Falling Over (Falling In Series Book 3)

by Andrea Hopkins

  He snorts, fighting back laughter that is just on the cusp of bubbling out. He shakes his head, his mouth curving into a familiar and acceptable smirk.

  “Duly noted. So, is that rule number one, then? No douchey, constipated smiles?”

  “Yes, definitely.”

  “Okay, anything else?”

  I grow silent, thinking for a minute, wracking my brain for any ideas. I inhale deeply and am hit viciously with the scent of whatever he was cooking in the kitchen. My stomach rumbles again.

  “You cook. We both know I’m shit in the kitchen. So you cook. I clean the food mess, and we can share the other chores around the house. We can even make a list, if you want.”

  “Sounds reasonable. What about showers? There’s only one bathroom.”

  I try really damn hard not to imagine him in the shower. Naked. Hard. Every bit of him, hard. And naked. Water cascading down his body as I trail the droplets with my—no! There will be no trailing of droplets anywhere on his body, Cady Adams. None. Of. That. I pull the collar of my t-shirt away from my chest to combat the heat settling on my skin and pooling in places it shouldn’t.

  “We take turns going first. Unless one of us has something to do at a specific time. But, we need to make sure the other person is aware.”

  “All right, and grocery shopping? We go together, or at least make the list together. Split it fifty-fifty?”

  I nod my approval, and he gives me another small smile. It’s crooked and perfect and makes my heart gallop just a little bit faster. There’s a lull, a brief moment where both of us are silent. His eyes are fixated on mine, intent and growing more vulnerable by the millisecond. It’s too much. He opens his mouth to say something—most likely something I won’t like, so I blurt out the first thing that pops into my head.

  And of course, in Cady-like fashion, it’s absolutely ridiculous.

  “No skanks!”

  “Um, I’m sorry, what? Did you just yell ‘no skanks’ at me?”

  “Yeah, I might have. What I meant was, no skanks. Damn it, I just said it again, didn’t I? Fuck, okay, no skanks unless you give me notice before said skank or skanks arrive. I don’t need to see your flavor of the day parade around the house wearing nothing but her belly ring, Chinese symbol tattoo, and translucent stilettos.”

  He huffs out a laugh. “And what makes you think I’ll be bringing girls over?”

  “Well, unless my prayers were answered and your dick shriveled up and fell into a vat of rapid-dry cement, I’d say there is a probable chance of severe skankage.”

  “I almost forgot how funny you are.”

  “And no reminiscing. Rule number six.”

  “Damn, I don’t remember you being this mean, though.”

  “And I don’t remember you talking this much.”

  “Ha! You just broke rule number six!”

  “Oh, fuck off!”

  “I love it when you talk dirty to me,” he replies with a glint in his eye. “Okay, no skanks unless you’re informed beforehand. Got it. Same goes for you.”

  “I don’t fuck around with skanks. I have a boyfriend.”

  “So I’ve heard. And before that asshole comes over to do, fuck, don’t tell me what you two do—make that rule number seven. Also, you can’t say ‘dick’ to me. That word coming from your lips…well, let’s just say the asshole boyfriend wouldn’t appreciate what I’d have no choice but to do to you whenever you say a word like that. Also, ‘cock’ and really, any mention of areas below the belt are also off limits.”

  “Seriously?” He looks at me like I’m the nut job.

  “Seriously. So, unless you want me to pin you against the wall and shove my tongue down your pretty little throat every time you say ‘dick’ or ‘pussy,’ then I’d add the rule to our list.”

  Deer in headlights. That’s the most accurate description of what my faces looks like right now. I gulp down my shock and instant and shameful arousal at his words. He smirks, his eyes almost a challenge as I shift uncomfortably on the floor. I can’t speak, too afraid I’ll test out his little admission. So, I agree with a nod. His stupid-ass smirk tilts even higher to the left and my hand twitches to slap it off him. But I’m a lady with a semblance of control and decorum, so I refrain.

  “Now, as for this boyfriend of yours? I think it’s only fair that you also give me notice whenever the douche comes over. That way I can make sure I’m here and spend the entire time bugging the shit out of him. And you. Thus, halting any chance of him coming anywhere near places he shouldn’t even be thinking of, let alone visiting. It’s what big brothers are for, right?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You aren’t my brother, nor have you ever been or ever will be, and you know it.”

  “Who am I, then?” he asks abruptly.

  All traces of playfulness disappear from his face, replaced with an acute intensity that summons a flock of pterodactyls flailing their giant ass wings inside my belly. Goosebumps coat my skin and my lips become unbearably dry. I tuck the bottom one between my teeth before swiping my tongue across my mouth, smearing a layer of wetness onto the pouty flesh. Ben’s eyes narrow, his pupils dilating as the green of his irises simmer and follow my every move. He takes a step forward and then another and another until he’s squatting right in front of me. My breath hitches at the nearness of him. The smell. His smell, and his alone. It effectively shuts down all barriers, sending my emotions, my thoughts, every single fucking reservation into a spiral. My dwindling common sense knows I need to scoot away, run to my room, lock the door and hide under the covers until morning, but I do none of those things. Because it’s Ben motherfucking Catalano-Moretti, mere inches from my face. His breath becomes mine and he’s staring at me like…like I’ve always wanted him to stare at me. The power he has. The fucking control. I’m in a trance, and right this second, I think I would do just about anything he asked of me.

  “Who am I to you, Bug? Tell me. Please, just tell me, baby.”

  Anything except answer that question.

  I can’t.

  I won’t.

  And just like that, the Ben-fog lifts and I push away from him. He sighs, and I still feel his breath on my skin. I push back even further.

  “I think—I think dinner is burning,” I whisper, not able to meet his gaze. I turn my attention to the kitchen behind him and my eyes grow wide. “Shit, Ben! The stove!” I scream and he jolts, turning around and yelling a slew of curse words I’ve never heard him say before. I’d smile if our new kitchen weren’t about five seconds away from burning down.

  We both hop up off the floor as the smoke alarms go off, and quickly run into a mass of smoke, bumping into each other in our haste to begin damage control. The water that was boiling earlier, which I now know contained penne pasta, has bubbled over and spread across the entire stovetop. Red splatters of undoubtedly homemade marinara have dotted the once pristine white subway tile backsplash. And yep, what looks to be eggplant is definitely on fire.

  “Motherfuckingshitfuck!” Ben roars as he grabs the faucet attachment and sprays down the charcoaled eggplant while I busy myself with turning off burners and moving the pots to the sink, holding back laughter as Ben continues to dip his toes into the colorful language pool.

  Once the fire is contained and my heart reaches a semi-normal beating pattern, I can’t hold it in anymore. It starts off as a hot as hell snort or two before rapidly morphing into full-blow laughter. Like a hysterical, “is she okay?” type of laughter. It’s loud, obnoxious and verging on sounding like the Joker from Batman. Tears stream down my face and through the humorous waterworks, I see Ben crack a smile before I hear his deep chuckle. And damn him to the fiery pits of Hades for having a laugh that’s sexy. It’s not enough for him to look like a fucking Calvin Klein model, nope. He has to laugh, eat, drink, sleep, cook, and probably even poop sexy. Maybe not poop, but if anyone could do it, it’d be this asshole.

  Life’s so unfair.

  After a solid two minutes of embarras
sing myself, I manage to gain control over my super attractive cackle. I throw my head back to wipe my tears and yep, sure enough, there is red sauce on the ceiling as well. Awesome. “I don’t think you’ve made a mess like this since my fifteenth birthday. You were making sauce for my vegan lasagna and you got distracted for some reason… You know, I never knew why or how you managed to basically blow up a pot of sauce…”

  “Your dress.”

  “Shit, did I get sauce on it—wait, I’m not wearing a dress.” I glare at him.

  He shakes his head, looking at the ground, or is it my legs…I don’t know. I shift my feet and his gaze follows the movement—yep, definitely my legs. The urge to pull down my t-shirt is fierce but it’s a fucking crop top with the words Go Back to Cali emblazoned on the front. It won’t be doing my naked legs any favors. Stupid eight-dollar bargain short shorts. I try to push them down but they’re basically painted onto my ass, so it looks like I’m shit out of luck for the time being. My body begins to heat to the point of discomfort, and I blow out a shaky breath, hoping it comes off as annoyed.

  It doesn’t.

  His eyes pop back to mine and they fucking sear me to the spot.

  “What dress?” I croak and internally bitch-slap my vocal cords for being a spineless whore. He doesn’t answer. Just continues his perusal of my eyes, which is better than my legs. Kind of. Not really. It kind of makes me want to shrink away. Or saunter over to him and brush my body against his, maybe make him a little uncomfortable for a change. But I do neither. I straighten my shoulders and raise my expertly threaded eyebrows expectantly, repeating myself again. His eyes fall back to my legs as he finally decides to answer me.

  “It was red. Bright, cherry red. Strapless. Tight up top and then it kind of flared out, only to end an inch past your ass. It highlighted every single fucking brand-new curve, in the best way. I’d never seen you look so…sexy. You’ve always been cute, beautiful, but on that day, damn it Cady, with the matching red lips, the glasses and heels and that fucking long dark hair that I really wanted to wrap around my hands and use to tug you as close to me as I could get…I had to leave. I couldn’t stay there, I was liable to do something I knew I couldn’t or shouldn’t do.”

  His admission was not what I was expecting. Nor is the way he’s looking at me. It’s as if he’s not actually seeing me, at least not the me standing in front of him. No, he’s seeing the fifteen-year old Cady who picked out that fiery red dress to do exactly what Ben explained—knock his fucking Nike socks off. Of course, I didn’t know it back then. Once I came downstairs, Ben took one long look at me and immediately left the kitchen, then the house. I distinctly remember the door slamming just as the first tear began to fall. I ran upstairs and allowed myself to shed a few more tears before I got my shit together, re-made up my face, garnered a bright albeit fake smile, and walked back down the stairs with a false confidence I owned like the little girl boss I was.

  “Which one?”

  “What?” My question brings him out of the past.

  “Which one was it? Shouldn’t or couldn’t?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “It matters.”

  We stare each other down, neither one of us offering up any more than we’ve already said. I think we’ve shared enough for today. I tell him as much before turning my back to him, severing our contact before I made a mistake like showing my cards. I’ve always been a shit poker player but, in this game, I’m dead-set on turning my luck around.

  I busy myself with marinara clean up, seriously needing a break from this dangerous interaction.

  Ben seems to share the need for a time-out, as he starts to work at scrubbing the tile while I wash and load the dishwasher. We clean silently, aside from the music still playing in the background.

  I think this is the first time I have ever not wanted to listen to Otis. It’s unsettling. But not as much as listening to his soulful voice croon about yearning, wanting, needing, burning to hold the one he loves. Just once. That’s all he needs.

  Yeah, nope. I have no idea how Otis feels. No idea what-so-fucking-ever.

  Was that convincing enough?

  Yeah, I didn’t think so, either.

  I make it through a third of the song before I slam the dishwasher shut, gripping the freshly wiped quartz countertop so hard my olive-skinned knuckles turn white.

  “Cady,” Ben murmurs behind me. Close. Too close. Way too fucking close. Seriously, dude, boundaries.

  “I—”

  “I can make something else!” Ben blurts out. “I bought a few groceries after everyone left. I’m sure I can whip something up. Or I could order in…Neighbors? Jake’s working, so—”

  “I don’t think—”

  “We can watch a movie. Your choice. And I promise to sit as far away from you as possible unless, you know, you don’t want that, but since you’re about three seconds away from running from me again, I’d say it’s a good chance you want to keep some distance between us, and I totally get that. And I will honor it.”

  “Ben,” I sigh his name, feeling so fucking emotionally drained, I can barely see straight, let alone make a rational decision. Which is explains the word that tumbles out of my mouth. One single fucking word that I know I will live to regret.

  Goddamn Ben Catalano-Moretti with his magical eyes and adorable nervous rambling.

  “Okay.”

  “You can even talk as much as you want during it and I promise I won’t lose my shit like I did last time. And the time before that. And basically, every single time we’ve ever watched a movie. Or TV show. Or were at a concert. Or a sporting event—”

  “Ben! I said okay.”

  He jolts a little, but then gives me that half-smile that I might have to outlaw as well, because damn. Damn. Damn damnity damn damn.

  “Oh, okay, no need to shout. I’m standing right next to you.” His eyes glint and I roll mine dramatically before socking him in the shoulder and holy fuck, since when did he become the Man of Steel?

  I mean I knew food was good for the soul, but apparently cooking it does the body good. Real fucking good.

  “Order from Neighbors. I’ll grab my mattress and we can sit on that. I planned on making a trip to Ikea tomorrow with Blaine—”

  “I’ll go with—”

  “That’s not really necessary,” I interrupt. There is no way in Hell he’s going fucking furniture shopping with me and my boyfriend. And he’s certifiable if he thinks otherwise.

  “I beg to differ, Bug—”

  “I told you not to call me that anymore. You don’t get to call me that anymore!”

  He blows out a frustrated breath, running his fingers through his dark hair, mussing it up even more than it was (and always is) and yet he manages to make it look just as sexy. Fuck, scratch that, it looks sexier. Damn him.

  “Fine. But I’m going tomorrow. Like it or not, this is my apartment, too. I think I should have at least some input on the furniture we put in it.”

  Goddamn it. He’s right. Of course, he’s right, the prick face.

  “You’re not going to let this go, are you? If I say no, you’re going to stalk me and most likely be in the store, waiting for me.”

  “Probably, yes.”

  He smirks triumphantly, and my fingers twitch to grab his jaw and smash my mouth on his—wait, what? No, I meant squeeze his jaw and then lick the outline of his lips before shoving my tongue down his throat. Nope, that’s not right, either. Holyshitfuck, get your treacherous whore of a libido handled, Cady! Goddess almighty, woman!

  “Once upon a time, I thought I did.” The words are out before I can stop them.

  It’s like suddenly all of the air in the kitchen has evaporated. He hangs his head low, nodding it up and down a few times. I take a step toward him and his head shoots up and I suck in a breath as the ramification of my words stares back at me, painfully. It’s just a quick flash, but it’s enough to make me feel like the biggest bitch on the block.

 
“I’m gonna order dinner. Veggie primavera and a baguette?” I nod and he counters with a sad half-smile that makes me take another step toward him.

  I’m about to apologize when he cuts me off. “Ben, I’m—”

  “Don’t. You don’t need to apologize. Not for being honest. I let you down, epically and too many times to count. But I swear to you, Cady, I’m not going to be that guy anymore. He’s over. The moment I realized what I did, who I became, I killed that sonofabitch—he’s gone, and I know these are just words to you that mean jack-shit without the baseline of trust I lost. You need actions to prove my worth, to believe in my word, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Every single fucking day, I’m going to prove to you that I’m worth trusting again. To show you, to remind you that deep down, you know me, Bug, you know me.” And with those words, he walks around me, leaving me in the kitchen, mouth agape, ready to inhale any fly in the vicinity and feeling like a complete jackass.

  My mind is fried. My stupid, non-drunken-drunk mind! But that’s how it always is with Ben motherfucking Catalano-Moretti. That’s how I’ve always felt. Inebriated. High as eighty-percent of the residents in Portland. He gives me the worst case of loose-mouth. I say shit without thinking, reckless things that involve words like ‘I,’ and ‘love,’ and ‘you,’ and other stupid shit that never works out and makes me look like a fool. A pathetic, pining, insecure, hot-mess of a fool. And now, I just made things awkward again because I’m Cady Adams, Queen of Social Ineptness. Granted, he kind of deserves it and when I say kind of, I mean he really fucking deserves it, but even so, as much as I had hoped it would help—hurting him and freezing him out, didn’t make the ache in my chest lessen one fucking iota. It just became a part of me. A steady pain. Monotonous and dependable. In fact, for the last year, the hurt and vicious sting of betrayal were the only things I could truly depend on. It was always there, simmering, thriving, unstopping, no matter how hard I tried to be like Elsa and just let it fucking go. It became my fuel. But even so, even though Ben completely fucking decimated my trust and the stupid hope I clung to, hearing the words that just flew out of his mouth—so raw, honest, and way too convincing for my poor battered heart to comprehend at the moment—makes me want things, things I know will be bad for me, things I know I can’t have, not at the risk of losing myself again. And yet, I have to forcefully plant my feet to the ground to keep them from running into his room after him.