Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths #4)(14)

A computer monitor—decorated in no less than a hundred multicolored Post-it notes—is on and displaying a screensaver of a rusty old blue truck in a field.

I’m intrigued, to say the least. I can’t imagine what kind of female this sty could possibly belong to, and part of me is afraid to find out. It’s not dirty, per se. It’s just messy beyond anything I’ve ever seen. I step forward and begin scanning her desk, looking for a nameplate or something to identify her.

And that’s exactly what I’m doing when she walks in.

“Is there a reason that you’re snooping through my things?” a crisp voice calls out.

Pulling on a smile that usually takes the edge off even the moodiest of women, I turn around. A blond in a short green dress and cowboy boots stands in the doorway, a tall coffee cup in her hand and a deep scowl furrowing her forehead.

I open my mouth to introduce myself but falter as panic flashes in those eyes.

Those caramel-colored eyes.

“Holy shit!” I don’t believe it. There’s really nothing I can think of to say except, “You owe me a new shirt!”

Chapter 5

REESE

I’ve been eviscerated on a Monday morning. My guts are splayed all over the dark gray office carpet for all to see.

And I can’t breathe.

What the hell is this guy doing in my office?

He’s as shocked as I am, obviously. That loud boom of “holy shit!” that probably carried through half the floor and has all the little old hens peering over their bifocals at us can attest to that.

And now he’s staring at me with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Jill? Is that you?”

“You don’t recognize your one true love?” That might have sounded witty had my voice not been shaky and my cheeks not been burning hot. For a pro player like this guy, the fact that he remembers my fake name says something. I was definitely memorable.

“You look so . . .” His voice drifts off as those baby-blue eyes roll over my all-blond hair and land on my face. “No more piercings?”

Not trusting myself to speak again, I tap the pinhead-sized diamond stud in my nostril. I’ve taken the septum ring and the majority of my ear piercings out, though. Part of this whole “new me” thing I’m trying.

Ben’s head bobs up and down slowly as if still trying to process this. Then his focus drifts down to my chest and his eyes narrow. I swear he’s trying to make out the outline of the metal ring that’s hidden there.

And I’m trying to control the hyperbolic flashback that took weeks to suppress—there’s just no way vomit shoots out of a person like a fire hose!—as the walking, breathing proof of one of my most mortifying nights stands in my office.

I waited a good two hours to creep out from the bathroom that night, to find Ben stripped down to his boxer briefs and snoring in bed. Quickly pulling my clothes on, I hightailed it out of there.

And now my botched exorcism is leaning against my desk, his muscular arms folded over his chest. The playful smile that stretches across his face tells me he’s found his bearings and is back to the cocky guy I was one vomit away from sleeping with two months ago. “What are you doing here?”

“Working,” I manage to get out without sounding weak. Easing farther into my office, I replace one of the many empty cups littering my desk with my new one, trying to act nonchalant when, really, I’m fighting the urge to turn and run somewhere where I can regroup. “I think the bigger question is, what are you doing here?” How did I not know he was from Miami? Oh yeah . . . I didn’t bother asking. I was too busy deciding whether I should have sex with him. And now, as I steal a glance at how well that black button-down and those dark gray dress pants look on his strong frame, I remember what swayed me. Well, the tequila certainly didn’t help.

Heat engulfs my cheeks.

I puked all over this guy.

And then he watched my bare ass crawl across the floor to his bathroom.

Mr. Cuervo and I—and all of his Mexican cousins—are no longer on speaking terms.

“Mr. Warner offered me an attorney position.”

“I . . .” What? Ben’s going to be working here?

“I finished law school in the spring.”

Gritting my teeth against the pain as I suck back a mouthful of burning-hot coffee—I’m going to regret that later—I mutter, “You failed to mention that.”

He twists his mouth in thought. “I was too busy trying to figure out what kind of marine biologist you are.”

“Recent career change.”

“Right.” His eyes are twinkling as he watches me, amused. Jerk. “Is this going to be awkward?”

“No . . .” I say, tossing my purse on the ground, “because you’re going to resign immediately.”

He heaves a sigh. “It’s not a big deal. So you—”

“Shh!” My hand flies up to stop him as heat flares into my cheeks again. That’s the last thing I need floating around work. “Don’t!”

We lock gazes for a long moment and I can’t read what his says. Is he regretting that night as much as I am? Because, for all the stupid things I’ve regretted doing—and that’s a long list—that night is sitting on top of the mountain waving an “idiot” flag.

A sudden voice behind me interrupts us. “There you are, Ben. Natasha’s waiting.”