The trouble with falling, p.1
The Trouble With Falling, page 1
THE TROUBLE WITH FALLING
HONEY PEAK
REBECCA WILDER
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
About the Author
Also by Rebecca Wilder
Copyright © 2022 by Rebecca Wilder
rebeccawilderbooks@gmail.com
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your support and respect are appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Elijah Grove is the absolute worst.
And he knows it too.
Mainly because I’ve told him so every day since I’ve met him.
I wish that I could just avoid him for the rest of my life but that’s hard to do when we live in this small town.
I thought that we were on the same page about ignoring each other but then one night he shows up at my bakery and offers me a deal.
One that I promptly reject but when he jams his foot in my door and refuses to leave until I hear him out, I relent.
He wants me to be his girlfriend.
It would be fake, obviously. We just need to make it look good and fool his family so that they don’t try to set him up while they’re in town.
In exchange, he’ll help me get my bakery up and running.
I would be an idiot to say yes, but there is a lot of work to be done and we’d only have to pretend for a few days.
I can handle it.
Or I thought that I could, but the more time that I spend around the grumpy giant, the more I start to see that he might not be as bad as I first thought.
But this is all just a façade.
Isn’t it?
ONE
Hartley
I wish I had known just how cold it would be in Honey Peak in January. I mean, I know that it’s Michigan and that there would be snow, but I guess my southern blood just wasn’t prepared for just how cold it would be here.
The skies appeared to have dumped another two feet of snow on the town and I shiver just looking out of my apartment window at the piles of fluffy white stuff.
I have to admit that it does look pretty. I’m used to city streets and bumper to bumper traffic. There’s nothing like that here though.
Honey Peak is a small town and it’s set up like most small towns. There are only a few main roads with most of the businesses set up there. The sun is just starting to peek out over the top of the mountains, glinting off the snow dusting the top of the trees that line the hills. I let the curtain drop, retreating farther into my small apartment.
I’m used to waking up early, a habit of my occupation. I’m a baker. Normally, at this time, I would be taking the next batch of baked goods out of the oven or maybe frosting the last batch if it was cooled down enough.
That was if I was still back in Atlanta, working at the bakery around the corner from my grams’ place. I’m not in Georgia anymore though.
I moved to Honey Peak, Michigan a few days ago, needing a change of, well, everything, after my grams passed away. She had been sick for a while. Alzheimer’s, although it was a stroke that killed her.
She had raised me after my parents were killed in a car accident. They had been driving home in the middle of a rainstorm when their car had hydroplaned and they had crashed into a tree. I was young, barely four, and don’t have many memories left of them, but from the pictures that I’ve seen and the stories Grams told me, I feel like I know them.
My hair is dark brown, so dark that it’s almost black, and with my bright blue eyes, I look a little bit like Snow White. I’m even rocking the pale look since I spend most of my time in a kitchen.
I must get my coloring from my dad because both my mom and Grams had light coloring. Grams had pale blonde hair so light that you barely noticed the change when she started to go gray. With eyes the color of melted chocolate, she was my opposite.
I barely remember them, but I remember Grams. She was my parent, my best friend, and my whole world. She took me in when she was grieving her own loss and she made sure that I was alright and adjusted. She raised me, helped me with homework, listened to me gush over my latest crush in school, and most importantly, she taught me her love of baking.
Grams was an incredible cook, but she said that sweets were her favorite. She had always dreamed of saving up and opening her own bakery. We’d lay awake at night dreaming up ideas of what it would look like and what treats we would serve.
We never did it though.
There was always something that came up, some unforeseen expense, and we’d be back down to zero. Braces for me, a new car when her old beater finally died, school supplies, the list goes on and on.
I had tried to help out the best I could. I worked at a coffee shop before school and at a local grocery store after school. I saved up as much as I could, wanting to help Grams finally reach her dream. We had been close to having enough too.
We used some of our savings to put me through culinary school and I had come back to Atlanta to start looking for spaces to rent with Grams. That was when we got the Alzheimer’s diagnosis.
My time and energy went into taking care of Grams then. I worked at the bakery in the mornings and at a little café a few blocks away in the afternoon. I tried to spend all of my free time with Grams. On the good days, we would look through old photo albums or make our favorite old recipes together. On bad days, I just did my best to make her comfortable and happy.
We spent the holidays baking but I noticed that she seemed to be getting worse, having more bad days than good. I managed to talk her into going to the doctor again right after Thanksgiving and we had the appointment scheduled, but we never made it.
Grams collapsed in the apartment when we were making dinner together one night. I had called 911 and rode with her in the ambulance to the hospital, squeezing her hand as they worked on her. I had tried to talk about the bakery and all of the things that we were going to do when we went back home, anything to try to get her to stay, but she didn’t make it.
She had a stroke and by the time the EMTs got to the hospital, it was too late. They couldn’t revive her.
I spent the first part of December planning her funeral and trying to adjust to being all alone. Grams was buried next to Grandpa, Mom, and Dad in a quiet cemetery on the outskirts of town. The funeral had been small with just a few friends from the neighborhood.
Then it was like the whole world just forgot about me.
Everyone got busy with the holidays. They put up decorations and bought gifts and celebrated. They did all that while I mourned.
By the end of December, I knew that I needed a change. I couldn’t keep living in our apartment, in the place that she had raised me. It was right before Christmas when Grams’ lawyer reached out to me.
We went over her will and, while I knew most of it, I was shocked to find that Grams had one last surprise for me.
A savings account with enough money to start that bakery that we had always dreamed about and one final letter.
I walk over to the desk that I managed to cram into the corner of my new small one-bedroom apartment. The top is covered in mortgage papers for the new bakery, old recipe cards, and my laptop. I make a note to myself to try to organize it later this week as I open up the top drawer and pull out the envelope.
I must have read this thing a hundred times in the last three weeks. I can probably say it all by heart now, but there’s something comforting about seeing her familiar handwriting on the page that has me reading and rereading it.
I carefully unfold the worn paper, smiling when I see her loopy script.
Hartley,
If you’re reading this, then I’m gone. I wish that I didn’t have to go. I know that you must be sad and I hate that I left you all alone. That’s actually what this letter is about.
Don’t be.
Sure, you’ll have to grieve me, just like with your parents, but then go out, Hartley. Have a life. Meet new people and start a new family.
That’s what I want for you. To be happy.
I think my next surprise will help with that as well.
I’ve been saving, putting away everything I could all these years for you. You might not be able to afford that fancy bakery that we had planned in Atlanta, but maybe that’s for the best. You could us
I hope that you find a nice place with great people. I want you to know that wherever that is, I’ll always be watching.
Love you forever,
Grams
I wipe away a stray tear as I carefully fold the letter back up and gently place it in the envelope and then back in the desk drawer.
I head back over to the window, glancing out at the empty street below. I’ve had more doubts and second thoughts in the last two weeks since I moved here than ever before, but something deep inside me is telling me that this is where I am meant to be.
When I had thrown a dart at the map back in Atlanta, I had been shocked when it hit this tiny town in Michigan. A part of me, a big part, had wanted to redo it, but that was against the rules. I had gone online and started looking for spaces to rent and apartments, and I was surprised to see that Honey Peak, while small, was actually pretty nice.
With the mountains and all of the cabins, it reminded me of a scene out of some old western movie. The snow had looked beautiful in all of the pictures, gently landing on rooftops or clinging to the tops of the mountains, but now that I’m here, the charm is starting to wear off.
The apartment that I found was small and came furnished already, so I was able to sell most of our stuff back in Atlanta. The bedroom, bathroom, and living room are all super small, but it has a kitchen and that’s all I need in life.
The space that I rented is directly below me. I had been surprised when I found the old bakery up for sale. Sure, it needed a fresh coat of paint, a new oven, and a new industrial mixer, but the display cases and floors were in perfect condition.
I had jumped on it, putting a huge dent in the savings account but feeling like it was the right step.
I check my phone, groaning when I see that the temperature today is going to be around ten degrees all day. I decide that I’m going to have to break down and go buy a better coat and pair of boots.
I can see my car down below, half-buried under the new snow, and I know that it will take me at least fifteen minutes to brush the snow off and defrost it. At least I’m not going far.
I smile as I let the curtain drop and head into the kitchen, thinking that this day calls for something sweet.
TWO
Elijah
I let out a groan when I see Patrick’s truck pull up in front of the store. I was about to close down the Grove Trading Post and head home, but it looks like Patrick is here for his daily visit.
The guy is new to town and while everyone else in Honey Peak tends to leave me alone and in peace, Patrick never got that memo. He showed up in town a few months ago with his nephew Brennan in tow. They had wandered into my shop on their first day and I had helped them find some hiking boots and camping gear. I had pointed them downtown to a spot for lunch and had thought that would be the end of it, but they came back the next day, and then the next. Somewhere along the way, we became friends.
The bell on the door tinkles loudly as the door blows shut after them. It’s starting to snow harder and I look around the shop, deciding that I can finish stocking those boots tomorrow. I’ll just say hi to Brennan and sneak him his Hershey Hug before I usher them outside. We should all be getting home before the storm gets much worse.
Growing up in Honey Peak, you get used to reading the skies and knowing when you’re going to get dumped on with snow. It snowed some last night but it’s even darker tonight and I have a feeling that we’re going to get more than the two feet we did last night.
For the first time since they retired and moved down to Florida, I envy my parents. They grew up in Honey Peak, but after they passed the shop down to me, they wanted to make a change. I don’t blame them for wanting to escape the cold and all of the snow.
“Hey, little man,” I call out as Brennan barrels down the aisle toward the front counter.
“Eli!” he yells excitedly as he hurries around the counter and wraps his tiny arms around my legs.
At six-foot-seven, I tower over everyone. I’m used to having to duck to enter rooms and feeling like a freak when I stand next to people, but Patrick and Brennan have never made me feel self-conscious. Brennan thinks I’m a badass because of my height. Maybe that’s why we’ve always gotten along.
“Hey, Eli,” Patrick says with an easy smile as he joins us at the front counter.
“What are you two doing out in this mess?” I ask as the wind howls outside.
“We had to come see our best friend. Wanted to make sure that you didn’t need anything from the store. We’re headed there before we head home,” Patrick answers as I grab the candy jar out from beneath the counter and hold it out to Brennan.
The little boy gives me a toothy grin as he shoves his hand into the jar.
“I’m good. I’ve got some leftovers at home that I’m going to heat up tonight. I can run and grab some more stuff tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?” Patrick asks and I nod.
“Get out of here before the roads close,” I order and Brennan gives me another quick hug before he hurries out from behind the counter.
“We’ll see you tomorrow, man,” Patrick says with that same easy-going grin that never seems to leave his lips as they turn and head back out into the storm.
I trail after them, intending to flip the lock, turn off the lights, and head out the back, but before I can get there, the door swings open, letting in a cold breeze, a few flurries, and a shivering woman.
“Hey! Y’all are still open, right? I’ll be two minutes. I just need a new coat and maybe some boots,” she says, her thin coat dusted in snow.
Her accent is decidedly southern and sounds so out of place here in rural Michigan. I watch as she brushes off her tennis shoes on the mat.
“I’ll say,” I grunt out, scowling at the girl’s less than ideal winter wear.
“I just moved here from Atlanta and they don’t even sell this kind of cold weather stuff down there,” she says defensively as she starts to browse the rack of winter hats and mittens by the door.
“Oh. You’re the bakery lady.”
The woman tenses before she looks over her shoulder at me.
“Yeah… how did you know that?” she asks, looking at me like I might be a stalker.
I probably do look scary to her. I’m over a foot taller than her and my stoic face is great for keeping people from talking to me, but decidedly less so when you’re trying to put people at ease.
I’m the town loner. Born and raised here so people are used to not seeing me around much, but this girl is new and probably doesn’t know that. At least not yet.
“It’s a small town. Word gets around fast,” I say as I watch her walk around to the back of the store to the wall in the back that is filled with every kind of shoe and boot that you would ever need.
I stomp after her, hoping to get her out of here quickly so that I can head home myself.
She picks up a pair of Uggs and I make a disgusted face. I hate that we even have to stock those boots. They’re not really warm enough for winters in Michigan but they sell like hotcakes.
The girl hums, looking the boots over and I can feel my left eye start to tick as I hear the wind pick up outside even more.
“We stock those more for the tourists or for fall weather. They won’t keep you that warm up here now,” I explain in a rush, hoping to get her out of here before we get snowed in.
