Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3)

by Andrea Hopkins

  My hair is no longer a home for flying feathered animals. Nope, it’s washed, brushed, and plaited mediocrely down my right side with wisps of curls framing my face.

  Oh, and my lips! Can’t forget my lips—stained the same shade of red as my skirt.

  I’m ready for battle, to woman-up and face Ben head-on, without wimpy tears or running away like a chicken shit.

  It’s Christmas and I’ve been holed up in my room for going on three hours like a scared little dick. (Who says the pussy is the only private part that can mean wimp? Chauvinistic assholes, that’s who!) Nope, I’m done hiding. Speaking to him, though…or even looking him in those hauntingly beautiful, sea foam green eyes that slay me with every fucking flutter of his unfairly thick and inky lashes… Yeah, that might have to wait.

  They have a power over me that is unmatched and absolutely fucking terrifying.

  But hey, one step at a time, right?

  Deep breath.

  In through the nose, out the mouth.

  And two more.

  I’m not stalling. Shut up!

  Okay, you’re right, I was stalling. Give a girl a break for fuck’s sake. Geez.

  All right, I’m ready now.

  Let’s do this shit.

  I crack my door open, wincing when the old red thing groans loudly. Too loud for my liking. Note to self: WD40 the Hell out of my door ASAP.

  I peek around the corner and my eyes land directly onto Ben’s door, which is abnormally wide open. Another deep breath and I push through the entrance of my room and out into the Mason jar-lit hallway. My feet move slowly, warily, and come to a halt at his door. I roll my eyes and shake my head in shame, but desperate times call for oh so desperate measures. And by desperate, I mean pathetic as fuck. But whatevs.

  A hesitant yet quick peek tells me the room is empty. Thank fuck. Instant relief floods me and I savor it for a few heartbeats before I restart my trek downstairs where the boisterous sounds of my family flitter back up to me. I stop halfway down, listening for approaching steps but they never come, so I resume walking. Safe and sound.

  The second my feet hit the bottom of the stairs, I nearly get sideswiped by my younger brothers Griff and Ziggy who are running around like morons wearing their stupid VR masks, not even noticing me until I throw a few obscenities at their backs. They counter with hearty laughs and insincere apologies over their shoulders and it takes every ounce of restraint to not chuck my ballet flats at their heads, but then I remember they aren’t worth the possibility of scuffing.

  Little assholes.

  The house is chockfull of noise and I don’t even dare to stamp out the smile spreading onto my face. It would be futile. Christmas joy is hard to ignore in this warm and inviting den of crazy.

  The raging sounds of jolly are coming from all ends of the house and I’m not entirely sure which path to choose.

  Not sure whether I want to purposely seek Ben out or just wing it.

  I decide to just go with the flow and if I happen to come across Ben, then so be it. I’ll be a woman of grace and stature.

  I snort. Attractively, I’m sure. Who am I kidding? Grace will never be used to describe me. Opinionated and adorably brash, yes. At least, before Ben and Lucy took a sledgehammer to my heart. But classy and demure? Not a fucking chance. And I’m cool with that. At least I’m not a bitch. Well, to everyone who isn’t named Ben “motherfucking butt-wipe” Catalano-Moretti.

  The bright living room, eclectically decorated with vintage furniture and vibrant hues of turquoise, yellow, and grey, is free from wrapping and tissue paper from the annual Moretti-Adams destruction of Christmas. Now, the room is being used as holiday movie ground zero, complete with bowls overflowing with popcorn and many mugs of hot chocolate.

  Jake, Dylan, and my sister Stella are cracking up by the old-school but no less badass shenanigans of Kevin McCallister, courtesy of the timeless classic Home Alone (the original of course, although Home Alone 2: Lost in New York is probably the greatest sequel in the history of sequels. Am I right?)

  “Cadybug!” All three scream at me through laughter and flying popcorn. I give them a crooked smile and walk over to where Stella is curled up on the brown leather recliner Jake loves dearly and Mom despises but refuses to throw out, no matter how much she complains about it, because ‘that’s love, baby.’ Or so she said years ago.

  “When you truly love someone—whether they snore like a grizzly in hibernation, leave their shoes in the middle of the floor every single effing time they take them off or even if they have the worst possible taste in furniture—none of that matters. Because at the end of the day, those ‘flaws’ or moments aren’t what you think about while lying in bed at night. No, you remember the way he brought you French toast and Nutella in bed that morning with tea just the way you like it—scorching with a dash of cream and a heaping spoonful of honey. You remember how he DVR’ed a show he thought I would love and of course, I did because he knows me. Or that he always, always has a glass of red ready on Sunday nights because he knows that’s when I put on my big girl panties and rifle through reviews and emails which never fails to give me insane anxiety. It’s those moments, baby girl, those are the moments that matter, that you focus on and treasure and if you do, I promise it’ll be all good in the hood. Better than good. Mother-effing amazing.”

  At the memory, my asshole of a heart squeezes so vehemently inside my chest, I wince as if I’m in pain. I close my eyes and as usual, Ben is there, staring back at me behind my shimmering gold lids. Only this time I don’t want to punch him in the face. Nope, I want to attack his face in a much kinder and more inappropriate way. As quickly as those thoughts come, I force them out even quicker. Too dangerous, even if they never materialize outside of my weakened mind.

  I sigh, knowing once I open my eyes, he will be standing in my line of sight. The living room has become at least ten degrees hotter, even though I know he just opened the door and let the frigid air in from the winter wonderland outside.

  On an inhale, my eyes flutter open and sure enough, Ben is standing in the open doorway, tiny white snowflakes speckled across his navy-blue pea coat, nose tinted red from the blistering cold, and his intrusive green eyes are on mine, undoubtedly reading every single thought running recklessly through my head—just as I’m reading his.

  Ben’s face is an open book. A book I’m not ready to read quite yet, but the power of his gaze—the all-pervading sharpness his brilliant yet immensely pained and red-rimmed eyes exude—is near impossible to ignore. Every fiber of my body is itching to run to him, throw my arms around his impressive frame, and hug away the torment broiling inside him. But then I remember that torment he’s feeling is nothing compared to what I have felt and still feel on the daily. All of it is on him.

  And then I feel like a bitch and not the cool, badass kind. Just the plain old salty variety. Which as much as I claim to want to be, it’s total bullshit. That’s not me. Sometimes I wish it would be. It certainly would be a hell of a lot easier and a whole fucking lot less painful, but alas, I am Evangeline and Cole’s daughter—fiery yet vulnerable as fuck.

  I know the moment Ben sees it—the wall I meticulously crafted, slipping down just a fraction. But that’s all he needs. He inhales sharply as I rise from the couch. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me but I ignore their nosy asses and trudge forward until I’m a ballet flat away from the boy who still holds my fragile heart in his hands—he just doesn’t know it.

  And he never will again.

  Time to put your game face on, Cady.

  My head has to tip so far up, I worry briefly that I’ll lose my balance and fall on my sizable ass but by the grace of the gods, I manage to stay upright. Through my thick, non-mascaraed lashes, I meet his eyes once again. They’re brimming with so many questions, too many. Questions, I have every intention of not answering.

  He’ll just have to settle for an olive branch.

  A one day, Christmas fever-induced, pity fueled guilt-ridden
amnesiac truce.

  My mouth parts and his sucks in a deep breath.

  “Do you want some hot chocolate? I was about to get some and frankly, you look like shit. Like five seconds away from hypothermia shit.”

  The words tumble out of my mouth naturally, as if I hadn’t just spent the last week mute in his presence or cursing his name and memory for six months. My dark eyebrows ascend dramatically. My mouth curves slightly, amused at the noticeably shaken expression on his sickeningly handsome face. But he quickly recovers—his back straightens, broad shoulders back to their horizontal state, and his eyes instantly brighten to a sparkling shade of emerald. He releases a long, shuddering breath and the right corner of his mouth tilts in a way that still makes my petite legs turn into two popsicles on a hot summer’s day.

  The room has gone almost eerily silent and I know our family of creepers are watching us with bated breath and buttery popcorn.

  “So I see you do remember how to formulate words. Or is there someone behind me?”

  “Nope, just you, looking like a bloody moron. You do realize it’s like seventeen degrees outside, right?”

  “You’ve been re-binging Dr. Who, haven’t you? Nerd.”

  “Says the boy who flipped his shit over a pair of Star Wars pajamas.”

  “Boy? You and I both know there is no boy standing in front of you. I’m all man,” Ben counters smoothly, in that deep, rich voice of his that knows just what imaginary buttons to press. But there will be no button pressing. Not today, Satan.

  I roll my eyes and tell my hammering heart to shut the fuck up.

  He does not affect you, Cady. Your lady parts are only tingling because you’ve probably developed a new allergy to the soap you used this morning. Yeah, that sounds about right. Definitely has nothing to do with the man—boy—looking at you as if you just cured cancer while wearing a teeny tiny string bikini. An infuriating mixture of wonder and something else I refuse to read into.

  A shiver rolls through me.

  Nope, he definitely does not affect me at all. Stupid fucking winter.

  I cross my arms and sigh in annoyance.

  “Do you want the hot chocolate or not? I’m not going to ask a third time.”

  Ben’s smile widens even more and I gulp down my self-respect and so much spit, I nearly choke on it.

  “It’s good to hear your voice.”

  “Yeah, well don’t get used to it. This is a one-day deal in the spirit of jolly ole St. Nick or whatever. Plus, you got me a gift, which I didn’t open by the way, but I didn’t get you shit. So, think of this as your Christmas gift. Personally, I think it’s the greatest gift of all.”

  “The gift that just keeps on giving.”

  “Until the stroke of midnight.”

  “Am I Cinderella now?”

  “I’d say you’re looking more like Gus—you know, rat-like and portly. Have you gained weight?”

  Someone behind us snickers and I have an inkling that it’s Dylan. Ben barks out a laugh before shaking his head in disbelief.

  “Is it too late to return this wonderful gift you’ve given me?”

  “No such luck, buddy. You’re stuck with it for the foreseeable holiday, and I plan on torturing you with sarcasm and shade. So, buckle up, buttercup. You’re in for an incongruous ride of mockery and shame.”

  “SAT prep word?”

  “Shut up and follow me. Creamy and piping hot vegan hot cocoa awaits us and the offer won’t stand forever.”

  “You had me at creamy, Bug.” The use of my nickname rolling off his undoubtedly skilled tongue (he is a slutty ho-bag after all) with that so rich it’s almost sinful timbre throws me into momentary fit of rage…and lust, much to my dismay.

  I turn on my heel so fast, dead-set on liberating all of the pent-up aggression, I lose my footing on the hardwood floor. Motherfucking adorable and chic as balls ballet flats! Knew they’d be the death of me. But before I fall on my ass for real this time, strong and familiar arms wrap around my waist, suspending me a few feet from the floor. It looks like we just ended a rumba routine on So You Think You Can Dance. Ben’s hard chest is pressed against mine and it takes every shred of my energy to suppress the moan that burns to come out of my duplicitous mouth. Our rapid heartbeats sound over each other, pounding harsh and relentlessly, to the point where it’s all I can hear.

  I allow myself three seconds.

  One second to feel his large and calloused hands on me again. His rough fingertips squeeze ever so slightly, pressing firmly into the sliver of exposed skin just beneath my crop top, yielding unwanted shivers up my spine that are in no way delicious and causing my mouth to salivate like a bitch in heat.

  One second to inhale the smell of him. Rain. He always smells of rain and no matter how many candles I burn or how much Febreze I use, it still lingers in certain spots of the house that I may or may not visit more often than I should.

  One second to latch my eyes to his. To briefly cease fire of all hostility and resentment and to just swim in the two seas of green that are staring back at me with a myriad of emotions.

  And then, I remember myself. And how much I hate the man holding me like I’ve always wanted.

  Like he was meant to hold me.

  Like he never wants to let go.

  But I shut that shit down. Quick.

  “I told you not to call me that,” I seethe in a quiet whisper. Angry more at myself than anyone else at the moment. What the hell is wrong with me? I hate this man. Boy. Child. Man-boy-child asshole. I was thirty seconds away from sharing my prized hot chocolate, for fuck’s sake! I can’t believe I spoke to the dickhead! A week of silence down the fucking drain. Not to mention, I allowed myself to look into his eyes. His eyes! How could I be so careless? Those sparkling green orbs have always been my undoing, and here I go fucking it all up because the feel of his stupidly strong arms holding me up felt like the warm sun after a week’s worth of rain and cloudy skies.

  Fuck me.

  I unwrap my arms from his embrace, place my palms on his solid chest, and successfully shove him away from me, breaking whatever mumbo jumbo voodoo spell he cast on me that caused this blunder of my will and sanity.

  “What the hell am I doing? I hate you. I literally fucking hate you. I changed my mind. Fuck ’tis the season to be jolly. Silent treatment is back on, effective immediately! You can go fuck yourself. Oh, and Merry Christmas.”

  Yes, I am perfectly aware of how immature I sound, but I really don’t give a fuck so ya’ll can shove it up your twats.

  Was that too harsh? It sounded too harsh.

  You don’t need to shove anything up your twats…unless you want to.

  “Wait, what? What the hell just happened? What did I do?” Ben asks, looking quite dumbfounded (more dumb than founded). His beautiful eyes are round with confusion and he kind of looks like I just sucker punched him in the gut, which briefly makes me feel bad, but then I remember I hate him so I don’t really care.

  My left eyebrow raises at him as if to indicate that he knows exactly what he did. Then I successfully turn on my heel (forgive me, beautiful flats, you have redeemed yourselves) and sashay (Queen RuPaul would be so proud!) away like my life depended on it, making damn sure my big-ass hips move expertly to the beat of my hammering heart.

  “Do I at least get hot chocolate?” Ben yells at my back, garnering a sadistic smile to my face that only grows bigger as I make a single cup for myself and hide all of the ingredients around the house because well, like we established before, I’m a clever, immature queen and I’m owning it like the lady boss I am.

  Ben Catalano-Moretti can suck a pair of big, heavy, bright jingle bells.

  Yep, that’s right.

  Jingle. Bells. Motherfucker!

  The spirit of Christmas be damned. This bitch is back!

  Fifteen

  Songs to listen to:

  “I Won’t Let You Go” by James Morrison

  “Cannonball” by Damien Rice

  �
��Pray” by Sam Smith

  “Too Good to Say Goodbye” by Bruno Mars

  “Bad Things” (feat. Izzy Bizu) by Milky Chance

  “Just One More Day” by Otis Redding

  Ben

  One step forward and about a hundred and twelve steps back.

  That is how this failed and pathetic attempt at a winter vacation has gone. Just when I think I’m gaining leeway with Cady, she does a 180 and turns to stone.

  That moment on Christmas, I thought I had her. Hook, line, and sinker. The way her supple curves practically fused to my hands as I prevented her from falling. Her breath, hot and heady, gently panting into the tiny space between us, hitting my skin in the softest most cock-teasing way that I had to say a few “hail Marys” to push the big guy down. And that voice. Fuck, that voice. I knew I had missed it but damn, hearing that voice directed at me, no matter how snarky and disdain-filled, was like hearing your favorite band live for the first time—epic as a mother trucker. Unforgettable.

  But I knew it wasn’t going to last, not only because she told me it wouldn’t but I pushed it too far. I let her see things she isn’t ready or willing to see. Things I didn’t even mean to project but didn’t have the restraint to pull back. For once, I let myself be vulnerable—fuck, I sound like such a fucking wanker. Seriously. Get it together, man! If I don’t stop reading those damn novels, I’m pretty sure my balls are going to shrivel to prunes and fall off. I really happen to like my balls, you know? But damn, it’s the pathetic truth—in that all too brief moment, I didn’t conceal a single emotion. I let it all hang out there, and it fucked me royally.

  I knew the second it happened. Saw the switch flip. The I-hate-Ben switch.

  Ever since that fleeting holiday treaty, she has expertly avoided or ignored me to the point where for a few seconds, I thought maybe, just maybe I really did get the cloak of invisibility and didn’t know it.