Page 59 of You Fall First

“Yes.”

She shrugs. “I thought I was making breakfast conversation.”

My dad barges back in from the garage. “Found it!” He holds the tub of cream cheese up like evidence of his triumph.

“Well, I’d better go, then,” I say, eager to escape whatever path my mom’s line of questioning is leading me down. Intentionally or unintentionally.

“Hold on.” She slides out of her chair. “I’ll get that picnic basket for you.”

“Never mind,” I blurt. “I’m already late.”

I spend the ten-minute drive to Noah’s replaying the conversation with my mother. Was she suggesting there might be something more going on between Noah and me? Or that Dex might have an opinion about that? Not that I need my brother’s permission to care about the human beings in my orbit. And that’s all this is.

Me caring about Dutton and Paige.

By the time I turn onto Noah’s tree-lined street, I’m feeling better about our arrangement.

This is just a short-term favor with an expiration date. As long as I’m between employment opportunities, why wouldn’t I agree to take care of a cute little boy whose mom is a thousand miles away?

I won’t get emotionally involved.

Duh.

Newly resolved, I park under the maple tree in front of Noah’s Craftsman. As I climb from the car, the front door flies open, and Dutton scampers from the house. He’s in pajamas, hopping barefoot down the stone path leading to the sidewalk. Noah appears in the doorway, his focus trained on his nephew.

“Miss Jo,” Dutton squeals as he catapults into my legs. “We’ve been waiting forever!”

“Well, I’m here now,” I say, a bit breathless. “Are you hungry?”

“No!” he hollers.

I let out a soft chuckle, and we trudge toward the house with Dutton clinging to me like a howler monkey. At the doorway, I make the mistake of lifting my gaze to Noah’s. His dark eyes lock on mine, and all the air drains from my lungs. Then my heart starts leaping around in that space where … where … where my lungs are. And my ribs. I can’t even remember the word for that space because Noah’s wearing those navy scrubs again, and his hair’s swooping over his forehead and …

My chest. That’s the word.

My chest is an explosion of lungs and hearts and ribs.

Oh.

Oh, no.

I am in so much trouble.

“Hey there, Just Jo.” Noah’s greeting is deep and strong, like he’s having zero difficulty breathing around me. “Thanks again for coming.”

“Of course,” I manage.

He steps backward into the house, inviting me in. “You sleep okay?”

I don’t know? Did I? What even is sleep?

“Yes, sure. Of course,” I stammer.

“Glad at least one of us did,” he says. “I’m working on about three hours, myself.”

I grimace. “Did Dutton get you up?”

“Nah.” Noah shifts his weight. “I was restless. Did a lot of tossing and turning.”