Falter: The Nash Brothers, Book Four

by Aarons, Carrie

The airport … which means the person in her passenger seat is …

  Ryan Shea.

  As the truck slows, and my sister-in-law begins wildly waving her hand at me, I study the woman sitting next to her.

  She looks different from the last time I saw her, more than two years ago. Her raven-black hair is longer, past her shoulders, where it used to be styled in a short cut that made her look like a punk rock princess. Ryan looks thinner, a fact I’m concerned about even if I haven’t seen her in years. She still has the same dark and mysterious personality, like she might kiss you one second and throw you down a well the next. Her amber eyes, the color of smooth whiskey, connect immediately with mine.

  And even though I’m already sweating my balls off, being within her vicinity makes me feel as if the sun instantly started burning a thousand degrees hotter.

  The first time I met her was at Presley and Keaton’s wedding, when they were trying to set her up with my twin brother. Forrest and Ryan are both hackers, or coders depending on who you talk to. While my brother now worked with local law enforcement to catch cyber criminals, Ryan was a consultant. She took jobs all around the world with different companies, protecting their data and testing their computer forensic weaknesses. Her life is glamorous and expensive, whereas mine is as cheap and rundown as the motel out on the outskirts of town.

  Swiftly, I avert my gaze, because I know that if I look too long, I’ll start to want things I can’t give her.

  When I got sober, I made a vow to myself that I wouldn’t be with another woman until it was the real deal. I wouldn’t touch another female until the relationship was so serious, I was thinking about making her my wife.

  After years of blacking out night after night, ending up asleep in bushes, or on couches at houses where I woke up and didn’t know a single soul … it was a miracle I wasn’t dead, riddled with STDs, or in debt to five baby mamas. It might sound ridiculous, but it’s true; I don’t remember a single sexual encounter for the last almost ten years of my life because of how fucked up I’d been.

  Ryan Shea … she’s the type of temptation that I need to avoid at all costs.

  She’s the type of woman who could make all of those cravings slam right back into my throat.

  She’s the exact type to become an addiction. And that means talking to her, looking at her, hell … even breathing in her direction.

  It’s all off limits.

  3

  Ryan

  “You’re sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable in the guest room?”

  Presley eyes me as I unpack the bigger of my two bags.

  I shake my head. “No, I want you two to have your privacy. Plus, if I have any hysterical crying fits, it’ll be nicer not to have Keaton hear them.”

  My best friend chews her lip as a frown of worry marks her pretty, freckled face. “Ry, I’m not going to rush you, but just promise me you’re not as bad as you seem?”

  Does she want me to tell her that I’m not suicidal? Because I’m not. Though, I am so heartbroken and damaged, that someone like Presley couldn’t understand. My best friend, although I love her, can be a bit dramatic about being the outcast of her family. And now that she’s been all about worshipped by the Nash clan, she feels a type of compassion that I will never experience.

  Because while other people have at least one person they can turn to if all else fails, I have no one. I was raised in the New York state foster system, bouncing from house to house until I was eighteen and could finally, legally, make decisions for myself. I was an orphan, my only living relative was my biological mother who … the damage she’d done was something that can never be forgotten.

  Shaking my head to clear it, I paste on a smile. “I’ll be okay. I’m better now that I’m here, okay? Now will you go inside and kiss your adorable husband and stop worrying about me?”

  “Fine. But there is so much food in the fridge, I wasn’t sure if you were still eating meat or not. So I stocked up on everything I know you like, including those disgusting chocolate Twizzlers. Come into the house whenever you like, and I have a yoga class at three that has your name on it.”

  It’s kind of sweet that she prepared things for me, and I know it’s to keep my mind off my breakup with Yanis. Ugh, just thinking his name makes my heart surge with fury, regret, and sorrow.

  “Thanks. You’re a really good friend. Even after I went distant for a few years …”

  “Don’t even mention it.” Presley shushes me, enveloping me in a big bear hug. “All right, I’ll see you at the studio. It’s not a far walk, but if you want a ride, there are plenty of Nashes around to give you one.”

  With that, she leaves me alone in her shed turned guest cottage. I turn in a circle, marveling at how far down the bottom of the barrel I’ve sunk. I used to live in Manhattan, the greatest city in the world. Two weeks ago, I woke up to a cerulean blue ocean and white-washed houses built into the side of a mountain in Santorini.

  Now, I live in my best friend’s backyard, in the middle of small-town Pennsylvania. Not that the cottage didn’t have its own charm, with all the modern fixings. It just wasn’t Positano or Berlin.

  I sound like a spoiled brat. I know that; I do … it’s just, I can’t help but feel sorry for myself. I feel lost, untethered, and without a purpose in my own life. Never in my thirty-one years have I felt like that. When you grow up with nothing, it almost fuels you. To be better, to become the best, to succeed. No one tells you what happens when you get everything you strived for, but it feels all wrong.

  My suitcases on the bed beg to be unpacked, and although it’ll make this situation more permanent, I am not the type of person to leave their stuff in bags for weeks. The work will occupy my hands and mind, at least for a little while.

  The guest cottage is a studio of sorts, a decently sized room with a queen bed, oversized chair, dresser, small closet and mini-fridge. There is a tiny TV on top of the dresser, and an adjoining bathroom that’s no bigger than a coffin … but at least I won’t have to go into the house to pee and shower.

  For this moment in time, it’s just what I need. And provides privacy that a guest room inside of Presley and Keaton’s home never could.

  When everything is put away, I check the time on my cell phone. One fifteen in the afternoon. Just enough time for me to raid Presley’s fridge, throw on yoga clothes, and walk to the studio. Unlike the people in Fawn Hill, I’m used to walking everywhere. I haven’t owned a car in seven years; my feet and public transportation have been my modes of travel.

  “Aw, yeahhhh.” I pump a fist in the air when I spot the homemade turkey burgers in the refrigerator.

  I grab one, a slice of cheese, a pickle, and some sweet potato fries I find in another container. Keaton Nash really knows the way to a girl’s heart, even if it isn’t his wife’s. When the food is warm, I take it out back and eat on the patio, basking in the scorching summer heat.

  My cell phone dings on the table top, a notification from my Facebook app chiming.

  Opening the social media network, I scroll for a minute before I check the notification. Turns out, it’s actually a message from …

  Yanis.

  I curse myself for not blocking him on all of my social media profiles, but I’ve sort of been traveling as fast as I can to get away from him, so …

  Deleting the message without reading it, I flip over to my email. I’m sure this new message from him doesn’t say anything different than the twenty texts, emails and voicemails he’s already left me.

  Before I can convince myself not to, I stupidly open my voicemail and play the most recent message from him.

  “My beauty, please come back to me. You know I love you more than a thousand suns. We Europeans are freer than Americans, I miss my glamour girl.”

  Rolling my eyes, I hit delete in a fit of rage. And then carrying that fury with me, I erase every single message, email and correspondence he’s ever sent me. Our relationship is so over, it’s buried deeper than the ships a
t the bottom of the sea surrounding Santorini.

  The bastard, with his Greek god body, rolling accent, carefree charm and flowery language. I should have seen right through his bullshit, but just like every other time I’ve fallen in love, I ignored every warning sign.

  Which is probably why I found him, a year and a half into our relationship, screwing not one but two skanks in our bed.

  I need a distraction. Checking the time, I see I’ve wasted enough to be comfortably early to Presley’s yoga class, and quickly throw on my clothes and walk over to the studio.

  Being away for so long, I’d forgotten how charming Fawn Hill’s main street is. It’s everything you picture when you think of a small town, with some newer shops thrown in. One of those is Presley’s business.

  “Ryan! I didn’t know you were in town,” Lily greets me as I walk.

  I hug her, honestly amazed that she looks so thin for just having had a baby a month ago. “Um, I’m sorry, did you even pop a kid out?”

  She chuckles. “An eight pounder! She’s so cute, but, and I feel guilty saying this, I love my afternoons off when Bowen watches her. Getting a class in here and there helps me relax.”

  Blinking, I still can’t stop staring at her. As if Lily Nash wasn’t already the sweetest, most perfect person I’ve ever met … of course, she looks like a damn model after pregnancy.

  “So, how are you? You’ve been in, wait don’t remind me … Italy?” She taps a finger to her nose.

  “Greece,” I say, quickly changing the subject. “How is mom life?”

  Lily’s face turns into an adorable mushy expression of love. “It is so amazing. I feel like I could cry at the drop of a hat just thinking about her.”

  And sure enough, she begins to tear up. Presley comes over, her face flushed, from what I assume has been her day of teaching and pats her sister-in-law on the shoulder.

  “Are you crying again?” Her expression is sympathetic.

  Lily nods and retreats to the bathroom to dab her eyes.

  “Did you eat?” Presley asks, that note of concern still in her voice.

  “Yes, Mom.” I roll my eyes. “Pres, I appreciate all you’re doing, but I don’t need a babysitter. I’m going to be okay. I can feed and clothe myself, and I’ll figure out how to heal in my own time. I love you.”

  I squeeze her hand and she manages a small smile.

  “All right, well let’s work some of those issues out on the mat. Time for class.”

  The yoga class is an intense hour of stretching, holding, balancing and deep thinking … something I’m very thankful for. It takes me out of my body, numbs my mind for a while so that the thoughts buzzing around in there don’t drown me in anxiety.

  Afterward, I feel this kind of cathartic need to almost … cry, maybe? I haven’t cried since I found Yanis cheating on me. Not when I packed up my shit, not when I hopped on a plane, and not even when I touched down in the US.

  Quickly, I throw a wave Presley’s way and exit the studio. She must have some inkling not to run after me, because I walk home in silence, just letting all the emotions run over me like the tide.

  My muscles yelp with soreness, but in a good way. It’s been a while since I had a good, centered yoga practice … it was something Presley got me into when we lived in New York. But since moving away, and becoming so involved with my ex-boyfriend, I put a lot of my interests on hold.

  It feels good to get back to what I used to love.

  The shower does me good, working the hot water over my aching body, and I take my time lathering and breathing in the steam.

  When I’m done, I apply my moisturizer, deodorant, and body lotion. I’m nothing if not a stickler for routine.

  I exit the tiny bathroom, a towel wrapped around my wet hair and not a stitch of clothing on my dewy, bare skin.

  So it’s no wonder I squawk like a frightened bird when Fletcher Nash walks into my accommodations, causing every muscle in my body to freeze as his eyes lick a hot, wanton trail down my naked flesh.

  4

  Fletcher

  After my shift at the grocery store, where I’ve been working as a cashier since before I got sober, I drive across town.

  Mom’s shower head in her master bathroom is leaking again, and I told her I’d fix it two days ago. She, and the rest of my family, have already done too much … it will take me the rest of my lifetime to pay them back. So over to Keaton’s I go, to borrow his toolbox.

  Keaton and Presley aren’t home when I pull into the driveway, of course. Those two barely ever occupy the same space these days, what with her studio and his animal patients. It works for them, both of them whole people on their own who happen to love each other beyond reason. I admire that kind of companionship, that kind of dedication. It’s what I want in a partner … if I ever find one worthy.

  Not of me, hell, a sewer rat would be classier and more noble than the woman I deserve to end up with. But, I mean worthy of climbing over the speed bump I’ve set up for myself.

  Visions of Ryan in the passenger seat of Presley’s Jeep fill my thoughts, and I push them away. I walk to their fridge, pulling out a pitcher of lemonade I’m sure Keaton made, and not Presley. He’s the better cook of the two.

  The cool, tart drink hits my throat and my temper instantly cools, my hackles having been up for the past eight hours. The shifts at the grocery store were getting old … really old. Dealing with asshole customers, ringing up item after item in an assembly line of boredom, biting my tongue when the dickhead of a manager makes some snide comment. We went to high school together and now he holds a position of power, albeit a pathetic one, over me and relishes it to no end.

  Just a couple more years, I think to myself. I’ve been squirreling away money and living with Mom helps. I’ve had a few decent commissioned pieces from buyers, and I hope that someday, my woodworking can serve as my only source of income. For now, though, I’m not getting bigger than my britches.

  It’s all a process, to attain the life I really want. And yes, I’ve been listening to self-help podcasts … that shit helps sometimes.

  Going in search of the toolbox, I walk outside and into the converted shed. My brother and sister-in-law made it a guest house of sorts when they thought I was going to move in with them for a while. It didn’t work out that way; I feel more needed at Mom’s and want to repay my debt to society, but it’s still good if someone needs to crash.

  The minute I walk through the French doors, whose shades I didn’t realize were drawn until after the fact, every bit of lust in the atmosphere slams into me like a bullet train.

  Standing in the middle of the studio-like guest cottage is Ryan Shea.

  Completely naked save for a towel wrapped around her head.

  I might go into cardiac arrest, that’s how hard my heart is pumping. It has been a long time since I’ve seen a naked woman in the flesh, my computer helps me out with the simulated part. The fact that this woman is slender but curvy, olive skin stretching across all of those hidden, erotic places …

  The fact that this woman is Ryan … my throat dries up in seconds, and my cock goes from zero to midnight in a flash.

  Her pussy is bare of any hair, and I long to sink to my knees and plant a kiss between her perfect thighs. My eyes travel up to her breasts, full and supple, her budded nipples the shade of a dark rose. The scents of vanilla and citrus waft through the air, and suddenly, I want to unwrap the towel and see if that smell lingers in her hair.

  Finally, our eyes lock, her face free of any makeup, but then again, a woman as gorgeous as this doesn’t need any. She lets me look at her, unabashed, for another moment.

  “I’m so sorry.” I let out a sharp hiss, jumping to turn away.

  I can hear Ryan fumbling behind me, probably reaching for some clothing. “Oh my God.”

  “I didn’t know you were staying in here, or with Presley and Keaton at all. Fuck, I’m a moron, of course, you’re staying here. I just mean, I didn’t mean to barge in o
n you …”

  The rambling won’t stop, and I can’t seem to stop picturing her naked body. The mental image is burned into the front of my brain, and I know it will be the number one called upon memory in my spank bank for a long time to come.

  “Looking for your athlete’s foot cream, again?” She chuckles at my turned back.

  If she were looking at me dead in the face, she’d see the furious blush working its way over my cheeks. “Thankfully, I don’t have that problem anymore.”

  I am a damn liar. I still have athlete’s foot, a result of constant running. I’m surprised she remembers that embarrassing moment when I walked into Forrest’s house years ago, asking for the medicinal cream, and she’d been sitting on his couch.

  “Well, I guess we’re both even on the embarrassment front,” I manage to choke out.

  There is a pssh sound from behind me. “This is way more embarrassing than you asking for foot cream! You saw me naked!”

  My fingers won’t stop moving, tapping on my legs and wringing themselves in the other hand. I drop my head, unable to stop the words from rushing out of my mouth.

  “There is nothing embarrassing about this, Ryan. Other than the fact that I walked in without knocking. But your body? Seeing you naked … I assure you, there is nothing humiliating about it. I’ve thought about this for a long time. Probably too often, if I’m being honest. Which, I guess, since we’re getting down to the bare bones of it, I have to be. You’re absolutely beautiful, every part of you. I only wish I had more time to examine every dip and crevice that makes you up. I apologize for surprising you, it won’t happen again.”

  My lungs burn with the words I shouldn’t have let out, and I’m too much of a coward to turn around and face her before I bolt for the exit.

  5

  Ryan

  “Can we slow down a bit? I’m winded, gosh, do I feel out of shape.”