Falling for Him Read online

  Falling For Him

  Jessica Roe

  Other Titles by Jessica Roe

  The Guardians:

  Undone

  United

  Fortunate:

  Because of Him

  Something Real

  FALLING FOR HIM

  JESSICA ROE

  Copyright © 2015 Jessica Roe

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cover design: © L.J. Anderson at Mayhem Cover Creations

  To everyone who asked for Nash's story,

  This one's for you

  Chapter 1

  Ivy

  Bored.

  I'm so bored.

  So very, very bored.

  But then, that's been my one constant ever since I took this job as a dental receptionist – boredom. It was a last resort kind of thing; after returning home to Fortune a couple of months ago with my tail wedged firmly between my legs, I was all out of options and I needed to do something. Sitting around doing nothing has never been a strong point of mine. One of my best friends, Nash, says it's because I'm annoyingly anal. Of course he then always breaks out into fits of giggles because he said the world anal, so I'm not going to take anything he has to say too seriously.

  I glance up at the clock again, but time hasn't magically moved forward three hours since I last looked and it isn't time to go home. Obviously I check my cell too, just in case the clock is broken, you know? But no, the minutes are ticking by just as slowly as they can possibly manage. Taunting me, all smug and. . .minutey like.

  Man, I'm bored.

  Usually Dr. Ormand's office is super busy – mainly because he's the only dentist in our little town – but since it's just two days before Christmas the waiting room is as empty as a ghost town. Except at least in a ghost town there'd be ghosts, and balls of hay, and. . .goats? Here there's just the clock. Tick, tick, ticking away. Slo-o-owly. I guess people have much more interesting things to be doing today, like gift shopping, or drinking.

  Ah, drinking.

  As it usually does when there's nothing else to do, my mind drifts back to a time, a much better time only a few months ago, when I was working at Heikki Fashion, one of the most prominent fashion empires in San Francisco, founded by the world renowned Kaarina Heikki. I'd been recruited right out of college, which is a dream come true for fashion designers like me.

  Heikki Fashion was the kind of place where all of us who worked there were surface best friends. The kind that partied together, that cocktailed together, that constantly reaffirmed how absolutely gorgeous and stunning each of us were. But underneath all that, we were always, always competing. The fashion industry can be scarily cut throat, and those of us at Heikki Fashion were some of the worst. If one fell from grace, the rest of us would watch on with morbid curiosity, silently cheering that one of the competition had been taken out. Looking back, I'm disgusted by what a career bitch I became.

  When it was my time to fall, I fell hard. Those friends of mine, the ones I'd worked alongside for years in some cases, stood there and judged me, laughed at me, quite literally, as I shame walked out of the building and never looked back.

  It was all my own fault, but that sure didn't take away the sting.

  Those people back there would adore the idea of seeing me work as a dental receptionist. It would tickle them, give them something to laugh about over cocktails.

  Shaking myself into the present, I lean back as far as I can in my uncomfortable swivel chair and tilt up my head to stare at the ceiling. A water mark has been growing there for the past week, getting steadily bigger with each passing day. I should probably tell Dr. Ormand about it at some point, but that would require actually talking to Dr. Ormand and. . .yeah, I don't like to do that.

  If I squint my eyes and turn my head just so. . .it kind of looks like a boob.

  “Ivy?” Dr. Ormand calls from his room, and it surprises me so much I almost fall out of my chair.

  “Yes, Dr. Ormand?”

  “Your feet aren't up on the desk again, are they?”

  I hear Ola, his assistant, chuckle.

  “No, Dr. Ormand,” I lie, my tone of voice suggesting that I would never do something so heinous. My finger immediately gets to work twirling a lock of my golden blonde hair around and around; it's an annoying habit I have whenever I lie, but it's not like he can even see me.

  I tap my black heels together three times and think of home, but alas, I do not wake up in my bed.

  My cell beeps, and I scramble to snatch it up with eager hands, because hello distraction. I grin for the first time in hours when I see that it's a video message from Nash. Video messages are our thing – our dumb way of saying hey during the day. It's been going on for years though I don't remember how it started. They're usually stupid and pointless, but that's pretty much the idea.

  I open the video and get an immediate shot of the bottom of Nash's chin – the phone must have been resting on his lap as it pointed up at him. It's quiet, though I can hear a muffled man's voice in the background – clearly he's in a business meeting. Nash looks down at the camera and mouths, 'This is so boring,' before crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue.

  “Nash!” the man's voice booms in the background – a voice that I recognize as belonging to his dad, Nash's boss at the architecture firm. “What are you- Are you sending Ivy a video in the middle of a meeting again? Stop that!”

  The video cuts off just as Nash breaks out into laughter.

  I grin at the tone of Oli's voice – it's the same frustrated tone he used on us when we were getting into trouble as teenagers.

  I'm about to send Nash one back of the boob on the ceiling, but Dr. Ormand appears, escorting a pasty looking woman out with drool dribbling down her chin. A filling, I remember. I consider dropping my feet to the floor, but then Dr. Ormand might start getting nasty ideas in his head, like that I care about anything he has to say ever. We established that was not the case long ago, back when I was a kid and he was my dentist, and I still can't seem to lose that churlishness when it comes to him.

  He sits his bony ass down on the edge of my desk, staring at my exposed legs for a moment before grinning at me rakishly. My black pencil skirt almost reaches my knees so it's not like I have a crazy amount of leg on show, but he still manages to make me feel completely and utterly ick. It's a special talent of his. Immediately I drop my feet to the floor, my heels clattering as I fight the urge to gag. Dr. Ormand is a creep. He's tall and lanky, with oddly long arms and legs, like the stick men pictures you draw as a kid, except much less cute. He's mostly bald, though he has a few stubbly tufts here and there, and he has these teeny, tiny little eyes right in the middle of his giant head. Back when we were teenagers, Nathan nicknamed him Space Head, and though it was lame, it stuck.

  Gotta admit though – the guy has great teeth.

  “Hey there, little lady.” Space Head waggles his eyebrows up and down on that big forehead. It really is big. You could fry an egg on that thing, and not just a weenie little chicken egg. I'm talking dino egg for sure.

  The thi
ng about Space Head is, he thinks he's incredibly charming. He seems to have convinced himself that the only reason he's reached his late forties without a girlfriend or a wife and only his cat (who I'm pretty sure doubles as his special lady friend) to hold on to at night is because he's this super suave bachelor with no time for commitment. That is not the reason. It's because he's creepy. Oh so very creepy.

  “Hey, Dr. Ormand.” I swivel my chair away, just a little.

  He shifts closer, placing an elbow on his knee and resting his chin on his fist. I think it's supposed to be sexy. “Any plans this evening?”

  I nod quickly before he gets any ideas. “Yep.”

  He waits for me to elaborate, but I don't. I'm not sure why he doesn't just fire me and hire someone more agreeable. “Well,” he says, sitting up straight and slapping his knees in that Let's Get Down To Business kind of way. “Since it's the last day of work before Christmas and there's no one else around, I suppose it would be okay if you left early, though-”

  I'm on my feet before he can even finish his sentence.

  “-I sure would be lonely here without you to talk to,” he finishes, but I refuse to take the hint. Down and outright refuse. Because no. Just no. He does not get to dangle freedom before me like a little worm on a hook and then expect me not to snatch it up and run. “Ola's leaving any minute, so. . .”

  I grab my coat and bag, already edging my way around the desk. “Thanks, Dr. Ormand!”

  “You can call me Dell, you know,” he calls after me despondently. “All my lady friends do.”

  “Yeah,” I reply slowly, nodding my head up and down as I back out the door. “I'm probably just gonna call you Dr. Ormand.”

  +++

  I sigh in sheer relief as I get home to Nash's apartment fifteen minutes later. The building is only five stories high, and his place is on the top. It has big open spaces, with a huge kitchen and living area, and a stupid gorgeous balcony which overlooks the cobbled courtyard below.

  When I'd told Nash that I was returning home a couple of months ago after being gone for so many years, he'd immediately offered me his spare room and I'd snatched it up right away. It had meant that I could avoid moving back with my parents, who I love to death but drive me crazy, and he doesn't make me pay rent. Which, hello, yes please.

  He's already home, which surprises me, because his dad is kind of a hard ass on him when it comes to the architecture firm. Not that Nash blames him – he has a lot of respect for his dad and the firm, which has been in their family for three generations. Oli wanted Nash to work his way up from the bottom before he takes it over one day, which is exactly what Nash has been doing since he finished college.

  He sends me a grin from the sofa, only briefly glancing up from the video game he's playing before he apparently decides that killing zombies is a much more appealing sight than I am. I lean over the back and wrap my arms around his neck to kiss him on his gorgeous face. And he is gorgeous, in that tough, rugged, jock way. Always has been, ever since high school. He had all the girls chasing him back then, and though I haven't seen him with anybody since I moved in, I'm sure it's exactly the same now. It's the strong, square jaw, usually dusted with a lazy layer of stubble like he's forgotten to shave that day; the wide, pink lips, always quirked up at one side with an amused little smile and topped with a dimple on one side; the short, light brown hair, mussed from the amount of times he runs his large hands through it because he thinks it makes him look sexy and mysterious; and the mossy green brown eyes, always twinkling with mischief.

  If we hadn't been friends for so long, I might have been in the Nash Peeters Fan Club myself. Maybe. Probably.

  I appreciate a good looking man, what can I say?

  Abandoning his controller for just a second, he reaches up to pat my head in an absent minded greeting. I bite his finger playfully before letting him go to grab a couple of beers out of the fridge. “What are you doing home?” I call.

  “Dad let us go after the meeting,” he answers distractedly. A gross squelching sound comes from the TV and the screen splatters with blood. By the way Nash sulks back into the cushions, I assume it's his. He's been home less than an hour and already his pale blue shirt is crinkled and his tie has been abandoned somewhere. “What about you? Space Head not want you to hang back for a nightcap?” he asks, like it's oh so funny that my boss is such a creeper.

  “Hilarious.”

  I squeeze down next to Nash on the sofa and slump back, taking a long, grateful slug of beer. He was always a big guy, broad like his dad and a six foot freaking giant – but clearly he's been hitting the gym since I've been away because now he's solid. At five four I feel like a midget next to him, but also very, very safe. He's always had the ability to make me feel safe.

  “What's up with you?” he asks, poking my stomach.

  “You mean aside from the fact that I'm twenty six years old and I'm hiding out in my home town, working as a receptionist for a man who stuffs his pants with socks and living with the guy who used to shove worms down my shorts when we were kids?” I grin and stick out my tongue.

  “How is old Space Head?” He picks up his controller again.

  “He told me to remind you that you're due in for a check up.”

  Nash visibly shudders. “Yick.”

  I laugh, kicking off my heels and flopping my legs over his thighs. “Gimme a controller. I wanna kick yo' butt.”

  +++

  Nash roars with laughter as he blows my head off for the third time in a row. I glare at him as menacingly as I can, which only makes him laugh harder. “You think. . .you're so. . .tough,” he wheezes between breaths.

  “I will take you down,” I threaten, totally meaning it. He may be twice the size of me, but I know all his weak spots. To prove my point, I dig into his hip with my toe.

  He grasps hold of my ankle and places it back down, patting it patronizingly. “Sure you will, tough girl.”

  The doorbell rings, and I point a finger in his stupid face. “You are so lucky. Next time I'll end you for sure. Is that Keegan?”

  “Silver,” he corrects me, picking my ankles up and swiveling me around as he pushes to his feet. “No one calls him Keegan anymore.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot about that. What's up with that again?”

  “Not really sure,” he muses. “Blame my sister – she's a freak. A very persuasive freak. We did it to screw with him at first, but I think he likes it now.”

  The bell shrills again impatiently, just like Keegan – I mean, Silver. “Alright, alright,” Nash calls, ambling over to let him in.

  Silver barely has time to walk inside and drop his bag before I'm jumping up to throw my arms around him. I haven't seen him since college, and just like when I first saw Nash and Nathan again, I hadn't realized how much I'd missed him until he was right in front of me. It's totally my own bad – I got so caught up in my work at Heikki and my big, glitzy life full of glamour and parties and fashion that I barely had time to keep up with my old friends. Now I feel like an idiot, because these friends have always been way more important to me than any of the ones I had in San Francisco. If not for the video messages Nash and I kept up with over the years, I'd have had no clue at all how any of them had been doing. It makes me feel like an epic bitch.

  Silver spins me around and drops me to my feet. “Long time no see, stranger,” he accuses, but there's no haughtiness in his words like there probably should be. He grins and tugs a lock of my hair.

  “I know, I'm horrible.” I squeeze his shoulder. “I'm sorry I couldn't get home for Yolanda's funeral.”

  He shakes his head like I don't need his forgiveness, but I so do. “Honestly, I doubt I'd have even noticed if you had been there. I wasn't with it most of the day.”

  I don't blame him. His grams, Yolanda, had been a steady figure in all our lives. Hers had been the house we'd all escaped to when our parents were driving us crazy, or when things were tough or getting us down. She'd always been there with cookies
or fruit tea and words of wisdom which we hadn't appreciated nearly enough. The news of her death had rocked me hard.

  Silver and Nash bump fists in way of greeting because they're guys and they're exceptionally lame, and then they flop down on the sofa. Silver steals my beer and downs it in one go.

  “Jerk,” I grumble, taking the armchair instead.

  “Not cool that your mom and dad won't just let me stay with Blair, by the way,” Silver complains to Nash as he picks up my abandoned controller. He's here to camp out on Nash's sofa while he and his girlfriend, Blair, are visiting Fortune for Christmas, as there's a lodger living in the house he used to share with Yolanda. “They do realize we live together, right?”

  Nash pulls a face and starts attacking poor, unsuspecting zombies once more. “Yeah, not gonna sympathize with you over the fact that you can't bang my sister over the holidays.”

  “Dude.” Silver shakes his head at Nash's crassness, and like that, the matter is dropped as they start shooting away.

  Seriously, seriously lame. I've been away from my guys for so long that I'd almost forgotten how their puny little brains work.

  Since they're so distracted, I give Silver a long, searching look, taking him in. He hasn't changed much over the years physically – he still has all that curly hair and the cute freckles and the lopsided grin, but he has changed. There's something different about him now. Back when I knew him he was fun, but he was always a little uptight, somber even. I think it was because he was determined to be the opposite of his hippie parents. But now he seems. . ..freer in himself. Simply happy, which must be down to Blair, who I seriously need to meet. I've seen pictures of her; she's a tiny little thing, all wild, dark hair and a fierce look on her face like, 'I may be small but screw with me and I will Mess. You. Up'. I have a feeling I'm going to like her a lot.

  I have to admit, I'm still in shock about how she and Silver got together. When I'd been told how Silver had fallen in love with Nash's little sister, who also happened to be his freaking student, I hadn't believed it. Back when we'd been teenagers, Silver had always been the good one. I mean, he'd gone along with whatever wicked adventure we'd get ourselves into, but he'd always been the voice of reason that we hadn't listened to and the one who'd said 'I told you so' at the end of the day when things went wrong.