Five Ways to Fall (6 page)

I’m hoping she’s on the back porch, drinking her cup of Earl Grey tea and checking her email on her iPad. I smile at the memory of teaching my fifty-one-year-old mom how to use that thing.

Unfortunately, it’s not she who answers.

Knots instantly spring into my neck. “Hey.”

A grunt responds.

“Is mom around?”

“Out in the grove.”

She should be back by now. She’s always up at the ass-crack of dawn to do her rounds, checking the trees. “Have you gone out to make sure she’s okay?” Ever since that mild heart attack seven months ago, I’ve been worried about her being alone out there for too long.

“She’s fine.”

“All right. Let her know I called.” He won’t. I guess I’ll have to call back later anyway.

“Where are you calling from?”

I wonder what the caller display says. Hell, that’s probably why he answered in the first place. Because he didn’t know he’d be talking to his son. “Warner—the law firm I’m working at now.” Mama probably didn’t bother to tell him that I finished law school.

“Never heard of it.”

I bite back a sigh of exasperation. Despite its small size, Warner is one of the most reputable law firms in the state. Five generations of Warners have owned it, holding some prime real estate in the downtown Miami core. According to my research, Jack brought in a partner—his best friend—and for ten years, they worked together as Warner & Steele, exploding the client list by more than double. They parted ways some years back when he bought the other partner out.

In any case, I wouldn’t expect my dad to know a law firm from a donut shop. He’s just trying to needle me. “Later.” I hang up and head out in search of that cup of coffee before he has a chance to put me in a bad mood. He’s the only person capable of doing that.

The Warner office itself is a mix of new and old—modern light gray walls, mahogany wall-to-wall bookshelves and desks, open-concept desks in the center of the room, fishbowl offices lining the outskirts. It’s as if someone decided to redecorate but ran out of either money or creativity. Jack did mention something about renovating in the winter. The place seems fine to me, but I’m a twenty-five-year-old who lives with five other guys and would come to work in board shorts if he could.

The office isn’t huge or complicated and it takes no time to find the break room, though I play the “first day” card and let an adorable law clerk lead me there, smiling and blushing at me the entire way as I watch her curvy ass sway. I have an appreciation for the many shapes and sizes of the female form. The old me—as in two days ago—would probably have her number by now. The new me is trying something different. Specifically, he’s trying
not
to hit on every female he finds attractive.

Heading back to my office—a coffee mug in one hand and someone’s homemade muffin in the other—I survey the desks out in the open where the administrative staff sits. From the looks of the pictures and knickknacks, it’s mostly women. Mostly married with kids. Many in their forties or beyond. Man, what a different world this is from Penny’s, where I was taunted by bare tits and ass from every angle! At least that makes it easier to keep my pants on around here and try to act like a responsible adult.

Because that’s what I am. Ben Morris, Esquire. Well, almost. Either way, I like the sound of that.

Passing by a small office almost directly across from mine, a picture on the wall catches my attention. My feet falter as I smile fondly at the framed Pearl Jam album cover, thinking back to that crazy purple-haired fake marine biologist, Jill.

Damn, that girl was something else.

After stripping off my puke-covered clothes and tossing them over the balcony, I stretched out on the bed and waited for her to emerge from the bathroom, dying for a shower. I even considered going over to Kent’s room, but I didn’t want to leave her alone in there. I guess I passed out because the next thing I knew, the sun was beating down on my face through the window and Jill was gone.

Not even a note.

At least she didn’t rob me. Or kill me.

I tried finding her, but after charming one of the front desk girls into searching the hotel guest list, no one by the name of Jill came up. It was obviously registered to one of her friends and I didn’t remember their names. The resort was too damn big to go searching, especially when I had to rush to repack everything she had scattered before catching my plane home.

I’m not gonna lie—for a couple of weeks after, I searched for a purple-haired girl named Jill on Facebook. Partly because I wanted to say sorry for laughing. Mostly because she was a lot of fun and I wouldn’t have minded hooking up with her again. Minus the puke. I didn’t tell the guys what really happened. As far as they know, it was balls-deep as usual for me that night.

The cotton-candy-pink sweater hanging over the back of the chair makes me think this is a female’s office, but everything else disputes that. Folders sit in piles on the desk, on the floor, on boxes, on the spare chair. Where there aren’t folders, there’s scattered mail and junk. Multiple Starbucks paper cups sit by the desk phone, next to an open box of Oreo cookies and a bag of beef jerky. A crumpled bag of chips and crushed cans of Red Bull surround the trash bin.

A computer monitor—decorated in no less than a hundred multicolored Post-it notes—is on and displaying a screensaver of a rusty old blue truck in a field.

I’m intrigued, to say the least. I can’t imagine what kind of female this sty could possibly belong to, and part of me is afraid to find out. It’s not dirty, per se. It’s just messy beyond anything I’ve ever seen. I step forward and begin scanning her desk, looking for a nameplate or something to identify her.

And that’s exactly what I’m doing when she walks in.

“Is there a reason that you’re snooping through my things?” a crisp voice calls out.

Pulling on a smile that usually takes the edge off even the moodiest of women, I turn around. A blond in a short green dress and cowboy boots stands in the doorway, a tall coffee cup in her hand and a deep scowl furrowing her forehead.

I open my mouth to introduce myself but falter as panic flashes in those eyes.

Those caramel-colored eyes.

“Holy shit!”
I don’t believe it.
There’s really nothing I can think of to say except
,
“You owe me a new shirt!”

Chapter 5

REESE

I’ve been eviscerated on a Monday morning. My guts are splayed all over the dark gray office carpet for all to see.

And I can’t breathe.

What the hell is
this guy
doing in my office?

He’s as shocked as I am, obviously. That loud boom of “holy shit!” that probably carried through half the floor and has all the little old hens peering over their bifocals at us can attest to that.

And now he’s staring at me with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Jill? Is that you?”

“You don’t recognize your one true love?” That might have sounded witty had my voice not been shaky and my cheeks not been burning hot. For a pro player like this guy, the fact that he remembers my fake name says something. I was
definitely
memorable.

“You look so . . .” His voice drifts off as those baby-blue eyes roll over my all-blond hair and land on my face. “No more piercings?”

Not trusting myself to speak again, I tap the pinhead-sized diamond stud in my nostril. I’ve taken the septum ring and the majority of my ear piercings out, though. Part of this whole “new me” thing I’m trying.

Ben’s head bobs up and down slowly as if still trying to process this. Then his focus drifts down to my chest and his eyes narrow. I swear he’s trying to make out the outline of the metal ring that’s hidden there.

And I’m trying to control the hyperbolic flashback that took weeks to suppress—there’s just no way vomit shoots out of a person like a fire hose!—as the walking, breathing proof of one of my most mortifying nights stands in my office.

I waited a good two hours to creep out from the bathroom that night, to find Ben stripped down to his boxer briefs and snoring in bed. Quickly pulling my clothes on, I hightailed it out of there.

And now my botched exorcism is leaning against my desk, his muscular arms folded over his chest. The playful smile that stretches across his face tells me he’s found his bearings and is back to the cocky guy I was one vomit away from sleeping with two months ago. “What are you doing here?”

“Working,” I manage to get out without sounding weak. Easing farther into my office, I replace one of the many empty cups littering my desk with my new one, trying to act nonchalant when, really, I’m fighting the urge to turn and run somewhere where I can regroup. “I think the bigger question is, what are
you
doing here?” How did I
not
know he was from Miami? Oh yeah . . . I didn’t bother asking. I was too busy deciding whether I should have sex with him. And now, as I steal a glance at how well that black button-down and those dark gray dress pants look on his strong frame, I remember what swayed me. Well, the tequila certainly didn’t help.

Heat engulfs my cheeks.

I
puked all over
this guy.

And then he watched my bare ass crawl across the floor to his bathroom.

Mr. Cuervo and I—and all of his Mexican cousins—are no longer on speaking terms.

“Mr. Warner offered me an attorney position.”

“I . . .”
What?
Ben’s going to be
working
here?

“I finished law school in the spring.”

Gritting my teeth against the pain as I suck back a mouthful of burning-hot coffee—I’m going to regret that later—I mutter, “You failed to mention that.”

He twists his mouth in thought. “I was too busy trying to figure out what kind of marine biologist you are.”

“Recent career change.”

“Right.” His eyes are twinkling as he watches me, amused.
Jerk
. “Is this going to be awkward?”

“No . . .” I say, tossing my purse on the ground, “because you’re going to resign immediately.”

He heaves a sigh. “It’s not a big deal. So you—”

“Shh!” My hand flies up to stop him as heat flares into my cheeks again. That’s the last thing I need floating around work. “Don’t!”

We lock gazes for a long moment and I can’t read what his says. Is he regretting that night as much as I am? Because, for all the stupid things I’ve regretted doing—and that’s a long list—that night is sitting on top of the mountain waving an “idiot” flag.

A sudden voice behind me interrupts us. “There you are, Ben. Natasha’s waiting.”

My eyes do an involuntary roll, both in response to the sound of my stepbrother’s mind-numbing tone and to the mention of Natasha, the thirty-year-old type-A law bot who’s trying to kill me with divorce depositions. Ben catches my reaction and doesn’t even try to hide his grin as he offers, “Hey, Mason. I was just on my way back to my office.”

“You know there’s no cleaning staff here on weekends. You’re inviting infestation with this mess,” Mason mutters, and I know that’s directed at me. Mason couldn’t sound more apathetic with me if he tried. We may live and work under the same roof, but we’re no more friends now than we were before I moved in eight months ago. I actually wish I had caught his reaction on video when he came home from class and found me in the kitchen, drinking straight from the chocolate milk jug. Jack hadn’t given him any warning that I was back in their lives. I thought his head was going to explode.

“But I have pets to feed,” I retort. Everything about Mason—except the unruly mop on his head—is pristinely neat: his pressed shirts and pencil-leg pants, his Subaru hatchback, the office next to Jack’s that I’ve seen him disinfect with Lysol wipes every single day. The only time he has anything to say to me is when he’s pointing out how pristinely neat I am
not
. Needless to say, we don’t cohabitate well.

“You don’t want to talk to her this early in the morning. She hasn’t had her first feeding yet and she’s more abrasive than usual,” Mason warns Ben.

“Listen to Jiminy Cricket. He knows things.” It has taken almost two months of snarls and glares, but I have everyone trained. Even Jack knows not to attempt conversation with me until this giant cup of coffee is empty and I’ve opened my office door, after spending an hour cursing the sender of every new email that has filled my in-box. I’m relatively pleasant after that. Of course the lawyers tolerate it because I run circles around all the other paralegals here, even the ones who’ve been here for years. Clients agree to flat rates for paralegal work and then I deliver on it in record time, freeing me up to work on more cases and generate more profit. They leave the heavy clerical shit to the others and give me work that requires research and analysis and critical thinking, stuff that has always come naturally to me because I’m inquisitive and willing to test boundaries. I guess it helped that, while I was sailing through the paralegal program, Jack was passing on all kinds of books on statutory and case law, stuff they teach you in law school. Looking for ways to drown my spare time, I devoured them. No one would believe that I’ve been here for only two months. It feels good. For the first time in years, I feel smart.