Copyright © 2018 by Kristen Callihan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover design by Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations
Cover photo by WANDER AGUIAR :: PHOTOGRAPHY
Digital Edition 1.0
All rights reserved. Where such permission is sufficient, the author grants the right to strip any DRM which may be applied to this work.
Those who upload this work up on any site without the author’s express permission are pirates and have stolen from the author. As such, those persons will likely end up in the level of hell where little devils shove stolen books into said persons’ unmentionable places for all eternity. Ye’ve been warned.
Also by Kristen Callihan
THE GAME ON SERIES
The Hook Up —Book 1
The Friend Zone – Book 2
The Game Plan —Book 3
The Hot Shot — Book 4
VIP SERIES
Idol —Book 1
Managed —Book 2
FALL
The first time I met Jax Blackwood things went a little sideways.
In my defense, I didn’t know he was Jax Blackwood—who expects a legendary rock star to be shopping for groceries? More importantly, a blizzard was coming and he was about to grab the last carton of mint-chocolate chip.
Still, I might have walked away, but then he smugly dared me to try and take the coveted ice cream. So I kissed him. And distracted that mint-chip right out of his hands.
Okay, it was a dirty move, but desperate times and all that. Besides, I never expected he’d be my new neighbor.
An annoying neighbor who takes great pleasure in reminding me that I owe him ice cream but would happily accept more kisses as payment. An irresistible neighbor who keeps me up while playing guitar naked–spectacularly naked–in his living room.
Clearly, avoidance is key. Except nothing about Jax is easy to ignore—not the way he makes me laugh, or that his particular brand of darkness matches mine, or how one look from him melts me faster than butter under a hot sun.
Neither of us believes in love or forever. Yet we’re quickly becoming each other’s addiction. But we could be more. We could be everything.
All we have to do is trust enough to fall.
Contents
Author note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Thank you!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Author note
John (aka Jax) is a survivor. He suffers from depression and anxiety. Years ago, he attempted suicide (this is not depicted in the book). It is something that has reshaped the course of his life and affects how he approaches his relationship with Stella.
In writing Jon’s story, I also wanted to show that those who suffer from mental health issues aren’t all gloom and doom. They’re often extremely intelligent, talented, funny, and charismatic people. John is no exception. Hopefully you’ll love him as much as I do.
This book is special to me because, like John, I have struggled with depression and anxiety. It is a difficult subject to discuss, and yet the more I open up to others, the more I find that I am not alone. So many suffer in silence. We don’t have to. There are people who want to help.
I have tried my best to treat this subject as respectfully and realistically as possible. And while I have consulted with sensitivity readers, and those who have had similar experiences, I am aware that certain points might not resonate the same with everyone. Any mistakes are my own.
Lastly, if you are hurting, please reach out to someone—a friend, a family member, a doctor, or therapist. Reaching out might feel hard but it can make all the difference.
—Love Kristen
Fall
Kristen Callihan
Plain Jane Books
“If my eyes could show my soul, everyone would cry when they saw me smile.”
—Kurt Cobain
Chapter One
Stella
There is a man following me. I’m 99.5 percent sure of it. Though it should be freaking me out, I’m more intrigued at this point. I slide a glance over the organic apple bin at the stalker in question. Tall, lean, fit—at least judging by the way his coat hugs his broad shoulders—even features, good jawline. Chocolate-brown hair and tan skin. Chocolate and peanut butter. Yum.
I bite back a snort. It’s never a good idea to shop for food when hungry; everything starts to look tasty. And, okay, maybe I’m about 80 percent sure he’s following. Examine, if you will, the facts: Mega Hot Dude has appeared in every aisle that I’ve been in, but he doesn’t seem the type to follow anyone around. There’s something too self-possessed about him, as if he’s actively trying not to be noticed. Good luck with that. The guy has a luster that has nothing to do with looks but is closer to sheer magnetism. It’s so strong that he seems vaguely familiar, which is just ridiculous. If I’d met him before, I’d remember his brand of hotness.
Is he following me? The jury is still out. More study is needed.
Possible stalker guy glances up, his big hand wrapped around a rosy Honeycrisp, the same type of apple I’d put in my basket a moment earlier. I’m snagged by jade-green eyes beneath expressive dark brows before I look away, my heart thudding from being caught in the act.
Nope, he definitely can’t be stalking me. Guys like him never look at girls like me. They favor tall, thin goddesses with perfect bone structure, or diminutive elfin pixies with big eyes and perky smiles. They do not look at girls of average height, average weight, and average looks. I ought to know; I’ve been overlooked by guys like him my whole life. All the way back to first grade when little Peter Bondi chased all the girls for a kiss—except me.
It’s a terrible thing to realize that you’re the only girl whose cooties are so repellent, even the class booger-eater won’t touch you. The memory of watching all the other girls run around screeching while Kissing Peter chased after them during recess still stings a bit.
Not that I have a right to complain. I have my share of good features: clear skin—always a bonus—and decent lips. Mom used to call me Bardot, not because I looked like the ’60s movie star, but because she thought I had a mouth like hers. Bee-stung lips, my mom called them, which sounds really painful and hideous. I have also been blessed with silky, red-gold, softly curling hair.
Now, I love my hair—and it’s taken me to the age of twenty-nine to be able to say that without worrying I sound vain. But some men see
the hair and expect more from my face. They expect stunning beauty, not average attractiveness. How do I know? I’ve been told that very thing a few times. Ouch. And of course, the hair comes with the freckles. Men either love them or hate them.
Honestly, I am more likely to attract comic-book geeks. Soft-bodied guys with sharp minds. It works for me. Give me personality over muscles any day. All of which to say, Mr. Smolder is probably wondering why I’m everywhere he is, and is not at all interested.
Shaking my head at my paranoia, I head for the cookie aisle. The shelves are sadly bereft. Snowzilla, as the media is calling it, is headed this way. Since it’s March and New Yorkers were just starting to enjoy spring, no one is particularly happy about the surprise storm. In the true spirit of city dwellers faced with the possibility that stores might actually close, panic has ensued. People have been stockpiling necessities such as toilet paper, bread, water, and junk food.
I never understood the whole bread thing, because no one ever seems to purchase anything to go with the bread. Peanut butter is still stocked, as is jelly. What do these people do with their bread in the event of an emergency? Huddle down beside their piles of toilet paper and eat plain slices of bread until help arrives?
Whatever the case, all that’s left are a few chocolate chip bags and one lonely package of Double Stuf Oreos. Not to worry, my little Double Stuf delights, I’ll find you a good home. I grab the pack and am about to put it in my basket when Mr. Peanut Butter and Chocolate turns the corner. Again?
His long stride stutters as he catches sight of me, and his brow lifts a touch as though he too is thinking, you again? He glances at the Oreos in my hand, and his fine lips flatten. Because they are fine, those lips. Well shaped, wide, not too full, not too thin but just …
Jesus, I’m gawking at his mouth. And he’s staring.
Facing off like gunslingers at the O.K. Corral, the moment holds a beat, one in which heat flares low in my belly and between my legs. Mortified, I turn and flee. Like a wimp. Because a blush is coming on. Bad enough to be caught staring twice. Worse to be caught with my hand in the cookie jar, as it were.
I’m all too aware of my ass and its generous proportions as I hurry away past smirking Keebler Elves. Pissed at my self-consciousness, I decide to slow down and work it, putting a little extra sway into the motion.
Unsettled by the mini showdown, I hustle while getting tampons and some new body wash, then head for the ice cream aisle. I have plans, and they include cookies, fudge sauce, and my favorite mint chocolate chip ice cream.
Rounding the corner, I come to a screeching halt. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Accusatory is opening the ice cream freezer and reaching for the last …
“You are not going for the mint!” It isn’t a question.
He pauses, and again his dark brow lifts, this time a little higher, a little more outraged as well. God, those eyes, green sin surrounded by thick, thick lashes. Girl lashes. Nothing else about him is girly. “And if I am?”
A little shiver runs over my skin that has nothing to do with the icy air billowing out of the freezer. He has a hint of a British accent, faded in spots like a pair of well-worn jeans. And his voice? Gah. It is sex and sweaty sheets, hot fudge over crushed cookies.
I really need to eat before shopping next time. I should head for the checkout and go home.
But mint chip is on the line here. I stomp down the aisle, far too aware of the way my body pushes through space to get closer to him. Shit, this guy is potent, all irresistible pheromones and irate smolder. I brace myself against the onslaught.
“I’ve been looking forward to that ice cream all day.” And it is the only one left. Geesh. What is with this store? Did everyone in the city raid it earlier?
Mr. Smolder shifts his weight, bringing his lean body closer. “I’ve been looking forward to it too.” His hand wraps around on the top of the carton.
No freaking way. Oh, it is on, dude.
I grab the bottom of the carton. “You do not want to get between a woman and her ice cream, bud.”
His eyes narrow. God, he really looks familiar. Not in an, oh, where have you been all my life way. It’s more of a, have you been on the news lately—and please don’t let it be as a possible murder suspect type situation. Sexy beast murderer? Sure. He’s definitely got a bad boy thing going on.
His dark hair is short on the sides but shaggy on top, falling into his eyes to tangle with those crazy long lashes of his. I have the insane urge to brush the locks back. But I don’t.
I’m frozen by his glare. Great gravy, he’s imperious and utterly assured, awash in the kind of arrogance that says he’s used to getting his way in all things. My perception of him shifts again, and I wonder if he’s a rich boy slumming. His gray sweater is cashmere, and though his peacoat and jeans are worn, their cut is too good to be off-the-rack retail. In my line of work, I’ve been around enough wealthy men to know fine clothing when I see it.
He’s either rich or really good at picking up great secondhand bargains. And he’s still oddly familiar. I can’t pin why, and it’s weird not knowing. I’m usually an expert at reading people. But this guy defies basic categories.
His voice takes on a hard tone. “You got the Oreos, sweetheart. I’m taking the ice cream.”
I hold my precious stash closer to my side. “And they need The Mint to be complete.”
“‘The Mint’?” He laughs shortly. “Are you seriously referring to ice cream as though it were some kind of superpower?”
“It certainly has the power to bliss me out.”
That imperious brow of his lifts high again. “And that’s supposed to persuade me to let it go?” Something darkens in his gaze, something that sends an unwanted flash of heat over my skin. “What if I want some bliss too?” he murmurs, all dark sex and hot chocolate.
Oh, he’s good. He probably cons lots of women out of their ice cream with that melting voice.
“Too bad. This ice cream has my name on it, mister.” I tug, but his grip tightens, and the carton won’t budge.
He leans closer, bringing with him the scent of soap and a whiff lemon-honey. “You’ve stepped on the train to La-La Land if you think you’re getting this ice cream, Button.”
“Button?”
“You heard me.” He grins then—all teeth—and gestures toward the other flavors with a nod of his head. “Give up the ghost and grab the Neapolitan over there. Because this ice cream is mine.”
This is ridiculous. I never bicker with strangers. And certainly not with hot guys. Under my normal MO, I would have made a joke about snowstorm-related ice cream shortages, wished the stranger a nice night, and then been on my way. Conflict solves nothing. Yet here I am, acting like an insane woman. The knowledge doesn’t stop me from growling, “I. Want. The. Mint.”
He’s close enough that I see the small scar just under his left eye, half hidden by his girly lashes. Unfair, those lashes. “Not a chance in hell, Button.”
Again with Button. I have no idea what it means, but I’m not backing down now. My honor is at stake.
Neither of us moves. I glare. He glares. In this way, I read him perfectly. As easy as breathing.
Go on, Button. I dare you to try.
You think I can’t take it from you?
I know you can’t.
The arrogance of his little silent rejoinder sets my teeth on edge. Stella Grey might be an average girl, sporting wild hair and possessing a butt that’s seen too many cookies, but she is no wuss. Ignoring the fact that I’ve begun to think of myself in third person, ignoring my sensible side that is screaming, “No! Don’t do it!” I pick up the proverbial gauntlet.
Rising on my toes, I move in for the kill.
And kiss him.
* * *
John
I’ve been poleaxed. By a kiss. And it wasn’t even a hot-and-heavy one. Just a peck. Quick and stealthy. I’d barely had time to react before it was over and she was gone. But during that one point of contact, I�
�d been totally engaged. In that one, strange moment, every muscle in my body tightened, and my heart flipped over within its cage. I felt the soft pillow of her lips—the give and resiliency in them—and the warm burst of her breath as she gasped. Just as I had.
I’d gasped. What. The. Shit?
The strangeness of it settles over me, prickling my skin. It is the end of a shit day, preceded by a shit week, shit month, shit year. Mired in shit, I have become comfortably numb. I exist in a world of neither highs nor lows. It works for me. As does engaging in simple activities that normal people do. For small slices of time, I act like a regular bloke. Tonight, I’m buying groceries before the storm hits. I like the normality of it.
All that is shattered now as I stand, gaping in the direction my kissing bandit has fled, vaguely aware that the ice-cold freezer air is starting to numb my ear and cheek and that I should move. But there’s another sensation holding my attention. One I had thought I’d lost. Of my blood pumping hard and hot through my veins, my breath unsteady and fast, as though I’ve shifted from an intense sprint to a sudden full stop.
My dick is hard. From nothing more than a little peck on the lips by a plain girl. Again … What. The. Shit?
Well, she isn’t entirely plain. In my mind, I can still see the dip and sway of her ass, that plump, rounded ass, nicely molded in a tight black skirt as she walked away from me. Black skirt, black leggings, black combat boots, red hair.
Fall Page 1
