him, right?”

  “I’m not going to just hook up with some guy, okay?”

  “Maybe I should remind you that he is not some guy. He’s Drew Anderson, and he liked you.”

  “I guess the problem is that I kind of liked him, too. I mean, it’s not possible to like someone you just met, but he was certainly hot.”

  I’m being demure for no reason. I should be able to tell my best friend about this stuff. But I can’t tell her I think this guy was panty-meltingly hot.

  “Why isn’t it possible to like someone you just met? I heard that when he and Clarissa first met, they liked each other right away.”

  “Oh, you mean the woman who cheated on him and broke his heart? I’m sorry if I’m not using that relationship as the barometer for true love.”

  “I don’t think she broke his heart. He’s a player. I don’t doubt that he loved her, but he can get another girl like that.” She snaps her fingers in front of her face.

  “She’s definitely not having any trouble getting another guy, that’s for sure.”

  “I know. She’s already back with her ex. It’s sort of funny, in a way. Too bad Drew doesn’t have any exes he can hook back up with. I heard that he burned all those bridges. All the girlfriends he had, and all the one night stands. Lit a match, tossed it behind his shoulder, and never looked back.”