Fall Into Love

by Melody Anne

  I followed Clint through the crowd, admiring the way he eased between the bodies without hesitation. When we reached the exit, I turned and gave Reggie a small wave. She wiggled three fingers back at me, her eyes firmly secured to the cowboy. Oblivious to it all, Clint pushed open the door, and we walked out into the night.

  • • •

  Exiting the suffocating heat of the café was like being reborn. I sucked in cool air and lifted my hair to let the breeze tickle my neck. Above me, stars dotted the sky with pale white light. Fresh-cut grass and the papery smell of transforming leaves lingered in the air as we started in the direction I hoped led to my dorm. I mulled over the e-mail from my agent again.

  Two weeks. That wasn’t a lot of time.

  I desperately wanted to reach out to Jin and freak out with him, but when I’d looked at his Facebook earlier, he’d just checked in at a popular NYC club I’d read about online. He’d also tagged some guy named Zachary and a bunch of other people I’d never met and indicated he was in for the night of his life.

  So that took him out of the running as the person to help me through this crisis. That left exactly . . . no one.

  Clint tapped me on the shoulder. “Everythin’ okay, darlin’? You seem preoccupied.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “That’s a lie, and we both know it.” We took a left and he regarded me under the white glow of a lamppost. “I’m a good listener. Why don’t you try me?”

  I chewed the inside of my cheek. “I wouldn’t even know where to start, cowboy. It’s not really something I can explain.”

  “Hmm, okay. Well, you like books and stuff, right?”

  “Yeah.” I wrinkled my nose. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “You said you don’t know where to start. So tell it to me like one of those books you love. Start from the beginning.”

  I almost choked at just how close he was to my actual issue. An idea formed in my head. Clint might’ve been onto something. I needed to talk to someone, and Jin wasn’t available. Maybe there was a way to do this without giving myself away.

  “Actually,” I said, “it is a story. A short story I’m writing for one of my classes. I can’t figure out where to go with it.”

  “Okay, why don’t you tell me the story?”

  “It doesn’t have any cowboys or duels in it.”

  “Oh.” His shoulders drooped with a sigh as we took another right by a tree that looked somewhat familiar. “Well, you’ve still got time to change it. But tell me anyway.”

  I took a long breath and formulated my thoughts. “So my character is super shy. Almost debilitatingly so. She panics when she’s in groups of people and meeting someone new makes her want to move to a remote island somewhere.”

  “Your story wouldn’t happen to be about you, now, would it?”

  My lips twitched. “Well, she’s maybe a little like me, but she’s not me. Anyway, she . . . uh . . . she decides she wants to try dating, so she sets up an online dating profile.”

  Clint cocked his head.

  “I swear it’s not me,” I said. “So, the dating site asks for a photo and she’s not very confident about her looks, so she steals a picture of a gorgeous woman she finds on Google and uploads it. She figures she’ll never actually get a date, so what’s the harm?”

  We reached the path to my dorm and I did a little happy dance inside my head, congratulating myself on remembering where the hell I lived.

  “I feel bad for your character,” Clint said. “It’s mighty sad, don’t ya think?”

  My heart shifted downward in my chest, as though someone had placed a weight on top of it. “Yeah, I guess it is. Anyway, she meets this guy online, and lo and behold, he falls head over heels for her. Like, he could be the one. He insists they meet in person and she really wants to go. Except for one thing.”

  “He’s expectin’ the gorgeous girl from the picture.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “So, what would you have her do?”

  He stroked his chin and stared behind me. “Well, if this was real life, I’d tell her to suck it up and go meet him. If he really cares about her, he won’t be swayed by the fact she’s not the woman from the photo.”

  “Right, but since it’s a story?”

  “You’re dead set against adding a duel?”

  I laughed. “Yes, cowboy. No duels.”

  “Well, then, I’d want to make the story more interestin’. I’d probably make her track down the woman from the photo an’ teach her to be like her and go on the date. You know, like a modern-day Cyrano.”

  “You don’t like stories without duels, but you know Cyrano de Bergerac?”

  “Sword fights count. Besides, it’s an epic love story. Cyrano believes he’s so ugly, he secretly helps another man court Roxane—the lady they both love—just so he has the chance to speak to her. It’s tragic, an’ if I recall, it didn’t end well for him.”

  “I remember.” I swallowed the knot in my throat. “But I still think that’s how this story needs to go. Hopefully it has a happier ending. So how would you have her track the woman down? She grabbed the original picture off Google. It’s like trying to find a needle in the world’s biggest haystack.”

  “Well, couldn’t she just use the same search parameters to find the photo again and trace the website it came from? Or maybe a reverse image search? Chances are, the gal’s name is somewhere. Probably Facebook or somethin’ like that.”

  I rocked on my heels. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. It’s so freaking simple.”

  “Of course—”

  “Of course, what?”

  “Well, this gal has to go along with the idea of playin’ someone else. She could be hard to convince.”

  I thought back to the night at Bookworm and the mysterious woman who signed my books. “I don’t think it’ll be too hard. She’s looking for fame—er, love—as well.”

  “Well, then, I think you got it, darlin’.” He nodded to my dorm. “This your place?”

  “Yeah.” I started up the stairs only to find him right behind me. When I turned to say good night, my chest brushed against his, he was that close. “Uh, well, thanks for the company on the walk home. I really appreciate it. ’Night, cowboy.”

  If I were the kind of girl who’d been kissed a lot, I might have seen it coming. But I’d barely finished speaking when Clint’s lips came at me. His mouth was soft at first, then firming with each second. I gasped in surprise, and his lips parted along with mine, his tongue searching. He tasted like coffee and sugar cookies from the café—sweet, with a hint of something more exotic.

  Clint gripped my waist and pulled me closer, pressing deeper with his tongue. I placed my hands on his shoulders, marveling at their girth. He exhaled into my mouth, sending shivers through my body.

  My phone buzzed against my thigh, and I took that moment to push him away, my heart and my head racing in tandem.

  I pried my phone from my pocket as I tried to figure out how to respond. A text blinked up at me:

  REGGIE: Have you sent the hot cowboy back to me yet? I can’t wait to have him all to myself, lol!

  I bit my still swollen lips. Right. Reggie. It was obvious she liked him. Back at the café, she’d seemed ready to pick out wedding china. Or wedding hay bales. Whatever it was cowboys registered for when they got married. She barely knew him, but I was sure that my showing up in our room with him on my arm in the first week would be a bad way to start the year together. Not to mention the fact that everything was falling apart around me, and I had no clue how to handle it. I couldn’t exactly pull someone into all my crap when my future now relied on a simple Google search.

  “Clint,” I said. “I’m flattered, really. But . . .”

  The hurt in his eyes ran like jagged claws across my heart. “I’m not lovin’ the sound of that ‘but,’ Elise.”

  “But I . . . Things are just really complicated right now. I’m still trying to figure things out. I mean,
I really like you. You’re an amazing guy, and I can’t believe I’m even saying this because guys don’t just kiss me like that, and I should probably shut up because my friend Jin would be furious at me for not taking a chance and—”

  Clint’s finger shot to my lips, cutting me off midsentence. “You’re ramblin’ darlin’.”

  I mumbled an apology against his finger and his hand returned to his side.

  “If time is what you need, time is what you’ll get,” he said. “But maybe decide sooner than later. Goods like this tend to get snapped up quickly.”

  He straightened his shirt and winked at me.

  I giggled, the tension easing out of my back at his understanding. “Got it. Thanks, cowboy.” Leaning forward, I planted a soft kiss on his cheek. “And thanks for the talk.”

  “It was my pleasure. Good night, sweet Elise. Sleep well, and good luck with your story.”

  “’Night, Clint.”

  I shook my head as he disappeared down the stairs and into the night, trying to rid myself of the sensation of his formidable lips and hands. I didn’t have time to think about what had just happened and what it all meant. What I really needed was my laptop. My fingers tapped against my leg, itching for the keys.

  It was time to find myself.

  • • •

  When my editor first started badgering me for a photo three years ago, I’d run to my computer and tried to find someone the exact opposite of me. A search for “gorgeous brunettes” took me first to a whole bunch of sites and photos I’d rather have forgotten, but I’d finally stumbled upon the one I chose. She was the first girl I could find who had a look about her that said, “I’m super pretty, but I’m also smart enough to write a book.”

  “Gorgeous brunettes” once again brought me to photos of girls looking for dates and more, so I filtered my search with words like “emerald eyes,” “high cheekbones,” and “too perfect to be real.” I clicked through hundreds of images before finally coming to the conclusion that I was never going to find the original again. Even Clint’s suggestion of a reverse image search came up empty—and Google usually had an answer for everything.

  Resisting the urge to hurl my laptop across the room, I decided to start with where I’d first learned she’d been impersonating me all this time. I typed in my pen name and “Bookworm,” which littered my screen with results. I scrolled through pictures of the woman at the bookstore, signing my books. Of course, since everyone thought she was me, no one was helpful enough to actually provide me with her real name.

  The bulk of the photos belonged to a guy who owned a bunch of Aubrey Lynch fan sites. I followed one link to a Facebook fan page.

  Since I’d spent much of my career hiding from my fans, I’d also resisted stalking them. I’d been curious, of course, but also afraid. People could be cruel when they were allowed to hide behind a keyboard. I had enough cruelty hurled directly at my face. I didn’t need it online, too.

  I was about to exit the page without reading when something caught my eye. Post after post littered the feed as people declared their love for Aubrey and her books. They swooned over Dag and Thora, and both cried and cheered over Elof’s death (SPOILERS!). But although the posts made my insides feel like warm honey, those weren’t the words that caught my eye.

  Aubrey just moved next door to me.

  The post was from a Dean Adams and had thousands of likes and people begging for the address, but Dean had never replied.

  I opened a private chat and typed Dean’s name in until his profile picture appeared. My heart beat like a jackhammer stuck on high as I composed a message claiming to be Aubrey Lynch’s biggest fan. I told him it would make my life if I could meet her and I swore I wouldn’t reveal the address to anyone. I slipped in a few key facts about Viking Moon to prove my fandom. Then I hit Send.

  Time seemed to slow down as I waited for a reply. I opened my new manuscript, but the words wouldn’t come, so I closed it almost instantly. I played games and read.

  Reggie returned home, smiling and describing poems about birds, bees, and Beyoncé. Even after she’d run out of steam and crawled into bed, my messenger remained silent.

  I showered and brushed my teeth in the shared bathroom and took my time slipping on my flannel pajamas.

  Still no reply.

  Darkness swallowed the light as I flicked off the bedside lamp and closed my laptop. My eyes remained open until a whisper of daylight peeked through the blinds. Sleep came and went. By the time I opened my eyes and sat up for good, the alarm clock on the desk read almost noon.

  I pulled my laptop onto my knees. After it had booted up, I clicked open Facebook and held my breath as I saw a message from Dean Adams. It was only five words, but it was all I needed:

  1803 Gentry Hill, Fernbrooke, Ohio.

  Later that day, I sat in my car outside the modest two-floor home on Gentry Hill, gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles hurt. It wasn’t hard for me to find fake Aubrey’s street. She lived only a few blocks away from my parents. But really, in a town as tiny as Fernbrooke, everyone lived only a few blocks away from anyone else.

  I scanned for signs of movement through the windows, running scenarios through my mind. It was possible this was all a setup. That this Dean Adams person was actually a serial killer, luring young fans of Viking Moon to his home with a false story about knowing the author. For all I knew, his basement was a collection of cages full of Viking wannabes or his lawn a freshly dug graveyard.

  The house itself didn’t help. Nothing about it screamed, “A serial killer does not live here.” In fact, it barely looked like anyone lived there. If the smell of freshly cut grass weren’t wafting through my window, I might have assumed the home was vacant. It had a sad, unloved quality that made my heart ache.

  I double-checked and triple-checked the address against the message on my phone. This was definitely the place.

  I took a deep breath and opened the car door. My legs wobbled as I drew closer to the white fence surrounding the front lawn.

  If I survived this meeting and a serial killer didn’t reside here, what would I say to this woman? What if she was a crazy person who had somehow convinced herself she actually was the writer of my books? Was she angry I chose to plaster her face on a series of young adult novels? She hadn’t seemed angry that night in the bookstore, but the first Viking Moon book debuted three years ago. I couldn’t help but wonder what she’d felt when she first saw her picture on the back cover. I’d spent the first year after the release waiting for my agent to barge through my door with the girl in tow, asking what the hell was going on. Every year since, I’d waited for the ax to fall and nothing had happened.

  I stood at the door and took a few shallow breaths before pressing the doorbell. Then I waited. When the door remained closed after a few agonizing minutes, I pushed the button again.

  My finger still hovered over the bell when the door flew open and a pair of angry eyes met mine. The woman from the bookstore stood in a white robe with a towel wrapped around her hair.

  “What the hell? Didn’t you hear me tell you to hang on? You didn’t need to keep hitting the button like a freak.”

  Her minty breath breezed across my cheeks, punctuating the sharpness of her words.

  Well, we were off to a good start.

  “Uh, sorry.” I rubbed my neck and stared at the hotel logo on her robe. It was from a popular spot in Las Vegas. “I’m actually deaf. I didn’t hear you.”

  “Oh.” Her body remained tensed and she clasped her robe tighter. “Well, what do you want? Are you another fan? I don’t have a marker on me to sign anything right now.”

  “Um, not really. I was actually wondering if I could come in and talk to you.”

  “What? Are you crazy? No, I’m not letting a stranger into my house. You could be a stalker or something.”

  I laughed under my breath. “I’m not, I swear.”

  “Oh, and I’m supposed to take your word? Is that it? What, I
should feel sorry for you ’cause you’re deaf and have a horrible scar on your face? Is this some kind of Make-A-Wish thing? Because I’m really not in the mood.”

  Shame ripped through my body with hot talons. I lowered my head so my hair would fall over the sides of my face and I stared at her bare feet. They were perfectly pedicured, the toenails painted a deep violet.

  “No,” I whispered. “That’s not it at all. I need to talk to you about Viking Moon and—”

  Her hand shot out to my chest, nudging me back on the stairs. Her fingernails were the same purple as her toes.

  “Look, I already said I’m not talking to any fans today. I don’t even know how fans keep finding me. Stop coming to my house. You people are crazy. They’re just books. Get over it.”

  She started to close the door in my face. A burst of anger flooded up from my stomach and curled into my fists.

  She had no right to talk to fans of Viking Moon that way. My fans. People who had made my career and allowed me to do the one thing I was good at.

  I stopped the door with my palm and pushed it toward her.

  “No.” I started at my own forcefulness before straightening my spine and looking her straight in the eye. “You have no right to talk to me like that. Not only because I know your secret, but because you’re not better than me, no matter what you seem to think.”

  Her eyes widened and she studied me for a moment. “What secret?”

  “I know you didn’t write the Viking Moon series. Because I did.”

  There, I’d said it. It was out in the world.

  Her mouth opened and shut. She raised her index finger and lowered it.

  “Get in here. Now.” She grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the house, slamming the door behind me.

  • • •

  “Take a seat in the living room to the right,” she said. “I’m gonna go change and I’ll be right back.”

  I nodded and she released me before heading up the stairs. The inside of the house looked as uninhabited as the outside. No pictures adorned the walls and no personal effects littered the shelves. The words living room seemed misused when describing the room I’d been directed to. A pale beige couch and matching chair were my only choices for seating. I chose the chair and settled against a fabric so spotless I couldn’t help but wonder if anyone had ever sat in it before me.