Page 23 of Fall Over You

A beat of nostalgia hits hard and fast from my own childhood: my mamaw doing anything to get us to eat something remotely healthy. I’d have lived on Taco Bell and hashbrowns if she’d have let me. Now that I dabble in growing my own food, my tastes have grown up a bit. I poke through the fridge, looking for something to jazz up the eggs in a basket. “You like ‘em with a sprinkle of cheese on top?”

“And hot sauce,” she says confidently.

“Woo, doggie, you like it hot!”

She laughs at that. “Where’s your doggie?”

My heart pangs when I think of T-Bone. I left her in her room with the doggie door, but I hadn’t really planned to leave her alone all night. Well, part of me hoped to, but not for the sake of leaving her. I wanted some adult company, and I don’t make a habit of bringing somebody back to the farm unless I know them real well. People know where I live and what I do, but I don’t want to invite anybody who might think they deserve more and start using my land for nefarious things. “She’s back at my house. I’ll go home and play with her here soon. What’s your plan for today?”

“I have school and then I’ll be at the shop.”

I busy my hands with spreading a pat of butter around the heating pan. “Is that what most of your days are like?”

“Yep!” She acts like it’s a normal daycare arrangement. I’ve heard plenty from my brother about how childcare costs about twelve times what you’d hope it would. There are state vouchers and stuff, but who knows if Tyler would apply for something like that. Knowing him, he’d be too stubborn and proud.

“Ellie?” Tyler comes rushing into the room, letting out a big sigh with his hand on his chest. “Thank goodness.”

“We’re okay out here, Dad,” I assure him. “You sleep good?”

“I just . . . I smelled food and was afraid Ellie was burning something.”

I chuckle. “I’m trying not to burn anything.”

“She’s making me eggs in a basket!” Ellie proclaims.

Tyler’s jaw tightens. “Miss Becca doesn’t need to make you anything. I’m up now, Reba. You can go.”

Something about the combination of the nickname and his sleep-rumpled state stirs me up. He looks cozy in a t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair sticking up at all angles. He runs a hand through it.

“I don’t mind staying. I can put another egg basket on if you want.”

It’s been so long since I’ve seen him in anything other than his mechanic coveralls, and I take a moment to appreciate how his clothes cling to his muscles. I’m particularly enamored by those biceps peeking from his shirt sleeves. Last night, they bulged in my face while I was trying to get out of here. But he insisted I stay, and here I am. My eyes fall to the column of his throat, where he swallows. I remember a different time when I saw his neck so strongly, his head thrown back while CJ rode him.

But then his eyes came back to me. Right at the critical moment, when a man loses himself completely, Tyler’s eyes were on me. The same butterflies that hit me then take flight again, because those dark eyes burn at me still.

He clears his throat. “I got it, Reba.”

A chill zips up my arms and I hope he can’t see the goosebumps on my skin. I keep my back to my hosts and start to work on the dishes in the sink.

“Don’t mess with those.” Tyler is at my side, his breath ghosting down the side of my neck. This does nothing to cure my goosebumps. “The dishwasher part’s supposed to come today.”

“It’s no trouble,” I say, all the strangeness of this situation catching up to me. “Helps me to have something to do with my hands.” Why did I have to go and say all that? He’s seen me do stuff with my hands. “Because I’m hyper,” I add. “Helps me to stay moving.”

I’m not just making shit up. Standing still makes me want to crawl out of my damn skin. That’s why the farm suits me: always something to do, something to think about, some way to keep up with the breakneck pace of my mind.

I’m antsy now, a foreign longing pulsing through me. What if this was my life? My everyday routine. Ellie at the counter, Tyler next to me at the stove. In the fantasy, his lips would deliver a soft nibble to my neck when Ellie isn’t looking, his hand running appreciatively over my ass before he gives me a pat. What would he rumble in my ear?

Mornin’, Reba.

None of that is happening, and I get the stark reminder when Tyler picks up our conversation.

“I get that,” Tyler says. “They always tried to give me pills for that kind of thing, but I don’t like how I feel on ‘em.”

“Me neither,” I agree. “Rather just chug a couple Red Bulls. They taste better anyway.”

I put the dishes in the drying rack and use the spatula to get the eggs and toast out of the pan.

“Order up,” I joke, sliding the plates in front of Ellie and Tyler.