Fall For Me Page 8

  The following morning, I came awake with a jolt. I cataloged my surroundings, my attention centering on Phoebe. I was lying on my back, and she was curled up against my side with her head tucked into my shoulder. I could feel the soft gusts of her breath against my skin. Her knee was hooked over my leg, inches away from my morning arousal. Her hand was resting on my abdomen, and she was sound asleep.

  My arm was curled around her back, and I was copping a feel in my sleep because I had a nice handful of the lush curve of her bottom. I smiled to myself because I could get used to this.

  My mind replayed last night, slides of the evening skipping from one moment to the next—when we had dinner, when I kissed her, when she came all over my fingers, then later relaxing on the couch, thinking how good it was to have my best friend back in vivid color.

  Phoebe mumbled something, shifting against me and then falling back to sleep. I wanted to wake her up by rolling her over, planting a kiss on her, and mapping every inch of her body before burying myself inside her, but I didn’t.

  I sensed she wasn't ready for that. I was caught up in my own uncertainty. We had already crossed boundaries I hadn't even known existed until we came up to them and flew past the guardrails.

  I wanted to fall back asleep, but I knew it was a lost cause. The sun hadn't even crested the horizon yet. Just when I thought I'd have to find a way to gracefully slip out of bed, Phoebe moved again, then mumbled, “You're awake.”

  I rolled my head to the side to find her lashes lifting. The light was dim in her bedroom. There was a night-light near the bed, casting just enough light I could see her eyes.

  “So are you,” I observed.

  My heart was kicking forcefully against my ribs. I couldn't resist sliding my hand up her back, savoring the silky-smooth feel of her skin. I brushed her hair away from her face and dipped my head to give her a kiss. I meant for it to be brief, but as I was coming to learn, any kiss with Phoebe took on a life of its own.

  Before I knew it, I was lingering, coaxing her lips open, tightening my fingers in her hair, and then laying a proper devouring kiss on her. She broke free with a gasp, followed by a startled laugh before she fell quiet.

  “Archer?”

  “Yes?”

  She sighed. “I don't even know what to think.”

  “I think we should have coffee,” I said.

  I knew if I stayed in this bed with her, I'd lose my mind and any discipline I had. Oh, I wasn't going to just stick to kisses for the time until our wedding, but I couldn't be copping a feel every second I had with her.

  “Coffee is perfect,” she replied.

  She rolled away, and I slipped out of bed quickly. Once I was standing, I asked, “Mind if I shower?”

  “Of course not. You shower first. I'll start the coffee, then I'll shower.”

  She narrowed her eyes when she looked my way. “We're not showering together yet.”

  I chuckled. “Okay, we'll save that for later.”

  Moments later, I brought myself to a quick release in the shower and soaped off, telling myself that would tide me over until later. I had plans for Phoebe tonight, and they involved more than tasting her on my fingers.

  When I walked down to the kitchen, she was wearing a robe. When she turned around, she looked so delectably adorable, I couldn't help but cross the kitchen and rest my hands on either side of her hips on the counter.

  “You're beautiful in the morning,” I murmured as I dipped my head and laid another kiss on her.

  She looked flustered when I lifted my head. “You need to put a shirt on,” she ordered.

  “Okay,” I said slowly, following her into the bedroom.

  She stopped in the doorway to the bathroom. “By the time I come out, you’d better have a shirt on.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” I teased.

  She closed the door, and I pulled on a T-shirt. I returned to the kitchen, smiling when I discovered she’d left a mug by the coffee maker and a container of half and half. After I poured my coffee and took a few swallows, my phone rang. When I glanced down and saw it was from my office, I answered.

  I discovered my mistake seconds later. “What the hell, Archer?” my great-uncle demanded. He didn’t even bother with a hello, but then he was a genuine asshole.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Since when are you getting married?”

  “Soon.”

  “This is bullshit.”

  “It's not bullshit,” I said, trying to keep my cool. It wasn't bullshit, and I was pretty confident I was already in love with Phoebe. My only problem now was keeping her married to me.

  A more pressing problem at this moment was my uncle's voice. My chest got tight, and my breathing felt constricted.

  “How long have you known this woman?” Clint demanded.

  “Since I was about two,” I said.

  “What the fuck?”

  My heart started pounding in a familiar hard, sick beat that I hated. My breath felt short, and everything inside felt as if it was rushing. I tried to keep my vision focused on something, anything. I stared at my coffee mug, keeping my hand clenched around the handle. I felt sick as if I was falling.

  “Archer!” he demanded.

  Through the staticky cacophony in my brain, I felt Phoebe’s palm on my back. Her touch was an anchor in the commotion outside of me. I blinked and heard myself saying, “I have to go.”

  I managed to lower the phone and drag my thumb across the screen, staring at it to confirm the call officially ended. Sometimes technology was a bitch, and the convenience of things staying open and live and logged on could be a fucking nightmare.

  “Are you okay?” I heard Phoebe asking as I dragged in a quick breath.

  She couldn't see my face because my back was to her. I held on to my composure or, rather, scrambled for it. I felt as if I was hanging on to the edge of a cliff. I needed to get a better grip and pull myself up.

  The spots faded along the edges of my vision. The strange staticky, rushing feeling started to slow inside. I took a swallow of my coffee and finally felt composed enough to turn around. Her hand was still on my back, her touch sliding to my shoulder. I was relieved by that contact. The feel of it broke through the muddled sensations inside.

  “I'm fine,” I said, my voice sounding a little raspy. I took another quick swallow of coffee to mask it.

  Her eyes skated over my face, her gaze probing and concerned. “Are you sure? That didn't sound like a pleasant phone call.”

  “It wasn't, but it's okay. It was just my great-uncle calling to yell at me because he found out I'm getting married.”

  “Which uncle is this again?”

  “Clint, my grandmother’s brother-in-law. The one who doesn't want me to have control of this company because he's a fucking asshole,” I said bluntly. “She and my grandfather started the business, and Clint’s always wanted to have a controlling stake, but he doesn’t.” I hated what he did and the effect he had on me. And I hated that Phoebe saw me like this.

  I dragged in another breath and took another swallow of coffee. The sense of panic had receded, leaving me profoundly relieved.

  I’d told Phoebe the truth about why I needed to get married originally. But there was an underlying truth that I hadn't told her or anyone other than one therapist. My parents didn't even know. They just knew I couldn't stand Clint. They didn't really like him either, so it was okay. We rarely saw him. When I started working in Seattle, I made efforts to avoid interacting with him and was relieved that he rarely came to the office, often working from home and relying on his assistant to keep him up to speed.

  I set my phone down and lifted my free hand, resting it over hers on my shoulder and savoring her touch. She blinked, and our fingers tangled.

  As I stared into Phoebe's eyes, that fuzzy whirling sensation—that was honestly terrifying and that I kept locked inside privately—faded completely.

  The level of trust I had with Phoebe was something I didn't have with man
y people, probably no one other than my parents. Even they didn't know I experienced these fucking panic attacks. I’d thought I was having a heart attack the first time. My doctor had ruled out every heart problem under the sun and diagnosed me with a panic disorder. He’d suggested I talk to a therapist, and I’d reluctantly agreed.

  I didn't like admitting weakness. I also didn't like being that kind of an asshole. I didn't want to think of myself as the kind of guy who couldn't acknowledge some feelings. But panic was so disconcerting, so utterly terrifying and inexplicable that it wasn't easy to explain. It was fucking hell to live through.

  I felt safe with Phoebe. Even if I wasn't ready to tell her about this, I knew she wouldn't judge me. After several more beats of my heart, I started to relax. Often the panic receded quickly once its vise was released. It was like something snapped loose, followed by the reverberation of breaking free.

  “Are you okay?” she asked quietly.

  “Yeah.”

  Her eyes searched mine for another moment before she leaned and pressed a kiss on my cheek. I moved on instinct, turning my face and catching her lips with mine.

  In a blink, the kiss went from chaste to hot. Phoebe drew back with a husky laugh.

  “Well, good morning to you.”

  “Sorry, not sorry,” I said lightly. “You probably want some coffee. You did make it after all.”

  Her lips curled in a soft smile. She held onto my hand with her fingers laced loosely with mine while she poured a cup of coffee with the other.

  “What do you like to have for breakfast?” she asked.

  I nudged my chin toward the stools by the counter. Her knees bumped mine when we sat down beside each other.

  “Okay, back to my question. What do you usually do for breakfast?”

  “I'm a workaholic, Phoebe.”

  She peered up at me. “I suppose you probably are. I am too.”

  “I can be really bad about it,” I added.

  “How bad?” She rested an elbow on the counter and traced her fingertips along the edge.

  “I don't think much about breakfast. I wake up, roll out of bed, and get coffee on the way to work. My assistant usually orders me something, a bagel probably.”

  “Oh, you have your own assistant?” Her eyes brightened.

  “I do.”

  She sighed. “I keep forgetting you're really rich.”

  “My assistant is Brandon, and I trust him with my life.” Brandon was the only person other than my doctor and therapist who knew about my panic attacks. He’d come into my office when I was in the midst of one.

  These thoughts passed through my mind as Phoebe cocked her head to the side.

  “The money part is weird for me,” she announced.

  “Oh? I hadn't noticed,” I teased lightly.

  She pressed her lips together, a little puff of air escaping when she released them. Warmth cinched around my heart. She'd done that ever since she was a little girl.

  “You still do that,” I observed.

  “Still do what?”

  I repeated the motion for her, adding a little exaggeration so it was obvious when I let my breath out.

  “I do not!” she squeaked.

  “You totally do. I love it.”

  She nudged my foot with hers. That subtle touch, playful and light, sent a sizzle through me. “Okay, back to breakfast. You liked bagels when we were kids.”

  “I still like bagels.”

  “Good. Should we go get some? Firehouse Café is right next door, so it’s convenient.”

  I was actually enjoying being alone with Phoebe, but I was hungry.

  “People will see us,” she added.

  “You know it's not just about that anymore, right?”

  She looked confused. I reached for her hand, sliding my thumb in a slow pass across the inside of her wrist. A pretty flush bloomed on her cheeks. “I'm not faking. Maybe our reasons for starting this weren't genuine, but my feelings are.”

  I could tell she didn't know what to do with that because she started blinking rapidly.

  “Don't think too hard, and please don't worry,” I added. I leaned forward and pressed a quick and fierce kiss on her lips. When I drew back, she licked her lips, and I wanted to kiss her all over again. But if I did that, we’d never get out of here.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Archer

  Twenty years ago

  * * *

  “Jake!” I called, smiling when I heard him laugh in reply.

  I jogged around the back of the house to find my cousin running across the lawn ahead of me. We were at his family's vacation home on the coast of Washington. I loved coming here in the summers with my parents.

  Jake tossed me the volleyball just before we got to the water. We passed the ball back and forth along the edge of the waves. We were exhausted a while later and decided to go back inside. On the way up, we stumbled across a yellow jacket hive in the ground. In a matter of seconds, we were swarmed with yellow jackets, both of us hollering and swatting at them as we rushed away.

  We learned Jake was allergic to yellow jackets that day, and I watched as his mother hustled him into the car, calling over to me, “I called your mother. She'll be back soon.”

  After she drove away, I held up my arm, inspecting the stings on my forearm. Apparently, you could die from getting stung by yellow jackets if you were allergic. I felt a little scared for Jake. The house was quiet once the sound of the door closing echoed behind me. The hardwood floor was cool under my bare feet as I walked down the hallway toward the kitchen.

  I didn't know anyone was home until I abruptly sensed motion behind me, just after I passed the doorway into the den. It was my great-uncle Clint. His eyes were red, and his face kind of blotchy, like it always was. “You're an idiot,” he muttered.

  I couldn’t explain why, but I'd felt uneasy and on edge around him for the past year or so. Not that I’d ever felt comfortable around him, but lately, my instincts raised a red flag when he was near. Fortunately, he generally ignored me, along with my cousins. He didn't really seem to like kids.

  When he stepped into the hallway, I nearly jumped but forced my feet to stay flat on the ground and stared at him. Before I could comprehend what was happening, he lifted his hand and slapped me across the face, so hard my head snapped back. I cried out, the sound ricocheting around the hallway.

  “Wh-what?” I stuttered.

  The next thing I knew, he had grabbed my arm and dragged me to the side of the hallway, where he drove his fists into my side. The pain was sharp and literally robbed my breath. I leaned against the wall, gasping as he stood over me. “Stay out of my way, and don’t ever tell anyone what you saw.”

  He walked back into the den, closing the door quietly. The dots around the edges of my vision cleared. I was almost afraid to move, but I finally did. I tiptoed down the hallway and up the stairs into the room I shared with my cousin. I locked the door. There was a small latch, and it looked as awfully insubstantial as I felt. I didn't even know what my uncle was talking about, and I didn't want to know.

  * * *

  Present day

  * * *

  “Granddad thinks you're getting married to get control from him,” Rhys said, his tone dry.

  I adjusted the phone against my ear, replying to my cousin, “I'm not.” The funny thing was that I had been originally. “I’m marrying Phoebe. She was my best friend when we were kids. You remember her?”

  “I think so. She had blond hair, usually in ponytails or braids?” he replied.

  “That's the one.”

  It felt as if my heart itself was smiling at that recollection. Memories of Phoebe were like sunshine falling in shafts through my life, illuminating the dark, cold spaces in my heart.

  Rhys continued, “That's what I told him. I thought it was her. He’s an ass. That’s the reason your grandparents didn't give him full control of anything. He said he resents being a placeholder.”

  “Whatever,
” I muttered. “He should be pissed off at you.”

  Rhys Cannon, my cousin, and I shared duties in managing our family’s business. We'd been close forever. The only secret I'd ever kept from him, aside from my panic attacks, was his grandfather and what he’d done. Rhys knew some of what Clint was capable of, but some secrets were best kept unsaid. No sense in allowing words to give them any more power. Although, I occasionally wondered if keeping that secret gave my great-uncle more power.

  I simply wasn't prepared for the mess of speaking aloud about what he'd done. Rhys was oblivious to my wandering train of thought. “Maybe he should be pissed at me, but you're gonna shut down the mine, aren't you?”

  “I haven't made a final decision,” I said.

  I knew Rhys knew I was hedging, but he would give me the grace to do so. Telling him might put him in a tight spot if his grandfather demanded answers from him. It was best for all of us if he could honestly say he didn’t know.

  “I'll be at your wedding,” he commented, shifting topics.

  “You will?” I was surprised at that.

  “Come on, Archer, don't sound so surprised. If I have a best friend, it's you,” he said. “I think of you more like my brother than my cousin.”

  “Same.” My throat felt thick with emotion, and I took a breath. “It’ll be good to see you. Are you bringing anyone?”

  “Fuck, no.”

  I could practically imagine his shudder. Rhys dated, and that was it. He didn't even want to get married, or so he claimed. He was scrupulous about not giving anyone the wrong impression.

  “If I were to try to bring someone with me, Lord knows what kind of ideas they’d get about that.”

  I chuckled. “Understood.”

  “Are you planning to stay in Willow Brook?”

  “I might. I'm not sure. It depends on what Phoebe wants. I'll definitely spend a good portion of every year here. It’s home to me because I grew up here.”

  “I know. Your parents wanted you to grow up there because they didn't want you to think the company was everything. They were a hell of a lot smarter than my parents,” he said dryly.