Page 7 of Trustfall

“Oh yeah. Just checking to see if my tax forms have come in yet.”

“Wasn’t the tax deadline a couple of weeks ago?”

“It was?”

“My mom is an accountant.”

“Oh, right.” I had completely forgotten that Luke’s mom has her own accounting firm in town.Jesus, Emory. Get it together.

“So, you’re moving in today?” I ask.

He looks over at the moving truck and the guys fighting to get a dresser out of the back of it. “What gave it away?” He smirks.

I let out a dry laugh, struggling to hold back my sarcasm, but it slips out despite my efforts. “Just because you're knowledgeable about taxes and rare fear disorders doesn't mean you have the right to be rude.”

He chuckles. “You're right. I'm moving in today, so we're officially neighbors now. I can drop by your place to borrow a cup of sugar, and you can return my mail that ends up in your box by mistake. You know, since you’re so diligent about mail.”

I let out a laugh and it’s a little louder than I expected it to be. Talking to Luke feels so easy right now. It’s almost second nature. Like pushing IV fluids or wrapping a wound.

“I like that,” he says.

“What?”

“The sound of your laugh.”

Butterflies erupt in my stomach, making me feel like I'm sixteen again, and I cough softly to catch my breath. I glance back and forth between Luke and the moving truck, but his eyes stay fixed on me. When our gazes finally meet, I'm paralyzed. His eyes dart back and forth rapidly, looking almost pained, as if he's struggling to hold something back. My phone buzzes in my hand, shattering the spell, and I look down to see a text from my dad.

Dad: I have an open afternoon and would like you to come over for lunch. It’s been a while since we’ve talked, just the two of us.

I roll my eyes and slip my phone into my back pocket. I know exactly what he wants to talk to me about. He’s been dropping hints for two months now. He doesn't dare bring it up at our family dinners, not with Nate around. Nate's the one who started these family dinners in the first place. It was one of his conditions for working at Dad's company. He's always wanted us to feel more like a family, especially after Opa passed away and Gram moved into assisted living. Nate's tried to get Dad to spend more time with us, and sometimes it actually works, but it never lasts. Yet, these Tuesday dinners have stuck since Nate joined the company a few years ago. Dad never misses them unless he's out of state. They're still pretty formal, though. Dad's chef cooks up a big spread, and the three of us sit at a table meant for twelve. Dad tries to talk business with Nate, who humors him for a few minutes before trying to steer the conversation toward me. Then Dad loses interest, and the rest of the dinner is just polite small talk.

But a couple of months ago, Dad cornered me when Nate went to the bathroom. He started talking about keeping the business in the family and that he would need more than just Nate as a right-hand man as it continues to grow. At first, I thought he meant that he wanted me to work for the company, but then he went on a tangent about the importance of finding the right person to marry. How silly I was to think he viewed women as anything more than mere tools that bringpowerfulmentogether. He doesn’t want me to have a say in the company. He wants me to marry amanwho he can mold into his perfect predecessor. He must have realized pretty quickly that he couldn’t do that with Nate. Nate can’t be molded into anything other than what he is—especially by our father. Needless to say, they butt heads a lot. Anyway, Dad’s been hinting here and there about it ever since, so I’m pretty sure this is what he wants to discuss with me.

I've been zoned out since getting that text, and when I look up, Luke is still standing there, waiting for my response.

“Sorry. It’s my dad. I should get going.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I’m supposed to meet him for lunch.”

“Okay, then. I’ll see you around, Little Wells,” he says with a wink.

Little Wells.

My heart drops at the nickname. In high school, everyone called my brother Wells, a play on our last name. During my freshman year, some of the guys on the football team started calling me Little Wells, but it annoyed me, so Nate put an end to it. Luke never called me Little Wells—until that night.

Be good, Little Wells.

That was the only time he had ever said it...until now. I hated it when my brother’s teammates called me by that name. It made me feel like I was an extension of my brother—a smaller, weaker, less important extension. But when Luke said it that night—the way he said it—it was an endearment, not an insult.

“You sure will,” I say as I start awkwardly backing up.What the fuck?

I shake my head at myself as I turn around and start to head up the front steps.

“Hey, Emory,” he calls out.

“Yeah?”

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