Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths, #4)(38)

As discreetly as possible, I reach up to finger-comb my hair, left to air dry after the speedy shower earlier. There’s not much I can do about my jeans and T-shirt right now.

“Now who’s nervous?” Ben throws over his shoulder with a smug smile as I watch him saunter toward his mother. He’s in a blue and yellow Dolphins T-shirt and worn blue jeans, so I’m not exactly underdressed. The difference is, Ben still looks good.

“It’s been weeks!” Ben’s mom scolds, though there isn’t an ounce of bitterness in her voice. He answers by scooping her tiny body up in his arms and spinning her around, much to her howls and laughter. It’s hard to believe such a slight woman created something as big as this man. She can’t be more than five feet tall. “Benjamin Morris! You put me down before I have another heart attack!”

His smile falls off at that comment, but he does as asked. She proceeds to ruffle her skirt gently before turning to regard me with eyes as blue and kind as Ben’s. “And you must be Reese.” A small hand shoots out and I take it immediately.

“You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Morris.”

She waves her hand. “Oh, please! Call me Wilma, and this old house is all but falling apart. Sometimes I wish a bolt of lightning would burn it down because it needs so much work. Come on in. I have some sweet tea and sandwiches ready.” She pats her son’s stomach. “Benjamin’s favorite.”

He catches me pursing my lips together tightly to stop the burst of laughter from escaping. Flinging an arm over my shoulder, he asks, “What?”

“You are such a mama’s boy!” I hiss, earning a giant grin.

Wilma steals a quick glance back and beams.

And it clicks. I know what Ben is nervous about. It’s not about me teasing him in front of his “mama.” It’s about her getting the wrong idea about us.

Ben has made it pretty clear to the world that he has no intention of getting serious with anyone. Ever. And if he were anyone other than Ben, an arm over my shoulder might constitute misleading people into thinking we’re dating. But it is Ben, and so I don’t make the effort to push it off.

Plus, I have to admit, it makes me feel good.

Beyond the house, row upon row of trees stretch over the dips and rises of the property as far as the eye can see. We pass by a honey-colored barn to our left, obviously built much later than the house. Large doors sit closed at the front, flanked on either side by small windows. And in the darkness within, I’m almost positive I see a face peering out at me. But it’s gone so fast I can’t be sure.

“We can have lunch out on the sun porch,” Wilma offers, leading us into the house. The interior is dated but in a quaint way, with worn wood floors and floral wallpaper—some of its seams starting to lift—stretching up to crown molding that trims the high ceilings.

“Ben tells me this land has been in your family for generations,” I say as my fingers intentionally slide across the wood grain of a side table. Everywhere I look, I find a piece of rustic furniture. Each one is different, suggesting it’s not mass-produced, and yet there’s something about them that hints that they’re part of a set.

“Over a hundred years,” she confirms. “We’ve done a lot of living here.”

I feel Ben’s hand graze the small of my back as we step out into an all-white room of glass and wood. The wall-to-wall windows overlook the massive expanse of the family grove that I couldn’t quite appreciate from the driveway. I can’t help my eyes from bugging out at the beautiful oak table, laden with breads and meats and salads, partly because of my rumbling stomach, but mostly because of the amount. There’s enough for ten people here. And I don’t doubt that it’s all 100 percent homemade and made especially for her son.

“Manners, Benjamin!” Wilma swats Ben’s hand away from the sandwich platter. “Wait for Reese.”

“She likes me just the way I am,” he says through a smile, wrapping his arms around his mom’s shoulders for another bear hug and planting a kiss on her forehead. It’s cute.

And so completely foreign to me.

As we sit down to eat, I listen quietly to Wilma talk about the coming season—citing concerns over spreading disease and sub-ideal climate as well as the high costs of using the packaging company and having to cut back on staff—and how all the pipes in the house need replacing. All while I look for flaws in her. Deceptive flares, duplicitous statements, self-absorbed topics. Things that remind me of Annabelle. But I find none.

Ben’s mom is genuinely nice and she very obviously loves her son.

Like any mother should love her child, I suppose.

By the time we’re carrying the dirty dishes to the kitchen, my stomach is ready to explode, but I feel like an old resident of the Morris household.

“Reese, have you ever seen a grove before?” she asks, tucking one of her short chestnut curls behind her ear. The gray is just beginning to thread through.

“No, can’t say that I have.”

She pats Ben’s back. “Why don’t you take her out for a while?”

I’m expecting him to decline, insisting we have to get back. But he doesn’t. He simply nods and throws an arm around my shoulders. I look up in time to catch the secretive smile touching his lips as we pass through the house, on our way to the foyer again.