Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths, #4)(50)

Mason squirms in his seat, his hands automatically reaching for his glasses, which aren’t there. “I know you’ve had it rough with all . . . that.”

As awkward as he is, I have to admit, this new alien-abducted version of Mason is kind of nice. I nod once but keep my mouth shut for fear of saying something to ruin the Twilight Zone moment.

“So . . .” He pauses, strumming his fingers on the chair arm.

I should have known he was being nice to me for a reason. “What do you want, Mason?”

Clearing his throat, he finally gets to the point. “Hey, what does Lina really like to do? You know, to have fun.”

“Why don’t you just ask her? I mean, you’ve been together for, what, almost three months?”

He shrugs. “Because I want to surprise her. So . . . Help me out here.”

“You could go to Vegas and get married. That’d be a surprise.”

He groans with annoyance, but then I see a flash of something else as his eyes settle on me once again. Sadness, pity—I’m not sure. I purse my lips. And decide that if Lina is somehow happy with him, then, well, I need to start being a better friend about this. “She loves planes. Take her to that airplane museum.”

He nods slowly. “Cool.” A pause, and then his eyes narrow. “Hey, you’re not lying to me, right? Because if I find out that the sight of planes causes her spontaneous seizures, that won’t be funny.”

I snort. “No, if I were screwing with you, I’d tell you to take her to a butterfly museum.”

His brow puckers up. “Butterflies? I thought everyone liked butterflies.”

“Not Lina. Their little bodies freak her out.”

“Oh.” He snorts. “Okay, thanks.” He moves to stand but stalls, clearing his throat. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for calling you a demon spawn when Jack and your mom split up.”

It clicks. Lina has got to him. That’s what this is all about. It must be. Standing, he makes his way to the door. “Oh, and that red substance you used to write ‘Redrum’ on my computer screen is . . .?”

“Raspberry jam.”

“Right.” A slow, thoughtful smile stretches across his face. “I love raspberry jam.”

“I know.” On impulse, I reach into my drawer and pull out a jar. Tossing it to him, I watch as he fumbles once, twice, three times, just barely securing it in his non-athletic grasp before it smashes against the ground.

With a sheepish grin, he holds it up with a crooked, “Hey, I actually caught it!” smile.

“Oh, and Ben’s the one moving your stuff around in your office. It’s not me.”

He rolls his eyes, a very non-Mason thing to do. “Thanks.”

The second he steps out of my office, I dial Lina’s number. “Are you and Mason plotting to kill me or are you just that good in bed?”

“The latter, though if you don’t start being nice to him, I will give him enough ammunition to take you down permanently,” comes her deadpan response without a moment’s hesitation, as if she were ready for my call.

“That’s highly prejudicial.”

“It goes both ways. I told him that I’m not going to be the buffer between you two, so you need to start acting like normal siblings.”

“Says the only child.” A knock on the glass distracts me. Ben standing at the window, pointing at the red golf shift he’s wearing, that appealing broad smile on his face. I grab the orange and toss it at the glass where his head is. Mouthing, “Good aim,” he winks and strolls away, that smile so infuriating and yet sparking within me the need to giggle.

I’m still giggling to myself when Natasha pokes her head in.



Are you free for lunch today?



I stare at my phone to see if I’ve read Jared’s message correctly. Shit! What do I do? Reaching for my desk phone to call Lina a second time this morning, I hang up immediately. There’s no point calling her or Nicki. Or anyone. Because I know exactly what the right answer is.

Tap, tap, tap . . . the pen in my hand flicks back and forth against the stack of folders as I toil over this. I have so much to do for Ben, I really should work through my lunch break . . .

Café. Noon?



His responding “yes” comes within seconds.



“You should try the key lime,” the brown-haired waitress suggests, placing a plate of chocolate pecan pie in front of me. I swear, the way they all push it around here, you’d think they were trading key lime stock. I offer her a tight smile and ask her to bring my check, my eyes fixated on the street entrance. Jared has always been notoriously late but half an hour is ridiculous, especially without at least a message.

I’m beginning to think he ditched me when I hear a familiar deep voice say, “Still not willing to try something new.”

I’m instantly pulled from my silent lamenting and straight into that special place where heaven and hell cross paths, where mint-green irises make my heart skip one, two, three beats before it kicks into high gear, despite my best efforts to feel nothing at all. “I stick with what I know.”

He smiles in response. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

I hold my breath as I watch him pull the empty chair out to sit. “No problem. I’ve got to get back to work soon, though.” I was already planning on using work as an excuse for a quick exit, should I need it. Facing him now, I know that I probably will. That pain is an angry bubble swelling once again, only it’s mixed with confusion and fear and . . . yes, anticipation.