Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths, #4)(43)

Ben’s arm tightens slightly, bringing me closer to him, as he sighs. “You still love him?”

“I don’t know. I think so,” I answer truthfully. “And trust me, I know how stupid that is, so you don’t have to remind me.” The hollowness still swells in my chest every time I even think about Jared, every time I find myself checking to see if he has responded to my last message. I loved that dark-haired guy so much that even when things were good, it hurt. I loved him more than I thought ever possible and more than was probably healthy. I used to mock girls who couldn’t stop themselves from clinging onto their man’s limbs in public, who giggled and cooed and batted starry eyes.

But when I met Jared, I turned into one of them.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think he’s an idiot.”

“I’m not having sex with you.”

“Oh, come on! No lies, no commitments. No fear of love. Just the best day of your life with a nice guy who happens to be drop-dead gorgeous.”

I can’t help the deep, throaty laugh that erupts from me. “You’re such an arrogant pig.”

“Fair enough. Can we at least fool around?” He lifts and curls his strong body, giving that appealing mouth access to my ear. “Because I know you want to.”

I shiver as the depth of his voice courses through my limbs. My denial—a lie, I’m silently accepting—is on the tip of my tongue when my phone starts ringing. Ben falls back with a groan as I pull the phone out of my pocket, holding it up to read the caller ID, just to make sure. “What on earth is she doing calling me?”

“Annabelle Lecter?” Ben reads the caller ID.

“The woman eats male hearts. It’s fitting.” I hit “ignore” and tuck the phone back in my pocket. With my ear against Ben’s chest, his loud boom of laughter is all the louder. I can’t help but wonder what Annabelle would want. I left Jacksonville nine months ago and she hasn’t made any effort to reach out to me before today. Not normal mother behavior. Not surprising Annabelle behavior.

“I take it you and her aren’t best friends?” Ben asks lightly, his attempts at getting into my pants effectively stalled.

“I haven’t talked to her since I moved to Miami and Jack made me call her to let her know.”

“That’s been, what . . .”

“It’ll be a year in January.”

He snorts. “How is that even possible? I talk to Mama every single day.”

“That’s because you have June Cleaver for a mom and I have Joan Crawford.” There can be no doubt where I inherited my temper. More than one dish has been thrown across a room with Annabelle’s anger. That’s a side she guards well, though, not wanting the outside world to know she’s anything but the refined socialite she portrays.

“Did you have a big fight?”

I sigh. “My entire life feels like one big fight with her. She wanted a debutante daughter and she got . . .” I gesture at myself.

“A daughter with piercings and sometimes purple hair who rides a motorcycle and can describe the back of a cop car in detail,” he finishes for me.

“Annabelle wears Gucci and eats beef tartare. She goes to the opera and collects ice wine.”

He nods slowly as if in understanding. “You must have been one hell of a rebellious teenager.”

“We’ve been at odds long before my teenage years. Annabelle was never cut out to be a mother. All she cares about are appearances, money, and Annabelle.” I close my eyes and sigh, wanting to get off the topic. “I feel so relaxed out here. This place is like a cross between Forrest Gump and Anne of Green Gables.”

“I don’t remember Tom Hanks picking oranges.”

“No, I mean . . . just that house and the big ol’ trees and the country air . . . Shut up. You know what I mean.”

Ben’s hand starts fiddling with my hair again. “Yeah. Right now it is. Soon, the orders start rolling through and then it gets busy. We get orders from all over the country. Since I had the website and online system updated a few years back, it’s been busy.” He sighs. “Between inspecting and sampling and picking . . . hell, even just going around to check the trees for disease or problems, it’s getting to be too much. Especially for a fifty-one-year-old lady who’s had a heart attack to manage on her own. I wish she’d just sell and divorce his pathetic ass.”

“She won’t?”

“No. This place is her life. She’d be buried here if it were allowed. And she’s hung up on a bunch of words she said in church one day, so she lets him stay.”

“I think those are called vows, Ben,” I remind him dryly, rolling my head until my chin is resting on his chest so I can see his face.

“Call them what you want. They’re a bunch of words that trap people into thinking they have to be miserable for the rest of their lives.”

Not everyone. “So I take it you won’t be saying ‘I do’ anytime soon?” I ask lightly.

He closes his eyes again, a crooked smirk dimpling one cheek. “What do you think?”

“Have you even had a girlfriend, Ben?” Has he ever held someone in his arms all night, laughing and sharing his deepest secrets? Has he ever let someone cry on his shoulder or held her tight when life dealt him a shitty hand? Trusted her with everything, wanted to be someone she could trust? Has he ever watched the clock, waiting until he could see her again?