Page 42 of Fall Love

“I’ll be . . .” I hitch my thumb toward her couch.

She nods, and I watch her slip into her room, slowly closing the door and watching me through the crack until we can’t see each other anymore.

While I reach for my phone, I’m too amped up to respond intelligently to emails. Instead, I set about cleaning up her kitchen and checking on ingredients to make a fresh crust.

I don’t consider myself a baker, but I can follow a recipe after years of standing in my grandmother’s kitchen. She’d put my cousins and me to work. Rolling dough. Cutting cookies.

I smile, recalling fond memories I haven’t recalled in years.

After checking on Neve, letting her continue to sleep although it’s been more than fifteen minutes, I pop out the side door near her kitchen.

A low deck runs the short length of the back of the house, and overgrown shrubbery blocks what is definitely a scenic view on the other side. I can hear the soft clap of the ocean from here. Stepping through the hedge, I take a worn path leading to the edge of a bluff. Between this property and the next, a long set of stairs leads down to the beach.

When Fisk told me the old schoolhouse location was Neve’s home, I couldn’t believe that she had been practically under my nose all this time. All these years. And yet, I’d still missed her.

She sat on a nice chunk of property. One that sold for a steal, but I wasn’t thinking about the value of her land right now. I was worried about what she’d said earlier. She hoped to work for Bucky Beaver Body Shop.

I’m so fucked.

And it’s not that I don’t want her to continue working, albeit around dangerous fumes and heavy equipment. It’s just that I hadn’t thought about the other side of this deal. I hadn’t known Neve was involved, which shouldn’t change anything, and yet it changes everything.

Lumi called me yesterday afternoon. She’d told me they’d have an answer for me by Friday.

With a heavy heart, I stand on the edge of that bluff, staring out at the ocean as the wind whips around me. Closing my eyes, inhaling the salty air does nothing to make me feel better, like it once did when I was a kid. When I couldn’t wait for summer, and Lovewell Landing, and time spent here, breathing in this air.

Neve is going to hate me when this deal goes through.

By the time an hour has passed, I do need the bathroom, and I return to the house and cautiously open the door to Neve’s bedroom.

She’s on her side, a body pillow tucked between her legs. Her arms wrapped around the soft material like she’s clinging to a lover.

I take a hesitant step forward, like I’m testing the hardwood floor for sound. As I glance around the tight space which holds nothing more than a queen-size bed, a long, low dresser, and one slim nightstand, my gaze catches on a box propped against the wall. The size and shape suggest it’s an unassembled crib.

Something inside me cracks. Neve is weeks from having a baby and she doesn’t even have the crib put together. There’s no evidence of an infant car seat, highchair, or any other baby apparatus she might need, like bottles and formula. It didn’t take long to go through her cabinets, and it wasn’t like I was snooping. Her kitchen isn’t large. Her living room is only double the size of the kitchen, and the space is wide open.

With concern filling my chest, I use her bathroom, then curse when the toilet flushes. The noise sounds too loud amid the quiet.

Hesitantly, I exit the bathroom. Neve has rolled on the bed and stares at me.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I didn’t mean to sleep so long.” She pauses. Her eyes sleepy. She looks sweet like this, nap-cozy and rested. “I thought you left.”

“Just stepped outside. How are you feeling?”

“Groggy,” she admits, her rough voice matches the word. “And hungry.” Slowly, she presses herself upright. Her hair is mashed on one side of her head. The pins push it upward on the other side.

She’s adorable, but not like a bunny. Definitely not a beaver either. Just . . . Neve.

“I could make you something. Or we could go out.” I’d be disappointed to let the pie-making pass, but as long as we keep hanging out together, I don’t care what we do.

“My sister brought me baked ziti earlier. I could bake that for us,” she says.

Us. Hell, yes.

“I could eat baked ziti.” I shrug like it isn’t suddenly my favorite food.

She shifts again, scooting to the end of the bed, and I struggle to hold myself back from helping her, from crowding her.