Falling: Chapter 19

With my shitty timing and my even shittier luck, it seems as if I’ve managed to will my worries into existence. In the short time we’ve been in here, there has been this one guy with his eyes on Wren the entire time.

He’s dressed like all the other men in this place except he’s one of the few who look our age. Even when we’re sitting, my hands tight around her waist and her head nestled in my shoulder, he still doesn’t stop trying to fuck her with his eyes.

Not that she notices.

It turns out these things are pretty boring when you can’t drink. All the people around us are drunk, laughing loudly, and finding everything funny after the auction went down. Wren and I are eating pistachios out of a bowl, waiting for something to happen.

“Is this what it’s usually like?” I ask.

She sighs, slouching back in her chair. “Pretty much. It was better when the girls would come. It was more of an excuse for us to dress up, and we’d make up stupid games to pass the time.

”

I tilt my head at her. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Just people watching, making up lives for strangers that we see. That sort of stuff. Wanna play?”

I’ll do just about anything to pass the time at this point. “Show me how it’s done, baby.”

“Okay. You see that guy over there?” she asks, her gaze setting on a group of men, but one guy in pants and a button-down stands out as he’s the only one without a blazer. I nod. “Middle class. Divorced his wife because she watched a movie he introduced her to without him. He likes it soft and timid in bed, but she was an animal. He couldn’t admit it to his buddies so he lied and said she was the one who couldn’t take his sword of thunder.”

I roar out a laugh at the randomness, and she does too, smiling at me. “Your brain is brilliant.”

“Why, thank you,” she mimics, flicking her hair over her shoulder. She nudges me in the arm. “Now, your turn.”

“Okay… The guy next to your guy. He lives a very happy life. Wife, kids, the whole shebang. But he has a secret. He probably has a porn collection or something from the way he’s fidgetin g like that.”

“Or he’s a murderer,” Wren whispers.

I turn to her. “I know you revealed your true identity to me, Miss Amelia Wren Hackerly, but if you really are a murderer, please just put me out of my misery.”

She sighs. “Do you always assume the worst in people or is it just me?”

“Just you,” I say, smiling.

She flips me off before turning back to the crowd. “Okay, that woman over there with the pixie cut definitely has twins. I can just tell from the lines on her face. They give her hell, but she loves them. She has an older son, though, who looks like Schmidt from New Girl, and he is for sure robbing her without her knowing. But she’d let him get away with it. Freud and all that.”

“How am I supposed to beat that?” I ask, gaping at her. She smiles smugly. I scan the room for somebody, and then my eyes connect with the creep who has been staring at her all night. “That guy, our age, he’s obsessed with you.”

“What?” Wren chokes out.

“I’m being serious. He’s been eye fucking you all night.”

“Now you’re really not understanding the game,” she mutters, shaking her head.

“I’m telling the truth,” I argue, turning to her. Her green eyes narrow at me. “He can tell we’re together, and he’s not stopped looking at you. It’s like he’s begging me to strangle him.”

“Jealousy looks good on you, Davis,” she murmurs before she turns away from me, leaving us in another round of silence.

Wren’s dad arrives a little later, and it’s clear that she adores him.

“Dad!” Wren shouts, pulling my attention away from the pile of pistachio dust we’ve created. She jumps out of her seat, and he pulls her into a hug. He’s wearing a dark-blue suit and white shirt, and he’s not that much taller than me when I stand too. When she pulls out the hug, she turns to me with the biggest smile I’ve seen on her face. “This is Miles Davis. My boyfriend.”

Boyfriend.

I don’t fight the smile that splits across my face, filled with pride. Being called Wren’s boyfriend, fake or not, might be the peak of my existence. I stretch out my hand for him to shake it, but he pulls me into a tight hug instead.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Berger,” I muffle. He presses me into him further, and my face is squished against his chest.

I widen my eyes, looking at Wren for help, but she just laughs.

“The pleasure is all mine, son.” He pats me on the back hard when we pull apart. “My last name sounds stupid, doesn’t it? No wonder her mom didn’t want anything to do with it.”

“Dad,” Wren scolds, and he just laughs, shaking his head. I wonder what is up with everyone in this family changing their names. Wren stands at his side, with a smile, giving me a double thumbs-up and a wink. That went a lot smoother than I thought it would.

He sits down across from us, his deep-brown eyes flickering between the two of us as Wren moves her chair closer to mine, our arms brushing, and our thighs pressed together. There’s something so comforting about her contact, about the way she naturally gets closer to me.

“So, what do you do at NU, Miles?” he asks, folding and unfolding his hands at the table. I’m doing the same because I have no idea what to do with them.

“I play hockey. I’m benched for most of the season, but I’m getting back out there soon,” I reply with a shrug. Wren’s hand covers mine, and the tension slowly eases its way out of my body.

“That’s good to hear. I used to play back in my day, but I wasn’t any good,” he replies with a vague waft of his hand in the air.

“I’ve seen the videos, Dad. You were insanely good,” Wren challenges.

“Ah, I guess so,” he replies, shrugging shyly. “How are you finding your second year at NU? The sports department is apparently one of the best in the country, so Wren tells me.”

“It’s going really well. It’s better than the first year, but the classes are getting harder,” I admit. If I could play hockey all day, I would. Having to go to classes and pretend like I know what they’re talking about sucks .

Wren’s dad nods. “This one over here thinks her classes are too easy.” He nods over to Wren, and she rolls her eyes. He turns back to me and smiles. He’s got one of those genuine smiles. Not ones you give to people when you’d rather not talk to them. It’s nice and comforting, and I wish my dad would have smiled at me like that. “Hey, would you fancy having a few rounds on the ice sometime? You can help me get back into shape, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, that would be cool,” I say, trying to hide both my discomfort and my excitement.

“Just let me know when you’re available,” he says, and I nod.

When her dad is gone to talk to more people, I start to notice how comfortable she is around him in this environment. She doesn’t tense or freeze up when she’s talking to him. She talks animatedly with her hands, expressing her excitement in a childlike way. I fucking love this look on her.

She doesn’t need to be anyone other than Wren. Not Wren the Future Olympian. Just her. The person I can see myself liking more and more each day. The person whose whole face lights up like sunlight as she talks about the things she loves with her dad.

When she leaves to go to the bathroom while I get us drinks from the bar, her dad stands beside me. He studies me for a minute, and I clear my throat, doing my best to seem okay with his kind of attention.

“Are you making her happy?” he asks, his eyes narrowing.

I nod. “I’m trying to.”

“Every day?”

“Every day.”

He nods at me and pats me on the shoulder. “Good man,” he says, winking at me before disappearing again.

I didn’t realize how big the world of hoteliers was until tonight. It looks like people from up and down the country come to these events.

It reminds me a lot of my family and how loud and chaotic we are . Birthdays in the Davis family are wild. Thoughts and feelings are always at full volume. They look a lot like this but with more drinking, cheesy music, and more burned food.

“So, Mr. Berger, I have a very important question to ask,” I begin when her dad returns to the table. We’ve been engaging in small talk about hockey and classes for a while, and it’s about time I make it more interesting. Wren must know exactly what I’m up to because she glares at me.

He finishes his Scotch and looks at me. “Please, call me David. I can’t even stand the sound of that name anymore,” he pleads, waving his hand around. Wren laughs a little, still glaring at me. Honestly, it’s a little creepy.

“What do you think about cheese? Just in general. Like? Dislike?” I ask, feigning curiosity. Wren elbows me in the ribs, and I smirk at her. “Oh, or loathe, as your daughter likes to say.”

David laughs. “You know what, Miles? I cannot stand cream cheese. Everyone thinks⁠—”

“Miles hates cream cheese, too,” Wren says. She blinks up at me, her eyes silently screaming at me. “Don’t you, Milesy?”

“Yep, sure do,” I bite out, turning back to Wren’s dad, leaning on the table. “Now, tell me, David, what is it exactly that⁠—”

“Dad!” Wren basically shouts. She must really not want her dad to talk about cream cheese. “Why don’t you tell Miles about how you almost made it pro?”

“You’re too kind, Wrenny. I was nowhere near making it pro,” he replies, shaking his head.

I almost choke on air as I spit out, “Kind? I’m sorry to tell you this, sir, but your daughter is everything but kind.”

Wren glares at me as her dad laughs. “I am kind. People are always delighted to meet me.”

“Delighted? No. Frightened, maybe.” I shrug, hiding my smirk. She pokes me in my ribs and returns her attention back to her dad, asking him about his hockey career again .

Of course, Wren gets what she wants, and her dad forgets about the cream cheese debacle and tells me all about his days as a young athlete in nearly every sport.

I laugh at his terrible jokes and ask him follow-up questions, and I play my part as the doting boyfriend. Wren eats up every second of it, smiling at me like she wants to hug me and kill me at the same time.

He disappears again, speaking to some reporters.

“So, what do you think of my dad?” Wren asks, her head resting in her hand on the table. She looks at me with dreamy eyes, and I can tell she’s exhausted.

“He’s nice. Kind. Very different to your mom,” I admit.

“Yeah, she can be pretty intense,” she replies. “It’s nice to have a balance.”

“I can see where you get both sides of your personality from. You’re brutal, but you’re a little softie on the inside,” I coo, scrunching my nose up at her. She rolls her eyes before smothering her smile in her hand, trying to hide it. “See?”

We melt into my favorite kind of conversation: the one where we get to learn more about each other. She talks more about her sister and what a good cook she is. She over-explains her dynamic with Kennedy and Scarlett, telling me what their sun, moon, and risings are. Whatever the fuck that means.

In return, I tell her about me and Carter as kids and how we created our own annual Olympic tournament called the Reyes-Davis Games. I avoid talking about my parents and tell her about how I peed myself at my first hockey game as a kid. She listens intently, slowly leaning into me as I speak.

Until the dark-haired boy comes into my view again.

I give him, what I hope to be, a look to back away, but he stalks closer, his face twisting into an evil grin. He’s just seconds away from our table, his eyes completely focused on Wren’s exposed back.

I hook my finger into her chair and pull her closer into me, our le gs intertwined. She yelps as I interrupt her rant on what my zodiac sign means about me. I place my hand on the exposed skin on her shoulder, and she looks at my hand and then back at me.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

My heart races.

Fuck it.

I grab her face between my hands, and I kiss her.

I can feel myself melting into him. His large hands slip around my neck, his fingers curling in my hair as he dips my head back, deepening the kiss. Our mouths move against each other in sync. Like we were made to do this for each other.

Miles Davis is kissing me, and I’m kissing him back.

I whimper softly when he slips his tongue into my mouth and his fingers tighten in my hair. My body feels like it’s on fire—like there’s light bursting out of my chest. I hold onto the lapels of his blazer and pull him into me until he can’t move any further.

The only thing I can focus on is how he feels against my mouth for the first time. It feels safe and exhilarating at the same time, and the longer we stay like this, the more real it feels. The more my hands itch to touch his skin. The more my nerves sing with pleasure when he swipes his tongue against mine.

He smiles against my mouth when I sigh, and I pull apart from him.

“What was that for?” I ask when I’m able to catch my breath. I’m panting, chest heaving like I’ve never been kissed before. He blinks back at me, his mouth parted.

“It was that guy. He was staring at you again, and he was about to come over here. I had to give him a reason not to. And would you look at that? He’s gone,” he rambles. I stare at him, and he sighs, dragging his hand down his face. “Sorry, I should have asked first.”

Heat rushes up my neck when he licks his lips.

“No. It’s okay,” I say. I push further away from him, clearing my throat. “Are you going to do that every time somebody looks at me?”

“If it takes kissing you to prove to everyone that you’re mine, then yes,” he mutters before looking away.

When we get back to our room, we’re both defeated from eating terrible food and laughing at my dad’s jokes that were so not funny they were funny. Miles carried our conversations with ease, flowing from each group of people to the next. He was a natural. At all of it. Pretending to like me, knowing the right way to make my dad laugh, knowing what kind of jokes to make to the hoteliers.

The second we reach the living room, I slip off my heels, letting the cool marble soothe the throbbing in my feet. I drop onto the couch, lying on my back, my head on the armrest. “Can you just chop off my feet?” I say, sighing.

Miles stands behind me on the other side of the couch, laughing. He’s taken off his blazer, and his bow tie is hanging loose around his neck.

“I don’t have my amputation equipment with me, but I can give you a massage,” he suggests, looking down at me. His brown hair drops a little in his eyes, and I’m fighting the urge to push it away. It should be illegal for anyone to look this good right now after such an exhausting day. Especially him.

“I’d die for a massage right now. I’m sure there’s a masseuse around here somewhere. I’ll find one in the morning before we leave,” I say .

“No, I mean, now. I can do it,” he responds, gesturing toward my feet.

Before I can protest, he’s sitting next to me, sweeping my feet into his hands on his lap. My feet immediately feel like butter under the touch of his rough and gentle fingers. I lean up on my elbows as I stare at him.

“Miles,” I get out, but my breath catches when his fingers run smoothly over the inside of my foot. “My feet are gross. You don’t have to do that.”

“I don’t mind,” he says, shrugging. His voice is hoarse when he adds, “And no part of you is gross, so stop saying that. You’re perfect, Wren.”

I slip in and out of a haze as his fingers work magic around my ankle and my sole, relieving more and more of the pain.

“When did you learn how to do this?”

“I taught myself. My feet would get so sore after practice sometimes, so I just googled stuff. You should learn, then I won’t have to do this for you all the time,” he says, laughing.

I wiggle out of his grip and nudge him in his stomach, but he grabs my foot again and continues rubbing small circles around the pad of my foot with both hands.

“Hey, I told you that you didn’t have to do this,” I argue.

“I know.”

“Then why are you doing it?” I ask.

He looks up at me, and his smile is deadly. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I like doing things for you. It’s like our whole thing.”

“But you don’t have to.”

“That’s exactly why I’m doing it, princess.”

I try not to let that comment get to me. The more nice things he does for me, the more it confuses me and the firm line I’ve put between me and anyone I’ve dated.

Silence washes over us, and I let myself fall into the rhythm of his hands working over me. His fingers are long and clean, and I can’t help but think how they’d look on other parts of my body. The way they felt in my hair and how he tugged it roughly when he kissed me has been the most action I’ve had in months. And the more time I spend with him, the more I want it to happen again even when I know I shouldn’t.

I tear my eyes away from his hands, staring up at the ceiling.

“I think I might take the whole beauty is pain thing too seriously,” I say after a while. “My mom always said that if it’s not hurting then it’s not working.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Miles whispers. I laugh, but he isn’t laughing when I look at him. He stares down at my feet, shaking his head. “Don’t you feel like you’re too hard on yourself? You work harder than most guys on my team and you don’t even play hockey.”

“Sometimes, I think I’m not tough enough on myself. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but skating is like the only thing I’m good at. It’s the one thing I can do. So, I might as well be really good while I’m at it,” I admit.

My stomach twists when the realization of saying this for the first time washes over me. I’ve always known that skating is my life, but saying it aloud makes it more final. Indefinite.

“Not that it matters what I think, but I think you’re plenty tough, Wren. A lot tougher than me,” he says. I look up at him, but he’s already looking at me, his brown eyes hooded and relaxed. “For whatever reason you feel like you need to prove yourself, I just want you to know that you don’t need to do that with me. I like you enough the way you are for the both of us.”

My heart practically doubles in size. “You’re not too bad yourself, Davis.”

He looks at me. Something dangerous in his eyes as our gazes burn. His eyes dip to my mouth for a second, and I exaggerate a sigh. “I think that’s me done for the sappy shit tonight. Come and help me with my dress.”

I get up from the couch, carrying my shoes with me to the bedroo m, where I find my sleeping shorts and tank top. I drop my shoes on the floor and walk into the gigantic bathroom, where I’m surrounded by mirrors and bright lights.

I take out my jewelry and place it into the boxes I brought with me and start to wipe off my makeup. I rinse and dry my face before taking my hair out of its clip and brushing it out, leaving it to fall to my shoulders.

Finally, I catch a glimpse of Miles in the doorway in gray sweatpants and a white tee.

Gray sweatpants.

Kill me now.

I clear my throat. “Can you zip this down for me?”

He walks toward me, his eyes locked with mine in the mirror. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him like this—relaxed, tried, and effortlessly sexy—but something else lingers when he comes up behind me. The proximity of him sends goosebumps up my arms rapidly, and I hate it.

I’m the one that’s in control with him.

I always have been.

But since the way he surprised me by kissing me tonight, I’ve never felt more out of control.

“Did you have a good time tonight?” he asks, his voice rough. He still hasn’t touched my zipper, and I’m about to tell him to get on with it. He slowly brings his hands around my hips, his fingers connecting at my stomach and then pulling back to rest on my hips. I close my eyes at the contact, the feeling so foreign and comforting. “Wren?”

My voice sounds hoarse and shaky when I say, “I just want to get out of this dress.”

He nods and pushes my hair to one side of my shoulder and starts to zip down my dress, painfully slowly. Like, so slow that I could run down from the thirtieth floor to the bottom at the same time it takes him to move it down a few inches.

He keeps one hand on the top of the zipper, his fingers grazin g my neck, making me shiver. His eyes are focused on zipping me down, but when he realizes there’s nothing underneath but bare skin, his breath hitches.

Even when he’s finally done, he still keeps his hands on me. I don’t tell him not to. There is something wildly comforting about his hands on my body. Something that feels just right, and I’m selfish enough to want to bathe in this feeling for a little longer.

I don’t move when he starts to bring one strap over my shoulder, his eyes locked with mine in the mirror. The first one falls, almost exposing my chest. I watch the heat rushing to my cheeks like a tidal wave. He brings his face to my neck, his breath ragged and desperate, his mouth barely touching my skin. My pulse quickens so much that I’m sure he can feel it under his mouth.

He moves his hand to the other strap.

“Miles, you should stop,” I whisper, my voice shaking.

“Why?” he murmurs into my skin as he bites onto my shoulder softly. My stomach somersaults. Every single nerve in my body focuses on that small spot on my shoulder, and my brain almost flatlines. “You smell so fucking good.”

“I know I do,” I get out, smiling at the image we’ve created in the mirror.

“Such a smart mouth.” His voice is all gravel and rough against my skin.

I laugh, but it turns into a sigh when he kisses my shoulder. “Someone has to put you in your place.”

“So you’re saying I should be lucky that it’s you, baby?”

“Something like that.” He chuckles, and the sound reverberates through my body, the pressure of his lips on my shoulder driving me wild. His hand trails down my side, brushing against the side of my breast before he grips my waist. “Miles, we can’t.”

“Just think about how good it would be,” he murmurs, still kissing my shoulder, “How good I could make you feel. How good i t would be if you just stopped trying to control everything for once. Let me take care of you. Please.”

I’ve banished myself from having Miles-related thoughts, but that doesn’t mean they don’t creep their way in there sometimes. Like right now as he kisses my shoulder, his hands branding my body in ways it shouldn’t and my self-control almost snaps.

I could say yes. I could say fuck it, turn around, and kiss him like he did earlier. Now that I’ve had that one taste, I want more even when I shouldn’t. Give a sex-deprived girl a hockey player to fake date and this is what happens.

I clear my throat, placing my hand over his. “Miles, seriously, we can’t.” He groans, dropping his head to my shoulder, but he listens despite his dramatics. He tears away from me, leaving me in the bathroom, and I let out a breath of relief.

I don’t bother to put my shorts on because it’s so hot in the bedroom and I’d end up taking them off anyway. I slip into a pair of panties and put on my tank top, a reckless part of me hoping that he’ll still be awake. But when I go into the room, he’s deep asleep on one side of the bed.

I sigh and slip into the other end, putting as much space between us as possible.