Falling Harder (20 page)

“Goddammit,” I mutter, sinking down onto the closest bench.
With a deep breath, I ready myself for another round of psyching-up. And this
time, it might take a while.

Chapter Six

Nadia

Daffodils

“What the...?” I murmur sleepily, peeling my cheek off the
desk before me. I blink in the early morning sunlight, peering around my
bedroom. I must have fallen asleep over my work last night, whenever the hell
it was I managed to fall asleep.

I stretch in my desk chair, sore from sleeping in such a
strange position. Thank god it’s Saturday, at least. That means I have all
weekend to rest, and recover, and take my time sifting through this new case. Most
people spend their weekends pursuing hobbies and putting their feet up, I spend
them working. But hey, you don’t get to be the first female president in
history by taking weekends off. And I’ve got to hurry if I’m going to beat
Hillary Clinton to the punch.

Sloughing off my work clothes, I pull on a pair of white
cotton shorts and an airy tank. Might as well get comfortable before taking on
another round of Find the Drug Lord. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes as best I
can, I head to the kitchen and brew myself the strongest cup of coffee
imaginable.

The rich, dark brew fills my favorite coffee mug, and I lean
back against the kitchen counter to take a nice long whiff. In this moment, I
am almost content. I’ve got my creature comforts, a wonderful and meaningful
job, a beautiful apartment. But happy as these things make me, I’d be lying if
I said I was truly content in my life.

As much as it pains me to admit it, something is still
missing from my world. There are many ways in which my second act, after leaving
the foster system, has treated me well. But there’s one thing that no amount of
success or renown can offer me: Someone to truly care about. Someone who cares
about me.

“Maybe I should rethink the cat thing,” I scoff to myself,
popping some whole wheat bread into the toaster. I let my mind wander through
the new case again, or at least what I’ve been able to discern about it. The
identities of the high-ups in the ring are totally shrouded in secrecy. I’m
kind of at a loss about how I’m ever going to unravel truth. Maybe after
breakfast, things will start to make more sense.

Just as I set my mug and plate down at the table, the phone
begins to ring. Of course. I grab the receiver and cradle it against my
shoulder.

“Good morning, Ms. Faber,” says my doorman, Braulio. “Sorry
to ring up so early. There’s a delivery here for you. Do you mind if I send it
up?”

“What is it?” I ask.

“Flowers, Ms. Faber,” Braulio says cheerfully, “Looks like
you have an admirer.”

“Huh,” I say, smiling despite myself. “Yeah, send them up.
Thank you.”

I hear the elevator whir to life and dawdle by my front
door. Probably, the flowers are for Carly. She tends to attract the more
romantic types. Most of my dates end up being as practically minded as myself,
preferring short visits and good sex to long walks on the beach. What can I
say? I’m a woman who knows what she wants.

A
ding
sounds out through the hall, and I pull open the front door to admit the
unexpected delivery. It isn’t until I’ve already opened the door that I realize
I’ve neglected to put a bra on, yet. Oh well. Guess the delivery man is in for
a little surprise. 

“I’ll just take those off your—” I begin, holding my hands
out to the man at my door. My words trail off as I see what it is he’s holding.
I’d been expecting some kind of over-the-top floral arrangement, but clutched
in this man’s hands is a simple bouquet of five daffodils. Confused, I finally
lift my gaze to his.

At once, my entire world is filled with that deep emerald
green I’ve only known once before in my life. I’m immersed, blinded by that
dazzling shade, unable for a moment to take in anything else. Little by little,
other details begin to clarify: the freckles across the bridge of his nose, the
strong jaw, the way my neck has to crane a little to truly look him in the eye.
Finally, a single word comes swimming up from the depths of my mind, from the
core of my heart where I’ve kept it guarded all these years.

“Trace,” I say. It isn’t a question, because there’s no
mistaking him. In the ten years since I’ve seen him, he’s grown broader, more
rugged. The features of his face are more sharply sculpted, his body is wound
as tight as a spring. But even a decade removed, the way his eyes get when he
looks at me hasn’t changed.

“Nadia,” he says softly, “I’m—”

But his words are cut short as I slam the door in his
gorgeous face and press my back against it. My chest tightens painfully as I
struggle to force calming breaths into my lungs. This can’t be happening. Trace
O’Conner cannot be standing on my doorstep with a handful of flowers and a case
of nostalgia. This...this is not allowed.

A tentative knock sounds out through the door, and I brace
myself against it. “You can’t be here,” I croak.

“I’m sorry,” Trace says through the door. His voice is
changed, gruffer. “I didn’t know how to get in touch with you. I know it’s
early, but—”

“Early?” I say, aghast. “Try ten years too late, O’Conner.”

“Don’t say that,” Trace says, his voice straining with hurt,
“You know it was never as simple as picking up a phone. Which you could have
done too, by the way.”

“It wasn’t my—”

“Just open the door, Nadia. Please. I really...I just need
to see you. Won’t you let me in? Just for a minute?”

My heart is lodged firmly in my throat as I turn and stare
at my heavy front door. Do I open it, and let the only boy—man—I’ve ever loved
wander back into my universe? Do I risk dismantling everything I’ve managed to
build since Trace was ripped from my life?

“Please,” he says. And I know that I have no choice. I could
never deny him anything, even if I wanted to.

“God help me,” I mutter, and slowly pull open the door.

He stands before me, daffodils outstretched. The cautious
hope in his eyes is enough to shatter me. His cozy flannel shirt and sinfully
well-fitted black jeans look just slightly rumpled, and less-than-subtle traces
of fatigue plague his features.

“Well don’t just stand there like an asshole,” I say,
stepping back, “Get in here.”

Trace steps across the threshold of my apartment as if
walking into the promise land. My eyes are fixed on him as my mind scrambles to
reconcile seeing him here, in my home. The collision of past and present is
overwhelming, and totally disorienting. I close the door behind him and cross
my arms tightly across my chest. Jesus, it would be nice to be a bit more
clothed for this unexpected reunion.

“Just, wait here...” I say, hurrying around him in a wide
circle.

He nods, looking as dazed as I feel. I rush into my bedroom
and throw on the first heavy layers that I can find. I refuse to deliberate
about what I throw on, even though my mind berates me for it. I can’t be
thinking about looking nice for Trace. That’s ridiculous. Clothed in boyfriend
jeans and a baggy knit sweater, I reemerge and make a beeline for the kitchen.

“You want coffee? Something to eat?” I ask, desperate for a
distraction.

“Coffee would be great,” he says, “I, uh, didn’t get much
sleep last night.

“How much is not much?” I ask, spooning some coffee into the
drip machine.

“Uh...Well. None,” he admits, sounding more than a little guilty.

“Why didn’t you sleep?” I ask, leaving the coffee to brew.

“That’s...not important,” he says with an overeager smile.
“Nadia, you, uh...you look amazing.”

Heat rises to my cheeks at his sudden compliment. “Oh. Um.
Thanks,” I say, “You too.”

“Liar,” he laughs, shoving a hand through his sandy blonde
hair. It’s shorter than the last time I saw it. I can’t even begin to fathom
how many changes, tiny and huge, have occurred in each of us since that
December night so many years ago.

“You can sit down, if you want,” I tell him.

“Thanks,” he says, sinking down onto my irresistibly comfy
couch, “Your apartment is incredible. I really can’t believe that you live
here.”

“You’d better believe it,” I say, “I pay enough for it every
month.”

“I’m sure,” he says, “But it’s probably not such a stretch
for a fancy lawyer like you.”

“How did you know...?”

“Front page, huh?” he smiles, that wickedness I
love—loved—about him shining through. “You must really be some kind of big shot
now, huh?”

“I’ve had some good luck,” I say.

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” Trace tells me, “You
were always freakin’ brilliant. I should have known, with all those mock trail
meetings and whatever. My money was on astronaut, to tell you the truth.
But...these are for you,” he says, holding out the flowers.

“Oh. Thanks,” I say, crossing the room. “I’ll...put them in
some—”

As I take the small bouquet out of Trace’s hands, his strong
fingers brush against mine. A surge of excitement runs up my arm, burning along
my nerves. Even after all this time, the smallest brush of his skin against
mine is enough to level me. Good god, this man is like a drug to me, even if
I’ve been clean for a decade.

“I’ll put them in some water,” I finish in a hurry. The look
in Trace’s eyes tells me that he’s exactly on my level. If I’m not careful,
this little rendezvous could escalate in no time flat. I carry the flowers into
my kitchen and arrange them in a thin porcelain vase. The smell of fresh coffee
hangs heavy in the air as I pour two generous mugs and carry them out into the
living room.

“I guess I don’t know how you take your coffee these days,”
I say, placing the mug down in front of him.

“Black is perfect,” he smiles.

I sit across the coffee table from him, perched on the edge
of my armchair. A weighted silence falls between us as we struggle to find
words for this most unconventional occasion. As the steam rises from our twin
mugs, the memories of all those early mornings we spent together at the
Daniels’ come rushing back.

Trace used to drag himself out of bed at the crack of dawn
just so we could have a couple extra hours of time together before shipping off
to school. Those mornings were always quiet, almost sacred. We didn’t need to
fill the air with words to feel like we were sharing something. I look up at
him now and see that words are still somewhat superfluous between us. We’ve
always been able to read each other like bold face print, and that hasn’t
changed. He’s more guarded than he was, to be sure, but that’s just a simple
matter of translation.

“Thank you for letting me in,” he finally says, breaking the
silence. “I know that this is...”

“Strange,” I say, “Unexpected. Bizarre.”

“Yes.”

“Trace,” I say, “I don’t want to sound rude, but...How did
you find me?”

“I was in the neighborhood?”

“Trace.”

“Fine,” he says, “Actually, it was Garrick who helped me.”

“Garrick?” I ask, surprised, “You guys are still...?”

“Oh yeah,” Trace says, “We’ve been sticking together since
we got...you know. Put away together.”

“Ah.”

“You’re not still in touch with Conway, are you?” Trace asks
hopefully.

“No,” I tell him, not without remorse. “No, I don’t know
where she is.”

“That’s too bad,” Trace says, “We could have had a reunion.”

I know that he’s joking, but a flash of anger flares up
behind my eyes all the same. “Right. A little reunion,” I say harshly, “Just
picking up right where we left off, as if nothing’s happened. As if everything
is hunky dory.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Just because I’m giving you a cup of coffee and a minute of
my time, doesn’t mean things go back to the way they were when we were
seventeen,” I tell him, “I have an entire life now, all my own. I can’t just
drop everything and reorient—”

“I have my own life too, thanks,” Trace says shortly, “It
may not be as impressive as this, but I’m not looking to toss it all—”

“Then what?” I demand. No use beating around the bush. “What
do you want, Trace? What are you doing here?”

“Can’t I...I just wanted...to see you,” he stammers, at a
loss.

I lean forward, fingers digging into my thighs. “It’s been
ten years, Trace,” I say quietly, “Ten years since I saw you last. Heard from
you last. I’m going to need something a little better than ‘I wanted to see
you’.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Nadia,” he says, his voice
tinged with barely-restrained remorse.

“Tell me why it’s taken you all this time to show up,” I
say, blinking back tears, “Why did you cut me out, abandon me to worry about
you without ever knowing if you were OK? Why didn’t you find me the minute you
got out of juvie, or write me letters, or—”

“Why didn’t you?” he shoots back. “Last I checked, I never
got any love notes from you when I was locked up. I never heard your voice on
the other end of the line. You can’t just pin ten years of silence on me,
Nadia. I wanted you to move on without me, after...I honestly thought you’d
never want to speak to me again, I didn’t want to hold you back.”

“What?” I say, breathless. “Why wouldn’t I want to speak to
you? I didn’t want to weigh you down with worrying about me while you were
getting through your trial. And doing your time. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Bother me? Nadia, that’s all I wanted, was to hear your
voice. See you on visitor’s day. But I figured...I’d already ruined your life.
Why drag it out?”

“That can’t really be what you think,” I say, my voice thick
with swallowed tears. “Trace...you saved my life. You saved me from that
fucking prick...I owe you everything. I wanted to tell you. I thought you hated
me for being the reason you were in jail.”

“Well...” Trace says, his eyes softening, “I guess we’ve got
a few things to clear up?”

“I thought I heard a man’s voice out here,” says a voice
over my shoulder. I pick myself up in a hurry and turn to see Carly leaning
against her bedroom doorway. A silky vintage slip is all that covers those
perfect curves of hers. As ridiculous as it is, I have the urge to cover
Trace’s eyes, lest he feast them on my roommate.