Don't Fall

by K. S. Thomas

  I lift my head up to be even with hers, gliding my hand tenderly over the soft skin of her arm, over her shoulder until it curls around the nape of her neck. “You’re the worst liar ever,” I utter under my breath, drawing her to me until her mouth is hovering torturously over mine.

  “Lane?”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Dinner cruise.”

  “Done.” My mouth has barely formed the word when it’s crushing hers, and she sinks deeper into mine, both of us reveling in the sheer bliss of this moment without worrying or wondering about the moments to follow. Because she knows now. We both do. It’s safe to have faith in what we’ve found here. It’s real. And it’s going to last. And there will always be another kiss. Another touch. Another ‘I love you’ to follow the last. Because the best part of falling, is doing it over and over and over again.

  And so we do.

  Every day.

  As often as we can.

  Tessa ~

  I managed to track down your mother. Reminded her that the necklace she’s been so fond of wearing since the robbery at Uncle Art’s house some fifteen years ago, is still on some cop’s list of stolen items right along with all the other jewelry she stole that night and hocked the next day, needless to say, she decided she’d rather not go to jail. Guess she forgot I saw her wearing it last time I had the displeasure of dealing with her, but it only took a second to remind her of the pictures (or mug shots, rather, she’s got filed in seven different counties, all of which display the one useless piece of costume jewelry she kept for herself – trophy, I think is what thieves call ‘em). Trust me when I say, she will no longer be an issue. She either leaves you alone, or she’s getting her ass sent to prison, one way or another, consider her dealt with.

  You’ll find the emails I mentioned, along with all the information regarding the account my mother had for you, attached below. I think you’ll be quite surprised with her savings and I know you’ll spend it in the spirit it was given to you – to build not only a life, but a dream. Go big, Tessa. Go big, jump high, and fall whenever necessary. We’ll always be here to help you back up.

  Take care,

  Meredith.

  Mister McMichael,

  While I appreciate all of the information you’ve forwarded in regard to your criminal (or rather lack thereof) and financial background, my conditions for renting out my condo are quite simple.

  One: You must agree to maintain everything as it is. No furniture may be moved. No items rearranged. It must remain in the exact condition you receive it in.

  Two: You will be kind to your neighbors. They’re young and a bit wild, but looking after them goes with the territory and as an occupant in my unit, I will expect you to carry on the tradition. A cup of coffee. A moment of understanding when they’re having too much fun and are being far too loud. A kind word in their moments of doubt. If you do not feel that you can meet these demands with ease and patience, please continue your housing search.

  Lastly, I’ll need you to answer this one question for me. There is no wrong or right answer. Only an honest one.

  Why do you want to live in my condo?

  Sincerely,

  Edith Dash

  Mrs. Dash,

  Thank you for responding so quickly, I’m eager to get this move underway. I am more than happy to meet your conditions, though I am starting to wish it wasn’t your unit I was moving into and rather one of your neighbors’. I think I’d quite like living across the hall from you. I have no doubt you will be missed and will do my best to fill in during your absence (though I sense your shoes are the sort that are impossible to fill.)

  As for your question, the answer is simple.

  I viewed countless ads, and visited over twenty condos and townhouses. But when I walked into yours, I felt something I hadn’t ever felt anywhere else, not even the house I grew up in. I felt at home.

  Thank you,

  Lane.

  The End.

  Loved Don’t Fall?! Bet you’ll feel the same about One More Chapter

  One More Chapter

  By K.S. Thomas

  Chapter One

  Karma

  I’m late. This is not new to me, the girl my friends and family refer to as being on ‘fuck it’ time regardless of what’s on the agenda. Schedule? What’s that? I work for myself mostly so I don’t have to have one of those. Except on days like today. Because I made a commitment to be here. Last year. I don’t know what I was thinking making plans so far in advance. As it stands, I don’t want to commit to the dinner invite I have for tomorrow night. And it’s from my brother. Because it’s his birthday.

  I’ll let him know sometime before five o’clock. Tomorrow.

  Right now I don’t have time to think about that. I don’t have time for anything. Not even coffee. Which is criminal if you ask me. But no one is asking. Except maybe where the hell I am. My phone just went off for the fourth time. I’m not checking it though. I don’t need anyone to tell me I’m late. I can tell time. Even if I can’t keep it.

  Crossing the never-ending parking lot up to the convention center while my arms are overflowing with crap I’ll need once I get inside, I’m barely hanging on to my laptop bag which is desperately hooked to the pinky on my left hand, along with my key chain.

  I scan the ten side by side double glass doors for the set of automatic ones. They’re not there. They don’t exist. And I’m never getting inside.

  “Excuse me,” I shout when I see a guy exit through a door four sets down from me.

  “Me?” He looks scared. He’s definitely hoping I mean someone else. I shouldn’t yell at strangers.

  “Relax buddy, I’m not requesting any body parts. I just need to get inside and I can’t physically grab hold of a handle and pull right now.”

  He sort of smiles. Relief, that’s what he’s feeling. I check my reflection. I’m getting a bad feeling about things. Yep. The clip holding my hair on top of my head to ensure my curly, poofy volume for the day as my mousse sets is still there. Fantastic. I’m late, and I look like a lunatic.

  Regardless of the very real possibility that I’m a crazy person, the guy holds the door for me, allowing me entry to a building filled with innocent people. I guess he can afford taking a chance on my sanity. He’s leaving.

  As soon as I’m inside, I wish I was out in the parking lot again. This place is packed. Packed and loud. Two things my little introverted self does not care for. But I trudge onward toward the ‘you are here’ map up ahead, trying to zero in on it and not the chaotic mess I’m surrounded by. I suppose I could just search the place for my convention’s banner. I’ve certainly seen it often enough in my inbox. Romance Done Write Con has been emailing me almost daily for the last month, reminding me that I agreed to be on their first panel of the day. A lot of good it did them.

  I scan the map several times, unable to really focus on where I am or where I need to go. My brain is too scrambled with everything else it’s trying to process. Like how my pinkie feels like it’s about to break off. And how that will result in my laptop falling to the ground, possibly leading to its ultimate destruction. Not to mention, the blur of people moving to and fro in a way that makes me feel as though I’m about to be swallowed up by it. Interesting really, turns out feeling claustrophobic doesn’t have anything to do with the size of a place but rather with how much is in it with you.

  I take one last look at the board, find what I think is tower C and room 1107, the highlighted portion of every email I’ve opened recently, and start running. Well, running may be a stretch. But, I’m moving as fast as humanly possible given the circumstances.

  Five minutes and a few hundred human obstacles later, a bright red and black banner catches my eye, and I waste no time in squeezing into the first open door I can find.

  “And hello to you too,” a loud voice greets me over the speakers as soon as I stumble in, bags and piles of crap banging into the wall and each other, helping me create quite the entran
ce.

  Yay.

  First order of business is to make sure I’m still holding on to everything I fell into the conference room with. As soon as I know none of my possessions have spilled onto the floor, I glance up to meet the voice which so eagerly pointed out my tardiness to the entire room.

  Funny. He doesn’t look like a romance writer. Neither do any of the other men seated along the panel beside him. Not that I believe in stereotyping, but I’ve been in this business long enough to know that your everyday erotica author is usually female. And either twice as pent up as her characters are sexually free, or so wild and unconventional, one has no choice but to assume she’s from another planet, which then explains the purple hair as well as the freaky sexual positions her characters achieve that no human could conjure up.

  This guy falls into neither category. He’s a suit and tie guy, except his shirt’s undone where the uptight types would have a tie, and his handsome face is partially obstructed by a full beard too unkempt to be professional but not quite wild enough for mountain man.

  “Since you’re already standing, did you have a question for the panel?” He smiles, it’s the kind of smile that would make me blush from head to toe if I wasn’t already crimson red.

  Even though I’d be laughing at myself, he seems to be genuinely welcoming me to the party.

  “Uh, yeah.” I bounce my left shoulder up and down in hopes the strap digging into my skin will adjust. “This isn’t Romance Done Write, is it?”

  He laughs softly. The rest of the room joins him. Now they are all laughing at me. “I’m afraid not. We’re here today to talk about growing local businesses with Eat, Shop, LIVE Local.”

  Generating my own whirlwind, I spin on my heel and clamber for the door handle with my elbow, hoping for a more graceful exit than I had entry.

  “Don’t feel like you have to make a run for it. Stick around a while. You might find our panel just as interesting.” The guy at the podium is waving me back, his blue eyes piercing me in spite of the distance between us.

  “I don’t doubt that talking business is super fun,” I say this like I totally doubt it, “thing is, I have my own panel to be on. And in case my generally frazzled demeanor hasn’t made it clear enough, I’m late.”

  “That’s too bad. We would have loved for you to join us.” He’s still smiling. I’m starting to think he’s hitting on me. Which is ludicrous. But then that seems to be the theme this morning.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I mumble, pushing my backside into the door, anxious for it to open and swallow me whole. I’ve been at the center of everyone’s attention for far too long now.

  Then, it catches my eye and I stop everything. “Oh, hey, maybe there is one more thing you could answer for me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Is that coffee? And if so, where did you get it?”

  He peers down at the paper cup in his hand. The very paper cup he was sipping something from a moment ago. “It is coffee. And I picked it up at the coffee shop in the hotel lobby.”

  On the opposite side of the parking lot.

  “Dammit.”

  And, I’m finally out of there. Cursing the banner beside the door, which now quite clearly has Eat, Shop, LIVE Local written on it in a bold black and white font that looks nothing like the swirly shit the Romance people used for theirs, I take off at the fastest speed possible given my baggage, both physical and mental. A luggage trolley would come in so handy right now.

  Then, at last, one long-ass hallway later, I arrive.

  “Where the hell have you been?” It’s Layne, one of my clients, and most days, my best friend. Today is iffy, given that she’s jumping down my throat when I’m clearly already in distress.

  “Oh, you know, taking the scenic route and sampling all of the cons on the way here.” I drop my load on the nearest set of empty chairs. “I got lost. Where the hell else would I have been!?”

  “Well, you’re lucky, because you’re not the only one who’s late. The keynote speaker is running behind schedule as well. Flight was delayed. They’re rushing her here straight from the airport.” Layne grins. She likes doing this to me. Freaking me out and then making it all better. She does the same thing to her characters. And in turn her readers. “What is all this shit anyway?”

  She’s pointing at the cardboard box, large tote bag, purse and my laptop, all piled on top of each other in a heap now as I stretch and try to regain feeling in my pinkie and shoulder.

  “This? Oh, I don’t know. Stuff. Had it lying around. Thought it might be fun to take it everywhere I go for a day.” I scowl. “It’s all the crap you insisted I needed for today.”

  As the writer of a bestselling firefighter series, Layne comes in on the freaky alien side of the author spectrum, her bright teal bangs are only reiterating my point. She’s also been to more of these conventions in the last five years than I ever plan to attend over the course of my career as an editor. If it hadn’t been for her insistence, I wouldn’t be at this one now.

  “I didn’t mean you needed them first thing at the panels.” She slaps my arm playfully. Like I’m the silly one. Like it was obvious. “You won’t need most of that until this afternoon.”

  “Listen, I didn’t get here last night. It took more than a leisurely stroll through the lobby for me to arrive here this morning. And when I did, I found myself in a parking lot the size of China. If you think I have any plans to go trekking back out there for anything until this day is over, you’ve let your hair dye seep into your brain for too long.”

  She drops her head sideways, eyeing me sympathetically. “No coffee yet this morning?”

  “None. Not a single, solitary drop,” I say, remembering that I still haven’t fixed my hair and reaching up to release the tousled mess from its rooftop prison. Soft, bouncy curls of chocolate brown land on my shoulders and flow down my back in one fluid motion. Without a mirror handy, I just have to assume that my styling efforts resulted in the intended effect and I now have perfect volume to go with my slightly wild but approachable hair. Although the approachable part may be misleading if I don’t get my hands on some coffee here soon.

  “Well, you’re not getting one now either,” she says as if reading my mind, “That’s the speaker for this morning.” She points at the woman with glasses and a hairdo from the eighties who just came rushing through the doors. “We’re about to get started.”

  For a woman who looks like a librarian stuck in a time warp, the keynote speaker delivers a speech filled with surprisingly current information regarding the publishing business. She also uses the word fuck a lot more than one might expect.

  Then, before I know it, it’s over and the panelist are being invited to come up front. Cue momentary panic, as once more, I make my way across the room with a couple hundred pairs of eyes on me.

  The topic is All the Bells and Whistles, which is their cute way of collecting several editors, cover designers and book formatters in one place to bombard us with questions regarding everything an author needs to consider before publishing. From what I know, I’m one of two editors up here today. The other is a woman who up until recently was working for one of the Big Five out in New York, so she’s fairly new to the ins and outs of working with Indies, or, Independently published authors. It’s different. I like it better, but it’s not for everyone.

  I interned at a different major publishing house every summer of college. By the time I graduated, I knew I never wanted to go back. Too many limitations for my unruly self to truly thrive. The Indies are where it’s at.

  We’ve all had a chance for one go around of questions pertaining to our field of expertise when I notice the door in the back of the room open and a young woman wearing a LIVE Local t-shirt attempting to sneak in.

  With one ear on the cover artist answering a question about the benefits of using exclusive images versus stock, I watch as the woman bypasses the chairs, and swiftly moves toward the front of the room, back slightly hunched and on tipto
es, as if it will help her appear less intrusive that way.

  I’m still fascinated by this scene, when she zeros in on me, a broad smile spreading across her face as she crouches beside me at the end of the table, her hand moving up to gift me a piping hot coffee cup.

  “Jenson said to tell you thanks for stopping by,” she whispers. Then, just as casually as she wandered in here, she leaves again.

  And I watch her. Speechless. It’s not until I take a sip from my cup that I realize the rest of the room has gone silent.

  The panel host leans over her podium to get a clear shot at me. “Okay, forget the importance of proper punctuation, I want to know how you get yourself a personal barista complete with delivery service.”

  I laugh, and for the first time this morning, it’s not because I’m uncomfortable. “Trust me, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” I’m not even sure I believe it yet. And I live in a fictional world most of the time where outlandish things like handsome strangers buying the klutzy girl coffee is pretty much standard behavior. I do know, if I walk out into the parking lot later and find a brand new car with a dating contract stuck in the windshield wiper, I’m making a run for it. That’s not my kinda story. I don’t care how attractive he is.

  The remainder of my time sitting up on the panel goes by in a daze while I fight the urge to drift off into some wild daydream about him. Jensen. The name suits him. It doesn’t even matter that I literally know next to nothing about him. He bought me coffee. He had someone track me down to give it to me, which means he was listening to me. He was paying attention. Coffee and listening. Right there, that pretty much already makes him the best guy I’ve ever dated. Not that we’re dating. Although, if I stretch the coffee thing far enough...it’s almost a date.

  Nah. Even I’m not that crazy. Or desperate.

  “Um, explain.” Layne nods at the now empty coffee cup I’m still clutching in my hand. I just can’t seem to get myself to part with it.