Every Time I Fall (Orchid Valley 3)

I laugh again and take a sip of my martini. Lemony sweetness. So good. “What you saw was Hudson giving me the hard sell. He wants my business, not my body.”

She takes a sip from her wine. “He was using his business as an excuse to get closer to your body.”

“You’re delusional.”

“I’m astute,” she says, winking.

I sigh. “So you lift, huh?”

“Yeah. I love being strong. It’s rad.”

I shudder. “I think I’m allergic to gyms. I’ve tried the ones in town a couple of different times and feel like everyone is staring at me. I prefer doing stuff on my own.”

She licks her lips, and her perfect red lipstick doesn’t budge. I’m pretty sure she’s a magical creature. “Well, that’s cool too, but don’t let your aversion to the gym keep you from sampling a little hot trainer ass.” She casts a long, meaningful glance over her shoulder toward Hudson. “Damn, you could bounce quarters off those glutes.”

I grin. I really like working with Layla. She’s nice and organized and never screws me over by making promises to clients that the kitchen can’t deliver on, but I’ve never hung out with her outside of work. “Why don’t you go after him?” At least I could picture that.

She shakes her head. “Nah. I’m already taken. My boyfriend is still in Nashville, but he’s relocating to Orchid Valley next month to move in with me.”

“Wow. Serious, then?”

“Absolutely. I had my share of fun in college, but I’m not about letting men waste my time anymore.”

“Good for you,” I say, and I mean it.

“If you aren’t here for Hudson, what brings you in tonight?” she asks, looking around. “Just chillin’?”

I consider lying—after all, who wants to admit their date blew them off?—but I like Layla. “I was supposed to be meeting someone, but he didn’t show. Or rather . . .” I tap my phone a few times to bring up Random and my chat stream with Austin then hand over my phone.

Layla frowns at the screen. “What the actual fuck? Lame.”

Some of the heaviness that’s been sitting in my gut lifts away. “Right?”

“You dodged a bullet.”

“I keep thinking that he saw me and ran away.”

“As if.” She hands back my phone then looks me over critically. “He’s probably married and found out his wife was gonna be here or something.”

I shrug. “Maybe. Who knows?”

“Well, since you don’t have Mr. Jackass to keep you company, do you mind if I do?”

“I’d love that.”

* * *

Dean

Smithy’s is packed tonight—both inside and out. The night air has that perfect crispness that promises cooler days ahead, and I’m in a fucking fantastic mood.

I just landed a new contract at work—the biggest renovation we’ve done in years, on a historical home that some money-hungry landlord violated by chopping into apartments, and we’re renovating it back to a single-family home. On top of that, I haven’t talked to Amy all week, which makes two weeks since I’ve been to bed with her. I didn’t even text her to ask how her week went or show up at The Terminal last night when she posted on her Insta that she was there and looking for company.

I feel almost invincible.

I’ve spent most of the evening out on Smithy’s newly renovated patio nursing a single beer. I’ve been chatting with Marston and his business partner, Alec, who’s visiting for the week, but when I come inside to get a second beer, I see I’ve been missing the best company of all. Abbi is sitting in a booth at the back with a woman I don’t recognize.

Abbi is the reason I got through this week. Instead of thinking of Amy and letting my mind snag on a thousand what-ifs, my thoughts were circling back to Abbi and her belief that she’s bad at sex.

Instead of almost texting Amy a dozen times, it was Abbi whose name I kept pulling up on my phone, Abbi whom all my bad ideas revolved around.

My best friend’s little sister is off-limits, and I know it. Not just because Kace wants better for his sister than someone like me, but because I put myself out there years ago and she made it clear she had her sights set on a different kind of guy. Any attraction I felt for her, any hope I’d carried around that she might someday return some of my feelings—I locked it away after the night of her twenty-first birthday. Never to be seen or spoken of again.

The only time I slipped was last year at Halloween, and even that barely counts. But now that I know her issues with guys revolve around her self-esteem and some ridiculous notion that she’s bad in bed, I can’t stop thinking about it. Sure, maybe I’ll never be the guy she wants something real with, but I accepted that a long time ago. I’m not exactly looking to get my heart involved right now, anyway. So maybe I’m the perfect candidate to keep her from practicing horrifyingly poor judgment and using Vince Brunetti to find confidence in bed.