Afraid to Fall Read online

  Afraid to Fall

  Tia Souders

  Published by Cherry Valley Press, 2019.

  While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

  AFRAID TO FALL

  First edition. October 3, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Tia Souders.

  Written by Tia Souders.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  MARTI

  MARTI WANTED TO STAB herself in the eye with a fork. Seriously. Rusty, blunt, and covered in food—it didn’t matter. Fork. In. Eye. Anything to get her out of this date.

  She fought the yawn tickling the back of her throat. She needed something, anything to distract her from the dull man in front of her.

  Okay, maybe that was a little unfair. Somewhere out there, the perfect woman waited for Tim from—where did he work again? Lee and Lewis accounting? Something like that. Never mind. His employer was hardly relevant. The point was that poor Tim met the wrong girl tonight. Somewhere out there a librarian or maybe a preschool teacher sat at home, prepping some kind of craft for her kids on Monday. She was the kind of girl Tim needed. They’d be perfect for each other. They’d date for a year, get engaged and marry in a big church surrounded by all their family, riding off into the proverbial sunset. Matching PJ’s would totally be their thing, as well as those cheesy holiday photo cards. All they’d need is to buy a golden retriever and name him Max, build a white picket fence around their dream home, and they’d be set.

  Unfortunately, for both of them—although more her than him—Tim from accounting wasn’t on a date with the preschool teacher. He was on a date with Marti McBride—The Queen of Single.

  Marti’s gaze flickered over him. She supposed he wasn’t so bad, really. He had dirty blond hair and chocolate eyes. But the way he periodically smoothed a hand over the top of his perfectly gelled quaff annoyed her. She wanted to rip his hand off and shave his head. Not even gale force winds stood a chance against his mop. He could, literally, be trapped in the eye of a hurricane and his whole head would come out unscathed.

  And his hands . . . Don’t even get her started on his hands. Had the man ever done any manual labor? There wasn’t a single callus. Not one scar. Nope. It was all velvety, peaches and cream as far as the eye could see. To top it all off, Marti was pretty sure he got regular manicures.

  She glanced down to her own crappy nails. Only nubs remained after chewing them to the quick during the first five minutes of their mind-numbing interaction. No doubt, his nails were in better shape than hers, and his skin looked smoother than a baby’s bottom.

  Forget the nails, or his skin, or the preschool teacher. This guy screamed metrosexual. He was high maintenance to the core. Maybe a big-busted blonde named Bambi was a better fit. They could get doubles mani-pedis on the weekends. And as they aged, they could get his and her plastic surgery.

  Oh, my gosh. He needed someone like Marti’s boss. Maybe she could set them up. . .

  Marti grimaced at the thought.

  She needed to focus on the problem at hand. She couldn’t date a man who needed more time primping in the bathroom than her.

  Okay, truth be told, she didn’t really want to date anyone. In theory, she liked a man’s-man, but in all actuality, she liked being left alone even more. She didn’t write one of the most popular digital columns in the country—Single in the City—for nothing.

  So why did her boss think she suddenly needed a boyfriend?

  Marti had no clue. All she knew was she received a text-bomb that morning informing her she needed to consider a boyfriend. And by consider, her boss—Blue—meant she needed one ASAP.

  That was it. No explanation. Nothing.

  But as she sat in front of Tim, she quickly decided she’d rather live in the shadiest back alley in New York City than even fake a relationship with him—and that was saying something.

  Regardless, at least she’d glean enough material from this short interaction for an article or two. Maybe she’d title one of them, You know it’s time to run when your date has better nails than you do.

  “So....” Tim shifted in his chair. Marti could practically see the wheels spinning in his head as he tried to come up with some form of conversation that would pique her interest.

  Little did he know, there was none.

  She should probably help him breach the awkward silence, but she couldn’t muster the energy. Maybe if she allowed the conversation to die altogether, he’d leave and spare them both the misery.

  Fat chance.

  He launched into discussing his work while she tried to catch the bartender’s eye. Cameron had worked at The Pub, her favorite hole in the wall, for three years and had saved Marti from a terrible date a time or two. Okay, maybe more than one or two. But who’s counting?

  She casually moved her hand to the side of her head and tried to send him the signal, but when Tim’s eyes zeroed in on her, she smoothed the hand in question over her hair.

  Turning her attention back to Tim, she reassessed the situation. He doesn’t have a bad mouth, she mused. Her eyes flicked over his face, trying to feel some sort of spark, a jolt of attraction. Anything.

  Is that. . . Is he wearing concealer?

  She squinted, examining the delicate area around his eyes like a specimen in a petri dish under a microscope.

  Tim chuckled at his own joke, some nerdy math humor, to which Marti forced a laugh, much too late and much too loud. When he raised a brow at her deranged cackle and poor timing, her laughter ceased. If she were a better person, she might feel bad.

  “Um, I’m going to use the restroom. If you’ll excuse me.” Tim stood and made his way toward the corner of the pub, leaving Marti to wonder for one brief, blessed moment, if her neurotic laughter was enough to scare him off.

  With any luck, he’d sneak out the back, but she wasn’t taking any chances. The second he disappeared into the restroom, she whipped around on her stool and hissed, “Cameron. Cam!”

  He ignored her while he flirted with a large-chested blonde.

  Grumbling, Marti searched her surroundings for a way to get his attention. Balling up her napkin, she threw it toward him, but it fell short. Desperate, she reached into Tim’s rum and Coke and pulled out an ice cube. Saying a prayer for good aim, she whipped it in Cameron’s direction and nearly cheered when she nailed him right between the eyes.

  Holding up a finger to the blonde, he turned around, eyes wide, clearly shouting a silent what the heck?

  Marti traced an SOS in the air with her finger, then motioned to the empty seat next to her and waived him over. By no
w, he was used to her antics, and as he approached, she sighed with relief. “Cam, I need your help.”

  Cameron threw his bar towel over his shoulder and crossed his arms. If Marti didn’t know better, she’d think he was super hot, with his lean arms and sandy locks that would even make Legends of the Fall, Brad Pitt jealous. But she definitely knew better. He was good to her, but a player nonetheless.

  “Let me guess. It’s not working out with Prince Charming over here?” he said, the corner of his lips quirking.

  “What do you think?” Marti hissed. “He’s wearing more hair product than I am. And I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure he may have perfected the art on concealer coverage. Even I can’t hide my under-eye circles that well. . .” She bit her lip and glanced back at the bathroom. “I wonder what brand he uses?”

  Cameron cleared his throat.

  “Anyway, I need help. Bad.”

  Cameron rolled his eyes. “You should put me on payroll. Or better yet, maybe I should just start a tab for you.” He tapped a finger over his lips, his face a mask of serious contemplation. “I need to figure out my rates. Also, I need a name for this service. The Switch and Ditch? No, no. Although it does have a nice ring to it.”

  She glared at him. “Har-har. You’re Hilarious.”

  “Hmm . . . pirate-speak looks sexy on you.”

  “Gah! He’s coming back any minute. Will you do it or not?”

  “For The Queen of Single? Anything. I’ve got this. You just relax. Go hide, and I’ll break the poor schmuck’s heart.”

  She jumped up and reached across the bar, squeezing his arm. “Thanks, Cam!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered to her back, as she scurried off to the bathroom. “I better see a big tip.”

  “You will.” Marti opened the door to the ladies’ room and she sighed with relief.

  She locked the door behind her and pressed her ear against the smooth, hard surface. A minute later, she could just barely make out Tim’s voice as he spoke to Cameron.

  Her heels clicked over the ugly tile as the minutes passed. There she was, pacing a bathroom stall while Cameron dumped yet another one of her dates, all in the name of journalism. My, how the mighty have fallen!

  A moment later, she unlocked the bathroom door and peeked out. Cameron noticed and waved her over. “Coast is clear, chicken. I told him your pregnant friend was having labor pains and needed you.”

  She sauntered past her table, snagging Tim’s full cocktail and headed to the bar. “Pregnant friend? I don’t even have a pregnant friend.”

  Cameron shot her a look of disapproval as he served another patron a beer, then turned back to shamelessly flirting with the blonde.

  Marti grunted, then muttered, “Hey, don’t judge,” to his half-turned back.

  It’s not like she wanted to go on terrible dates and ditch them in the bathroom, but she needed fodder for her column. And crappy or not, dating losers gave her some pretty good material.

  Only now, her boss wanted her to find something more permanent. She grimaced at the thought.

  Sighing, she glanced at the time on her phone.

  Ugh. At only 9 p.m. on a Saturday, she was already bored, and her two best friends were busy. Caroline was on a date herself, and Mel was doing what she always did on a Friday night—wrangling her triplets.

  No, she did not stutter. She didn’t have a brain fart, either. Mel actually had triplets—as in three babies born in succession from the same vajeen.

  Talk about a deathblow to your social life.

  Resolving herself to people watching, she swirled Time’s drink, then took a sip. Not bad.

  To her right, someone clapped loud enough to get her attention.

  Turning, she found the source of the sound. A man sitting a few feet down from her applauded. Laughter danced in his bright green eyes. Long legs stretched to standing before Mr. Green Eyes closed the distance between them. Towering over her, he said, “That was smooth.”

  Marti swallowed and shook off a chill from the icy liquid. Or maybe it was the deep baritone of the man’s voice. Either way, his slow-spreading smirk was killer.

  She nodded to the empty barstool on her right. “Have a seat.”

  Something told her this guy would provide some much needed entertainment.

  “Logan,” he said, with an outstretched hand.

  “Marti.” She took his hand, noting the solid feel of it. The way his firm grip turned her stomach to knots. Already he was doing better than Tiny Tim.

  Although she had always been a poor judge of age, he looked older than her twenty-five years. His thick, dark hair framed chiseled cheekbones and a square jaw with neatly trimmed facial hair, more a thick stubble than beard. He wore a faded blue t-shirt and jeans with a black leather jacket, and when she inhaled, she caught the scent of cedar and spice.

  “That was classic,” he said before she could speak. “I mean, I’ve heard of the whole there’s an emergency, so I have to go routine, but never quite so dramatic. Labor pains?” He raised a brow.

  “It’s not that outrageous.”

  “Wasn’t it a little cowardly to have someone else dump him?”

  Marti nearly choked on the rum and Coke. “Cowardly? I’ll have you know I can dump a guy perfectly fine on my own.” She actually had tons of experience with this very thing. Just ask the string of guys she’d dated over the years, all for the sake of a story. “I just . . . prefer to avoid confrontation, that’s all. Besides, dump is a strong word for a man I only spent forty-five minutes with.”

  His lips twitched. “Uh-huh, sure.”

  “I’ve turned down enough guys to know that had I waited for him to reappear from the bathroom—where he was no doubt obsessively checking his hair, by the way—he would’ve insisted on walking me home, or calling an Uber. There’s no way I would’ve gotten out of here without enduring another ten minutes alone with him, followed by a possible attempt at a kiss. And besides, he knows who I am, so he shouldn’t be surprised.”

  He cocked his head. “And who are you, exactly?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know . . .”

  If he didn’t recognize her, why should she tell him?

  He tssked, spiking her irritation. “I don’t do hard to get.”

  “And I don’t do men in bars with smart mouths and quick comebacks. Especially ones who eavesdrop.” She arched a brow while clenching her drink. “And it’s funny, I don’t remember asking you to come over for a chat.”

  “No, but you did tell me to take a seat.”

  She hated that he had a point.

  Sliding a hand through his unruly hair and away from his face, he stared at her like he was trying to figure her out. She wished he’d stop.

  “If these guys you’re dating are such losers, maybe you need to choose more wisely. Or why bother in the first place?”

  Marti rattled her drink, glancing away from him. “Let’s just say it’s an occupational hazard.”

  “Wait . . .” His gaze flickered down her body, then back up again. “Are you an escort?”

  “Are you serious?” Marti snorted. She wasn’t sure if she was more insulted that he might think she was anything resembling a prostitute or that he hadn’t recognized her. It wasn’t like everyone in New York knew who she was. It was a big city, and she didn’t have that instant recognition that actors had. But still . . .

  The corners of his mouth quirked. “My bad, but you’re not giving me much to go on here.”

  “Listen, finding a date isn’t my problem.” Marti finished her drink, then slid the glass across the bar. Catching Cameron’s eye, she nodded to the empty glass. “Can I get a seltzer and cranberry?”

  Cameron winked then returned with her soda and set it in front of her, before flicking his gaze to Logan and back again. “You’re on your own with this one.”

  “I got him covered,” she said.

  Logan rolled his eyes, which only made her laugh.

  “If finding a man isn’t the
problem, then what is?”

  “For a random stranger at a bar, you’re awfully nosy. Are you in the habit of questioning strange women about their dating habits?”

  “I don’t know. Are you strange?”

  “Ha-ha.” Marti fought her grin but failed. “You know what I mean.”

  “Call me curious.”

  She trailed her finger across the rim of her glass, examining him, wondering if his hair would feel as thick as it looked running her hands through it. “You know what they say,” she paused and grinned, “curiosity killed the cat.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  LOGAN

  HE LIKED WOMEN THAT could hold a conversation. And the woman in front of him was a spitfire with her auburn hair and bright blue eyes. She was independent, opinionated, and funny. Most of all, she had an energy about her that drew him in, and on a night where he needed to take the edge off, her company was a relief.

  He had come to the pub for a quick beer on his way back to his apartment in an effort to shake off an encounter with his Ex, Allison. It was nearing that time of year again, and like clockwork, she was gearing up to ask him for more money. It was the same old routine, one that made him wonder why she bothered at all and didn’t just come right out with it and ask. Regardless, he danced around her like he always did, waiting.

  To say he was in a crap mood was an understatement. But he hadn’t bargained for Marti—hadn’t expected to feel such a magnetic pull toward a woman who was clearly unafraid of bailing on her date for seemingly superficial reasons. But besides being beautiful, the charade with her and the bartender made him laugh. And that was saying something.

  He stared at her, letting his gaze linger over the auburn waves of her hair, spilling down her back, and her striking blue eyes. She was funny and opinionated and a good distraction. Maybe that was precisely what he needed.

  “The truth is, I go on all kinds of dates, some of them wild, some boring, or even crazy, and then I write about them.”

  He frowned. “You write about them?”