Beautiful Fall

by Jordyn White

  “Sure,” I answer.

  “See?” she says. “Problem solved.” I narrow my eyes at her but she kneels down and opens her arms. “Come here, Maxey. Give momma a hug.”

  He does go to her, and her hug is warm enough that it gives me a glimpse of the mother she used to be. God, where in the hell did that woman go? Sometimes I can’t believe how much she’s changed.

  “We’ll go to the park next time, okay?” She pulls him back and looks him right in the eye. “I promise.”

  And there she is again, that lying mess we’ve become all too familiar with.

  “Alright, Max. Let’s go.”

  We spend the next couple hours getting Max some food and a new soccer ball, which we kick around at the park down the street from my house as promised. He felt better once he got some food in his tummy, but he’s been a little off all afternoon, getting upset over small things that wouldn’t normally bother him.

  Once we’re back to the house, I’m determined to get this kid to sleep. He still needs afternoon naps, but resists them, so I more or less have to trick him into it.

  I put Finding Nemo in the DVD player, and tell him he can choose to lie down on either the floor or the couch to watch. He settles onto the couch cushions next to me, resting his head on my lap, and is out like a light in three minutes flat.

  I put my hand on his warm little shoulders, lean my head on the back of the couch, and take a deep breath. This stuff with Jessica always takes something out of me. I’m so worn out, I feel like I’ve been running top speed all day, instead of just kicking the ball around with my boy. Still, it’s not long before I’m indulging in a nap of my own.

  Chapter 6

  Lizzy

  I’m finally giving Whitney a thorough tour of the cottages, which we haven’t had a chance to do yet. She and Connor are back from vacation, and with her living in Swan Pointe now, I’ve quickly discovered I’m enjoying having her around more. Especially since Corrine is now back at Hartman College. She had considered commuting for her final semester. Hartman is only an hour and a half inland from here, and Rayce did that when he was getting his master’s in business there so he could keep working at the resort. But ultimately she decided against it. She left on Sunday and I already miss her.

  Likewise, Corrine missed Connor and Whitney’s big announcement. They came back from their vacation engaged. Apparently Connor knocked it out of the park, too. He took her on a private helicopter tour of Mount McKinley that included an on-foot excursion to these beautiful blue glacial streams—where he got down on one knee and proposed. I gotta hand it to that little brother of mine. He knows how to treat the woman in his life. They haven’t set a date yet, but are talking next spring or summer.

  As for Whitney, that girl’s on fire. This seems to be just what she needed. She’s no longer hesitant about feeling part of the house they’re buying (their bid was accepted and they close in a month) and keeps talking about how they plan to decorate it. I’m glad for them, but still feeling uneasy about things for some reason. Connor’s asked me a couple of times what I’m going to do with my old house and all the stuff in it, but I don’t know and don’t really want to think about it yet.

  I’d rather think about the Cottages, and for that, Whitney’s fantastic company. Turns out, she has a great eye. As we go through one cottage after another, trying to stay out of the way of the workers, I describe what the layout’s going to be like when we’re all done. She keeps tossing out ideas about how furniture could be laid out to maximize the feel of the space.

  “You’re really good at this,” I tell her as we climb the steps to cottage nine.

  “I used to love looking through design magazines when I was younger. I kind of forgot about that until recently.” Yesterday, she bought a whole stack of magazines now that they have a new house to decorate.

  As we approach the front door, Brett Carmichael is coming out. He’s with an older gentleman who I know works for him, as I’ve met him once before. He has to be in his late fifties, but has a full head of gray hair.

  “Elizabeth,” Brett says, nodding his head at me and glancing at Whitney with polite curiosity. I could allow him to keep moving, and we could do the same ourselves, but seeing that he’s one of my contractors I decide an introduction is in order.

  “This is my sister, well, soon-to-be sister Whitney Spencer. Whitney, this is Brett Carmichael. He’s our historical contractor.” Whitney already knows this, since she and Corrine both got to hear my rant about him when he was first hired, but I don’t want it to be obvious I’ve been talking about him.

  They shake hands amicably. “Pleased to meet you,” she says.

  “Likewise.”

  “And this is Isaac.” I indicate his employee. I believe he specializes in wood refinishing, but I don’t remember that as well as I remember his name, so I keep quiet about it in case I’m wrong. He shakes her hand as well and Whitney commences with some friendly chatter.

  Within minutes I’ve learned how long everyone’s been in Swan Pointe (only Brett and I are natives, though Isaac has been here longer than either of us) and who they think makes the best Philly Cheesesteak in town. That, I’ve come to learn, is an obsession of Whitney’s.

  “Well, we won’t keep you,” I say, partly because I really don’t want them to feel obligated to talk to us, me being the owner, when they probably have work to do, and partly because I don’t want to give Brett any opportunities to try to get my goat in front of Whitney. How we got to teasing each other so much, I don’t know, but I wouldn’t put it past him to say something smart-aleck right here and now.

  We all continue on our way, and once we’re in the kitchen and out of ear shot, Whitney says, “Wow. You didn’t mention how handsome Brett Carmichael is.” She says this like she’s surprised more than personally affected by him.

  I give her a mock-stern look anyway. “I wonder how Connor would feel about that comment.”

  “Pish. I didn’t say he’s as hot as Connor, because he’s totally not.”

  Though I do realize my brothers are pretty good-looking, I make an icky face and Whitney laughs. “I can’t say that I’d agree with that, but that’s probably because Connor’s my brother.”

  Connor is my brother, but that’s not the reason I disagree with Whitney’s take on which guy would win the cute contest. Truth be told, I’ve noticed Brett’s hot as hell. I have eyes, don’t I? Not that it matters. I mean, come on. It’s Brett freaking Carmichael.

  The next day at work, after I finish reviewing the off-season booking plan our Marketing Director turned in yesterday, I open an email from Whitney. She says she got an idea in the middle of the night, and suggests we create a plant shelf in one of the bedrooms in cottage nine. She includes some links, which are photos illustrating different aspects of her idea.

  “Damn,” I say, looking it over and getting excited. “She really is good.”

  Hell, between Whitney and me, maybe I won’t need to hire a designer after all. “You should do this for a living,” I shoot back. She really could, I think, but somehow I doubt she will. She’s only ever done humanitarian-type work and everything she’s come up with as an alternative is still in the same vein of helping people. Personally, I think she needs to avoid another helping profession, because she gets too attached to people and too heartbroken over their problems. Hell, that’s what’s forcing her to reconsider careers in the first place. But it’s not really for me to say, so I stay mum.

  Meanwhile, I’m so jazzed about her idea that during the lunch hour, I head over to cottage nine to see if we’d be able to reframe things like she suggests to build a plant shelf above the closet. It’s a room that could really benefit from an architectural element of interest.

  When I arrive, there are signs of work in progress in that cottage, but no one seems to be here at the moment. I consider finding Rod or Brett to ask about the space above the closet, but decide to investigate myself first. The room in question has a closet on the same
long wall as the door and a window on the other side of the room. Under the window, a long board balanced across two saw horses is bathed in the afternoon sun. On top is a huge circular saw, a silver tape measure, a few bits of wood that had been cut off of something or other, and soft piles of sawdust. The whole arrangement is infusing the room with the scent of freshly-cut wood.

  The long wall with the closet has been torn apart a bit, about halfway down. There was some old water damage on part of the wall and in the closet, so right now it’s nothing but wood framing. Whitney probably would’ve overlooked the space above the closet had it not been stripped down clear up to the attic.

  I’d like to get a closer look at that space and take some measurements. I find a large, A-frame ladder in the next room and haul it over, glad no one’s here to watch me struggle with it. I set it up next to the closet, grab the tape measure off the board on the saw horses, and start to climb.

  It only takes a couple steps to realize this would’ve been a lot easier if I’d changed into my denim docksides, but they’re clear out in the car. Grateful once more for my privacy, I kick off my heels and they fall to the hardwood floor with two dull thuds. Naturally, that’s when I hear someone come in the front door.

  I pause for a moment, then decide if whoever it is happens to come into this room, there are worse things in the world than them seeing me barefoot on a ladder. I climb the rest of the way and here I see some black pipes that might get in the way of a plant shelf. They might be far back enough, though. Are they?

  Low, steady thuds indicate someone’s coming up the stairs. I groan, but persist.

  I extend the tape measure a couple feet, lock it, then reach over to measure the distance between the front of the closet back to the nearest black pipe. I’m reaching to the side more than I’m really comfortable with. It’d probably be better to move the ladder over a touch, but I just need this one measurement, so I hang on to the closet framing to steady myself as I stretch.

  “Careful.”

  I jolt, the ladder shakes a bit, and I quickly grab the framing with both hands. Having regained my balance, I glance down at Brett Carmichael, who’s just come in the door and is looking up at me.

  “Were you trying to knock me off the ladder?”

  He gives me that cocky grin of his and I roll my eyes, going back to what I was doing. I reposition myself so I can try getting the measurement again.

  He comes closer. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting a measurement.”

  “Yes, I see that.” He grabs the ladder with one hand but is still watching me. “The plans have measurements, you know.”

  I roll my eyes again. “I’m aware of that Mr. Carmichael.”

  He laughs. “I can always tell I’m irritating you a little bit extra when you refuse to call me Brett.”

  “I’m not refusing anything. I’m seeing if we can put a plant shelf up here.”

  “Huh.” He’s eyeing the space above the closet more carefully now. “That’s not a bad idea.”

  “Thank you, but it’s not mine. Do you think there’s room? Can we go all the way back to that pipe?”

  “Hop on down. Let me see.”

  I hit the lever on the tape measure and it slides back in with a satisfying thwwwak. I pass it to him and descend the ladder. He hooks the tape measure on the waistband of his jeans and climbs up.

  I move toward my heels, but before I can get there, he says, “Aren’t you going to hold the ladder for me?”

  I look up at him with narrowed eyes. Is he being serious or is he just messing with me? He’s giving me a straight face, but I still can’t shake the feeling he’s pulling my chain. These guys climb ladders without spotters all the freaking time, don’t they? I step back and hold it anyway.

  He chuckles and I narrow my eyes again as he climbs the last step. Being taller than me, he’s a step lower than I was and still reaching things a lot easier. “Do you enjoy tormenting me, Mr. Carmichael?”

  “Actually, yes, I do,” he says easily.

  I roll my eyes again. “Well, at least you’re honest about it.”

  He laughs again.

  “So? Can we put a plant shelf up there or not?”

  “Hang on.” He takes another measurement, reaching in the opposite direction. This has the effect of drawing my eyes to his ass which is, naturally, as good-looking as the rest of him. Seeing as how he’s Marcia Carmichael’s son, I really haven’t taken to checking out his ass before. There’s no avoiding it now. I don’t realize my gaze has been lingering until he turns back toward me and I snap my eyes to his, trying to look casual.

  He was saying, “We should be—” but freezes when he sees me. God, did he catch me eyeing his rear? He gets an amused look on his face and I huff, abandoning the ladder and going for my shoes. I’m so out of here.

  “Hey,” he says, laughing a bit. “You’re supposed to hold the ladder.”

  “I think you can manage.” I slip on the first heel and walk unevenly toward the other, which is upside down not too far away.

  He chuckles again, but lets it slide. “Well, I think we can add in your shelf, and we can take it as far as right there, if you’d like.”

  I’ve just slipped on my second heel, one hand hanging on to the closet frame for balance, and look up to see where he’s tapped above me with the end of the tape measure.

  I’m getting ready to say that’d be perfect, but something gets in my eye and I swing my head back down, wanting to blink against the burning in my eye. Shit. It’s actually bad enough that blinking isn’t even possible. My fingers go to my closed eye and I press, wishing there was a mirror or something so I could see what the hell’s in my eye. Shit, it really hurts.

  “You okay?” I hear him coming down the ladder but turn my back to him and step blindly toward the door, head still down and fingers still on my burning eye.

  “Fine,” I lie, resting one hand on the drywall I’ve now drawn up against. “I think I got saw dust or something in my eye.”

  “Let me see.” He’s come around to the front of me now.

  I shake my head, but still can’t open my eye.

  His hands, firm and warm, go to either side of my jaw and he gently turns my face up to him. “Hang on, hang on.” He’s trying to get me to settle, I guess, but shit this hurts.

  He blows a firm puff of air on my eye once, twice, then softly rubs my lashes from corner to corner.

  He releases me and I instantly tip my head down again, able to blink now. That definitely helped, and I’m blinking rapidly, finally getting some relief.

  “Better?”

  I nod curtly, inexplicably irritated with him. I should be thanking him, but instead I give a short, “I’m fine,” and look up at him to prove it.

  His eyes sharpen on my lashes; at the same time I register that something is still stuck on them. “Wait,” he says firmly, coming close again.

  I was raising one hand to wipe across my lashes, but I respond to his authoritative tone immediately and stop moving.

  “Don’t blink.” He braces my face between his two hands again. “There’s a sliver on your lashes.” My eyes are watering a bit and I feel a strong urge to blink, but resist.

  He carefully pinches at the sliver. Not moving, I watch his eyes as he stays focused on his task. He’s so close, I’m seeing all the little details in that rim of light blue around his eyes. Tiny flecks of crystalline blue cut into the darker cobalt they’re surrounding, a hundred luminous shards. It’s enchanting.

  His eyes flick to mine. When our gaze meets, it’s as if someone took hold of me by the shoulders and shook. The sliver is gone now, and other than a few watery blinks on my part, we’re both frozen in place. His hands are still cupping my face. I’m still standing here, my body mere inches from his. And I can’t look away.

  Heat is climbing through my chest and over my face. I’m barely breathing. A voice in my head wonders, What in the hell is happening? but the rest of me is too caught in the
grips of it to think. My lips part slightly in surprise—or is it something else?—and his eyes dip to them.

  I know the heated look of desire when I see it. Still, he looks as confused as I am. If I had to interpret the expression on his face, it would say, What IS this?

  I’m thinking the same damn thing.

  Then, as if there’s nothing to do but find out, he comes in and kisses me.

  My eyebrows shoot up and I intake a breath.

  I’ll tell you what this is. Lightning. The kind that burns up everything in its path.

  We hold just like that, with Brett Carmichael’s hands on my face and his lips pressing against mine. Utterly frozen on the outside, I’m a brilliant storm of activity on the inside. Light and heat are dashing through my body and mystifying my brain.

  For just a second our lips move, a kiss that wanted more and took it of its own volition. A sudden, burning moment of exploration. Then we freeze again, confused, hesitating, our breaths shallow and erratic, and our lips still pressing together. When did my hands go to his back?

  In the next moment, something else takes over. We kiss again, and again. More eagerly. Breathing hard. Our mouths parting only slightly, the soft, moist heat of our inner lips pressing together.

  Then, just the tip of the tongue.

  The second our tongues touch, something jolts through me and I gasp. We break apart, each taking a step back. Mouths still slightly parted, we’re just standing here gaping at one another, all while my heart tries to gallop right out of my chest.

  The expression on his face is a cross between, what the fuck just happened, and give me more of that.

  I can’t believe we just did that. He can’t seem to believe it either. The sound of the front door opening causes him to look quickly around the door jamb onto the landing. Thus released from his gaze, I start to move.

  Still feeling whatever just passed between us pumping madly through my body, I take one step back and then another. Eyes wide on him, I’m backing up quickly, needing to put space between myself and this force I did not know Brett Carmichael had.