Page 4 of Freefall

“Thanks, Nate!” she says hurriedly, and I swear I hear her mutter, “Lord help us if that man ever has his own children,” as she ends the call.

Rolling my eyes, I bypass my office and head to the staff lounge to get my lunch from the fridge. If I have to run my sister’s errands, I don’t want to do it on an empty stomach. Ever since my father started working primarily out of the Emberfield office instead of our flagship in Manhattan, we’ve had daily catered lunches, but I prefer to bring my own food from home. Just one more thing I can control, I guess.

I’m about to grab my protein bowl when my phone buzzes. It’s Emory, texting me about the meeting.

Emory

The address is 5760 Shell Beach Rd. in Baybridge. I emailed you my questions for her. Thanks so much, big bro! You’re a lifesaver!

I blow out a long breath. She’s sending me to an appointment that starts in fifteen minutes, at a location that’s twenty-five minutes away. I swear I don’t know how we share the same DNA.

Abandoning my lunch, I grab a granola bar from the bowl on the counter and an energy drink from the beverage fridge before I head out.

Traffic is light, so I’m only five minutes late by the time I get to the meeting spot, which turns out to be a beach park. Still, I’m sweating at the mere thought of being any amount late. It makes my skin crawl.

There are several picnic tables and a small play structure on a grassy area in front of the shoreline. Strollers are scattered around the playground while toddlers climb the tower and parents push babies on swings. None of them appear to be photographers, though.

If this woman can’t bother to come to a client meeting on time, it means she’s not reliable, and Emory shouldn’t even consider hiring her.

I check my phone. It’s now ten minutes past our meeting time. I scoff, heading back to my Range Rover. I told Em I would help her out, but I’m not about to wait around all day for a flaky photographer.

I puff out a sarcastic laugh. I should have fucking known. Photographers have a history of being flaky in my experience.

Just as I open the door to my car, I see an older model green Jeep Wrangler pull into the parking lot, the tires crunching on the gravel road. As soon as it stops, the door flies open, and a blonde woman in denim overalls rushes out.

“Wait!” she calls out as she rushes over to me. “I’m so sorry. My car wouldn’t start, and then there was this bunny crossing the road.”

Bunny? Is she fucking serious?

“There were babies too. They were so sweet. I couldn’t help pulling over to get a few quick shots.”

Her long, wavy blonde hair is windswept and covers part of her face, so it’s hard to make out her expression, but there’s something about her voice that makes my heart beat faster.

“Anyway, you must be the groom. I’m—” She moves the hair from her face, and that’s when I see them. The warm hazel eyes I would recognize anywhere—mostly light green with specks of gold. The ones from my dreams. The happy dreams where we’re in bed laughing, and she never left. Where she’s teasing me, and I’m playfully telling her how she’s going to regret her words once I have her at my mercy. The ones I wake up from and realize the other side of the bed is cold, and she’s not really there.

She extends her hand to mine as she looks up, and I clock the moment recognition seeps in. Her eyes narrow for a split second before widening.

“Harper,” I finish for her.

2

NATE

Even after nine years, Harper Daniels is still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Her wide hazel eyes stay fixed intently on me as she traps her lower lip between her teeth, chewing on it. Sunlight dances across her face and neck, accentuating the rise and fall of her heaving chest. I’d give anything to know whether it’s from the exertion of her run over here or the shock of seeing me. A part of me hopes it’s the latter.

As she slowly lowers the hand she extended to me in greeting, her fingers brush against her wrist, and she fiddles with something. I don’t look down to see what it is. I’m too mesmerized by the ghost standing in front of me.

“Nathan,” she says softly. That snaps me out of the haze because where does she get off calling me that after all this time?

“Nate,” I correct her. I swear I see a hint of defiance flash behind her eyes before she hides it.

“Nate, I…”

“Should we get started then?” I glance down at my watch. “Since you are now fifteen minutes late to our appointment.”

“Oh, yeah, of course. I…” She glances behind me and into my car as if looking for someone. “Will your fiancée be joining us? I’ve been speaking with her over the phone and…” She trails off when she sees the confusion on my face.

Fiancée? What is she talking about? Then it hits me.