Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3)

by Andrea Hopkins

I made sure to stay put in my room until I heard him leave for his run. Then I scrambled downstairs in search of coffee and breakfast. As the Keurig did its thing, I turned and came face to face with a heaping pile of blueberry pancakes in the food warmer and a big bowl of fresh fruit sitting right next to it with a note that read, Eat. I rolled my eyes, grumbling as I piled the food onto the spare plate he also left, fighting like hell not to let the smile slip out, but it was a losing battle.

  Ugh, stupid mouth.

  For my survival, I have to avoid him for the rest of the day. Which shouldn’t be too hard since he’ll be cooking with Jake, preparing our Christmas Eve and day meals while Mom bakes her little heart out.

  So, I’ve been in the attic library for the last three hours, give or take. Yes, my mom converted the attic into a decently sized library. Wall to wall built-in bookshelves, filled to the brim with anything and everything from J.K. Rowling to Cora Carmack to Charlotte Bronte. It’s a book whore’s dream. And aside from my sewing table, my favorite place in the entire world.

  I sit on the plush turquoise cushions of the reading nook, surrounded by pillows and the beautiful words of my favorite authors—tucked away in front of the large bay window while watching the rare snowflakes fall, sticking wondrously onto the ground below.

  I’m reading an old, filthy, but oh so good Willow Winters novel when the scent of rain hits my nostrils.

  “Mom said you’ve been up here for hours. I thought you’d might be hungry by now.”

  Ben’s voice rings out into the silent air, startling the shit out of me, and I practically jump out of my skin.

  I turn to him with wide eyes, my hand over my hammering heart as I try to calm my nerves.

  “Shit, Bug. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I ignore him and look away, annoyed and slightly embarrassed. I know my cheeks are flushed and my thighs are clenched as I’m in the middle of a particularly naughty scene that includes very descriptive BDSM themes that are so wrong but so very good at the same time. Not that I have had much—or any experience, being the little virgin girl I am. Still, a girl can appreciate the taboo, right? I release a shaky breath and bite my lip when he takes a seat by my feet. He brazenly sets the food in my lap and clucks his tongue as he flicks the cover of my novel.

  “How’s the book?” I dare to meet his gaze, but instantly regret it when I see his knowing smirk on his stupidly sexy face. “Mm. I’m willing to bet big money that it’s damn good.” I roll my eyes and force myself to concentrate on the book, but I keep rereading the same paragraph, and the paragraph in question is too dirty to be reading in front the man sitting next to me with vibrant green eyes that are literally smoldering. Yes, smoldering. Before I realize what’s happening, Ben yanks the book from my hands and I cringe, mortified, one eye shut in shame and cheeks a crimson red as I watch him read the dirty words I just did.

  I gnaw on my lip as he continues to read a few more pages—the air around us growing increasingly thick. His eyes look to mine every few paragraphs and my pulse races from the swelling fire beneath his gaze. He squirms a bit, trying but failing to inconspicuously adjust a certain part of his body that seems to be rising unintentionally. My eyes cast down to his movements and he curses under his breath. My lips curl into a smirk when I see his own cheeks burning with heat.

  “Damn, I’m gonna need a cold shower after that.”

  I try to hide the smile that betrays me but he catches it—of course he does.

  Bastard.

  I shake my head and quickly morph my face into a perfect mask of impassiveness, but he sees right through me. He won’t say it, of course. But I know he does.

  Ben sighs loudly, scrubbing his scruffy jaw that I yearn to scrape with the back of my hand—feel the rough bristles against my soft skin.

  “Remember when you wanted to get back at Dyl for chopping off your Barbie’s hair? For like a week straight you pretended to talk to ghosts up here.” The left side of his mouth tips up as he gets lost in memories of a far less complicated time. “After the sixth or seventh day, the dude freaked the shit out. Still hasn’t recovered. Pretty sure he’s only been up here once, maybe twice since then.” Ben sighs again, his eyes focused on the flurries pelting the window outside. “I missed this place. I mean, New York is great and I’m grateful for the opportunity to study there, but there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss home.” My breath catches as his green eyes penetrate mine. “And you. I miss you every fucking day, Cady. Hell, every fucking minute. I’m so sorry for what those bitches did to you. That’s on me, and I will shoulder that blame for the rest of my days, all right?” His eyes plead with me, and I hate myself for wanting to comfort him. My fingers dig into the palms of my hands to prevent from reaching out. I compromise with a silent nod—acknowledging his apology but not excusing it.

  I’m a bitch, right?

  No. He brought this on himself. I’m allowed to be a bitch. Don’t fucking fall for those heady eyes and charming words.

  No.

  He must sense the wall beginning to rebuild itself, my defenses up and ready to deflect because I watch, conflicted, as his shoulders concave slightly and he releases yet another sigh—resigned in defeat. He gives me a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “Well, I’ll let you eat your lunch,” he murmurs, standing up quickly and taking a single step before turning around, his mouth quirking up just the slightest on the right, and his sad eyes nearly breaking my vow of silence. “Merry Christmas Eve, Bug.”

  I open my mouth to reply, but the words get pulled in by a breath. I don’t release it until he’s walking out the door.

  “Merry Christmas Eve, Ben.”

  My voice is but a whisper in the room full of nothing but books, a tomato and avocado sandwich on rye, and my sad bitch-ass.

  Merry fucking Christmas Eve, indeed.

  Eleven

  Songs to listen to:

  “The Trouble With Love Is” by Kelly Clarkson

  “All I Want for Christmas Is You” by Mariah Carey

  “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)” by Darlene Love

  “So This is Christmas” by John Lennon

  “You Don’t Miss Your Water” by Otis Redding

  Ben

  I have never hated silence so deeply until I was forced to endure four whole days of it from Cady—five if I include today, but I’m hoping for a Christmas miracle. And that’s literally what it will take. She’s showing absolutely no signs of speaking to me, and if I wasn’t so goddamned frustrated with her vow of silence, I’d be thoroughly impressed. It’s not like I haven’t tried to butter her up with (non-butter) vegan dishes and a sprinkling of nostalgia, but mother-effer, nothing seems to be coaxing that saccharine voice out of those pouty lips of hers—at least not directed at me.

  Yeah, that’s right, the salty little sex-pot (new year’s resolution: stop reading romance novels) will exercise that beautiful voice on anyone in the house but me. I guess I should be thankful I get to at least hear her, but damn, the brush off hurts like a bitch, for real. I told her I could take it, and goddess knows I deserve it, but my patience is waning. Quicker than I thought it would. I’m going to have to up my game, lay it on thick and hope the Christmas wish I made to Santa last night really does come true.

  Yes, I made a wish to Santa Claus; figured it couldn’t hurt.

  Don’t judge me.

  No one likes a judger. Especially on fucking Christmas.

  I was supposed to be downstairs by the tree ten minutes ago. I couldn’t decide whether I should give Cady her gift now or later. After careful deliberation, I think I’ll wait, try to catch her alone at some point. I might have to trap her somehow, corner her in since she seems to scurry any time she sees me, and if she’s not running away from me, she’s hiding. It’s been four days of playing cat and mouse and I’m fucking starving for any piece she’s willing to give me. But who am I kidding?

  I want all of her.

  At the sound of
Zig yelling up at me to get my ‘big hairy butt’ downstairs—little asshole—I ease off my bed and walk through my door, determined to make some sort of headway with my Bug.

  As if the gods were somehow on my side, Cady walks out of her bedroom at the same exact time I walk out of mine. She sucks in a deep breath, freezing in the hallway with weary bright blue eyes that lock onto mine all too briefly before turning her attention to the cherry red bootie slippers that I bought her for Christmas last year. My face brightens into an almost full-on smile, the right side angling slightly higher than the left as we begin to walk do the hallway together.

  “Good morning, Bug, and Merry Christmas.”

  She ignores me. Doesn’t even offer a glance my way—just keeps on walking as if I’m not here. But she can pretend all she wants; she’s not fooling anyone. I still affect her. I know I do. She’s gotten pretty good at forcing denial, but I see it. It’s the little things…goose bumps appearing on the surface of her slender, olive-toned arms…the rise and fall of her chest—a few notches quicker than normal…the pant-tenting way she chews on her lip as she breathes heavily through her nose.

  I see it. I see you, girl.

  We descend down the stairs at the same time, shoulder to…top of the head. She really is a tiny thing. The old hardwood groans underneath our feet. Loud voices filter through the open living area as we reach the final steps. The rich aroma of espresso perks up my senses, and instinctively my eyes close as I take a deep inhale, practically salivating at the tease of caffeine in the air.

  However, coffee will have to wait, as Ziggy is about five seconds away from chucking perfectly wrapped presents at me, by the way he’s glaring in his dope pajamas. Darth Vader in a Santa hat? Seriously, I’m gonna have to get me a pair. Unless I already have a pair hidden amongst the gazillion presents glittering in front of me.

  “I’m here, I’m here. And look who I brought with me!” I say enthusiastically to the room, nudging my scowling Bug with my shoulder. “Geez, Cady, I know you’re excited, but can you tone it down just a little? It’s a bit of overkill, no?” I tease her with a smirk, which earns me a death glare that makes Zig’s subpar attempt look like a commercial for Colgate. She also gives me the finger, which only makes the left side of my mouth incline even higher. It’s a reaction, and I’ll take it, even if it promises murder in my sleep. It’s something other than her silence, so yeah, I’ll risk possible—probable, by the look she’s still throwing my way—death. It’d be worth it.

  Apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment, because I wink at her then like the dumbass that I am, resulting in a low but menacing growl from her. And now, I shall begin my final goodbyes, remember to never accept an open-container drink from her plotting hands, and to prepare to sleep with one eye open for the next week and a half.

  If this Christmas is my last, it better be effing good.

  I better be getting a pair of those damn pajamas.

  I make the rounds, dropping a kiss on Mom’s forehead before picking her teeny-tiny fairy body off the ground in a warm embrace. A strong hug with a few back-pats too many from Dad. A ridiculous handshake with Dyl, that took hours to perfect eight years ago, and yet somehow, we just seem to keep adding onto the damn thing—I mean seriously, it lasts a good three minutes. I move in to hug Zig, but the kid ducks under my arm, heading straight for the tree.

  “Sorry bro, been waiting on you and Bug for an hour. I’m ten and it’s freaking Christmas morning. I’ll hug you once I tear into these—”

  “Ziggy Alessandro Rodrigo Moretti!” Mom scolds.

  “Oh snap! You’s in trouble little cousin-brother!” I smirk a tad bit triumphantly, after that punk-ass attitude—knowing full well what’s about to come next. Evangeline Moretti may poop pixie dust and shoot out rainbows every time she smiles, but the woman is as beastly as she is sprite. All it takes is a full-name drop and we all fall in line without question, an apology tumbling from our mouths. Ziggy winces but rolls his eyes at me, making sure Mom doesn’t see, but his poor attempt is futile. Nothing gets past this woman, and he should know better.

  “I’m going to ignore that eye-roll because it’s Christmas, but you better give your brother a hug or else you’ll be the last to open gifts. I might even make you wait until tomorrow. Or better yet, I am sure the good people at the Salvation Army would be more than happy to take this off your hands.” A smug grin blesses her elfin features when Zig practically jumps into my arms.

  I toss the mouthy pain in the ass over my shoulder before body slamming the kid onto the worn vintage couch Dad bought Mom at an estate sell in Gresham a few years back.

  “All right, let’s get this shit—shiz started!” I yell with a little too much enthusiasm for eight in the morning on a Saturday. I chance a glance at Cady and her eyes are already on me. My brows furrow as I connect with the sadness that runs so deep within those baby blues. I ache to erase my role in bringing it to her, sullying those eyes that will barely hold my gaze. I want to repent and repair the damage I caused. I want to be rid of this girl that sits alone, observing quietly while longing to be a part of the commotion but won’t allow it. It’s like she’s locked inside her head. Her pain. Her fear.

  My hands fist at my sides when I watch Dylan squat down to her level and whisper something I can’t hear into her ear. But whatever it was, it brought back some of that light that seems to only dim the moment I walk into the room. She even laughs. It’s small, barely a giggle, but the weight, the sheer fucking beauty of it, almost knocks me off my feet. Honestly, it makes me want to punch Dyl in the face. Which is irrational because he’s my brother and hers and he’s just doing what he’s supposed to do—the brotherly thing to do. But even the most rational thoughts do nothing to quell this…this… I don’t know what it is I’m feeling—jealousy? Is that it? It’s weird as eff to be jealous of my brother talking to his sister, but shit, that’s what this is, huh?

  Fuck, I don’t think it’s just him, either. I’m jealous of the whole goddamned family because they not only get her attention but they get her smile—it’s smaller, more timid than it was before, but it’s there nonetheless and it’s never directed at me. They get everything she’s willing to give, leaving me with nothing but sneers and eyes rolls, or nothing at all.

  I know I deserve this. I do. I’m not diluted in thinking her aversion to me isn’t warranted. But it still fucking sucks.

  Yet, seeing her smile, even if it isn’t for or because of me, makes my chest feel a little less tight. Without even realizing, my traitorous mouth curves into a smile of my own—or at least something that resembles one.

  For the next hour and some change, we all take turns opening gifts, laughing, and expressing our gratitude for one another.

  Every time a gift other than mine is opened, my eyes are on Cady. I know she can feel my stare, the heat on her face, but she does a pretty damn good job ignoring it. Only breaking a few times to meet my eyes before almost immediately flicking her gaze to anything other than me. I know I should stop eyeballing her like a creep, but I can’t effing help myself. I never could, really; I just used to be a lot stealthier about it.

  Her face is bare, without a stich of makeup, as usual, but she is practically glowing with the early morning light shining through the open window behind her. Her long hair is piled into a messy bun on top of her head and she’s wearing simple navy leggings with a long and loose grey tank that reads Merry Elfing Christmas! under an oversized red sweater. On any other girl, aside from it being funny, it would look pretty damn simple, but on her…I don’t think she’s ever looked so fucking beautiful.

  After Dylan nudges me in the stomach for the fifth time, each time more forceful than the last, I pry my eyes off of her for the remainder of the Moretti-Adams gift exchange.

  I make out pretty damn well. A new set of badass knives, Portland Trailblazer tickets, along with some Rip City apparel, a legit bottle of Olive Oil and wine from Italy, bake ware, a recipe book—and no, I didn’t get the
Santa hat-Darth Vader pajamas. I got a pair with Storm Troopers rocking Santa suits! That’ll do.

  We’re in the midst of post-Christmas morning cleanup when I notice in my periphery Cady giving Mom and Dad a hug before making her way out of the room. Before she disappears behind the wall, she stops to whisper something else into Dylan’s ear. He gives her a megawatt smile and drops a single kiss to her forehead, and then she’s gone.

  I take a deep breath, in through the nose and out the mouth, then toss the garbage bag full of wrapping paper at Zig, wincing as it hits him square in the face. But I ain’t got time to console the little shit. I start to run out of the room but Dylan shoots his arm out, the massive limb almost knocking me on my ass.

  “Dude!” My eyebrows shoot up in question.

  “Sorry, I just wanna make sure you know what you’re doing.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” I narrow my eyes. He sighs and scrubs his face.

  “She’s been through Hell, man. I love you, but you put her through Hell. Throw in all of the bullshit from school this year, and I don’t know how much more she can take without completely breaking. There’s a lot we didn’t tell you because we knew you’d fly your ass back out here and make it worse. But it was bad, bro. Like really fucking bad. And for the past few weeks, she’s finally beginning to show signs of life again after months of walking around here like a broke-ass robot. She can’t go back to that, man. For her sake and ours. So yeah, I’m asking you if you know what you’re doing?”

  “It’s been six months, bro. Six months of nothing but silence. I’m not going to force her to do anything she isn’t ready to do, but shit, I sure as Hell will not stop trying to get her back, or at the very least, get her to fucking talk to me. I need her, Dyl. I didn’t realize it until she shut me out, but I need her like the air I breathe, man. I know what I’m doing. I should’ve done it years ago.” He hesitates, staring at me intently, gauging my intentions. My shoulders drop slightly, relieving some of the tension budding between us. “Dude, I’m not going to hurt her. I’m done hurting her. I swear.” I sigh and shake my head. “But you have to let me make it right. I miss her, man. I really fucking miss her.”