Found in the Falls (Devon Falls #4)

Chapter 1

That’s when he steps onto the elevator. —Noah Hardaway

Albany, New York—September

“I feel like I’m being strangled to death with a piece of polka-dotted string.”

Uncle Stan chortles from his seat on the hotel room couch next to me. “Hey, Ezra just told me you have to wear a tie. He never said it had to be a bow tie.”

I wince in the mirror, both at the thought of my uncle’s chief of staff, and at the piece of cloth currently holding my neck hostage.

I swear I can feel my breath getting shallower.

Has anyone in human history ever been killed by a bow tie?

Who even invented the bow tie, and who decided bow ties were something people should have to wrap around their necks for hours on end in public?

“Well, the necktie you gave me was even worse,” I tell Uncle Stan. “It made me look like a high schooler trying to dress up for his debate team final. At least this thing doesn’t hang on me like it’s four sizes too big.”

Uncle Stan drops his newspaper—because yes, he still reads the actual newspaper every morning—and bursts out laughing as he leans over to pull me down into a hug.

“Hey, I think you look dapper! Sorry, kiddo. I fought for you, I promise. I got Ezra to lay off with the whole ties-at-public-appearances thing for as long as I could, but he says if I’m going to take a shot at the primary for the governor’s race next year, it’s time we both stepped up the wardrobe a little. ”

I wince again, but luckily Uncle Stan is busy grabbing for his coffee with one hand, and he doesn’t notice.

I’m the whole reason my uncle—my adoptive father, and the only person I trust in the entire world—ran for public office in the first place.

I know how much his work matters to him, and I know how good he is at what he does.

He fights for people who don’t have the voice or the means to fight for themselves, and he has ever since he ran for his first town council seat when I was just ten years old.

Since then, he’s done a lot of good for the people in Pottsville, New York, where we’re both from, and for the rest of New York since he was elected to state senate a few years ago.

And that’s why I never, ever tell Uncle Stan how much I don’t like the spotlight his job constantly shines on me.

That’s also why I definitely never tell him how much I don’t like Ezra Morehouse, his right-hand man.

I’m the kind of person who tries to like everyone, and I like to believe that even the most hard-nosed people have a softer side beneath their prickly exterior.

But Ezra? He frequently tests my theory.

Unfortunately, he’s also basically a whiz at his job, and he’s fast-tracked Uncle Stan’s success in the New York senate to the point where people are talking about him as a frontrunner for the governor’s seat that will open in two years.

It’s hard to argue against results like that.

My phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my pocket to check the notification. “The Chinese food we ordered for lunch is downstairs,” I tell Uncle Stan. “I’ll go get it.” I let myself lean into him just a little longer before I sit up. “Sorry,” I tell him. “I’m being clingy again.”

“Hey, none of that.” Uncle Stan pulls me back for another quick hug. “You know I love how close we are. How many parents get to keep their kiddos by their side for so long?”

“I’m twenty-two,” I remind him, even as I let him wrap his arm around my shoulder.

“People already think it’s weird that I went to college one town away from home and commuted to campus.

They think it’s weird that I decided to stay living with you when I enrolled in an extra year for the graduate social work program.

Basically, update: people think I’m weird. You know, for a change.”

“Hey.” Uncle Stan sits up suddenly and claps a hand on my shoulder.

“We’ve been over this. I was beyond thrilled when you decided to keep living with me after you graduated high school.

Kid, we’re a team. We’ve been that way for a long time, and you’ve got a home with me as long as you want it.

” He raises one eyebrow. “And if this May, when you finish your grad degree, is when you decide you want to leave the nest, that’s okay too.

I’ve got your back, Noah. Always. Whatever you decide to do. ”

I look away from him. “Gotta get the food,” I mutter as I move to stand.

If there’s one thing I hate thinking or talking about, it’s my upcoming graduation.

I’ve been living with Uncle Stan during my five-year social work program under the guise of saving money, but at some point, I know, humanity expects me to stand on my own two feet.

Every therapist I’ve ever worked with has told me there’s nothing wrong or unhealthy about my attachment to Uncle Stan.

My reliance on him makes sense, they say, given what happened to me as a kid.

Unfortunately, the world’s expectations rarely align with the advice of mental health professionals.

This coming May, I’m supposed to stand up tall after my graduation, poised and professional and ready to walk steadily away from the greatest anchor of support in my life.

And that’s why thinking about my own graduation can send me running for my college’s yoga studio and hours of downward dog positions. Except Ezra wants me to take up some exercise that’s better for my uncle’s image, because apparently yoga’s “not the right fit for our campaign brand.”

“Weightlifting,” he barked at me the last time he saw me leaving for the gym. “We need to get you into weightlifting.”

I hate weightlifting.

“Make sure we got our fortune cookies,” Uncle Stan calls after me as I head for the hotel room door.

“You’re obsessed with those things,” I tell him. I’m tempted to lose the tie before I go, but at the last minute I decide to leave it on. Maybe I’ll get used to it if I wear it a little longer, like a dog in a muzzle.

Thank goodness Uncle Stan said we could order in for lunch instead of eating downstairs in the hotel dining room this afternoon.

We’re here in Albany for an event that’s raising funds to support victims of trafficking, and I’m very happy to pull out my best “politician’s son” energy for that event, even if I do have to wear a tie.

But my social battery can drain quickly around Uncle Stan’s colleagues, and I need to keep it charged right up until this evening.

We’re staying on the fifteenth floor of the hotel, a well-decorated but not overly flashy boutique building.

I'm in the elevator studying an advertisement for an Italian restaurant and thinking about an eggplant parm recipe I tested last weekend when I hear a loud ding, indicating a stop. The doors spread open.

That’s when he steps onto the elevator.

He nods, smiles, and leans back against a flyer for karaoke in the hotel bar, completely oblivious as my heart begins racing at twelve thousand miles an hour.

Dr. Milo Warner is standing next to you, Noah Hardaway. Everything is fine. Do. Not. Panic.

“Hello,” he says. He stands almost a foot taller than me, which means he’s several inches over six feet, and his athlete’s build is on full display.

This is not a guy who hates weightlifting.

His brown hair is shaved close to his head, and his medium-brown skin color contrasts sharply with his bright hazel eyes.

He’s wearing a dark blue suit that’s tailored to perfectly hug every angle of his body.

I’ve known I’m attracted to people of all genders for a long time, but looks usually aren’t the first thing that draw me to someone, and that’s the case with Milo Warner.

Looks are totally a bonus where he’s concerned.

My crush on him started months ago, when I watched him give a speech about health care access and affordability in New York.

As he stood on that stage, moving passionately through stories of patients he’s worked with, patients who didn’t survive because they didn’t have access to basic medical services, I got completely lost in everything about his presence.

That particular topic is something I’m also passionate about—because reasons—and everything about Milo Warner captivated me that day.

His calm. His power. His self-assuredness.

Since then, I’ve watched for him at every one of Uncle Stan’s events, curious whether I might catch a glimpse of him.

And I have, a few times. Of course I have. Because his mother, Lilah Warner, is one of the other rising politicians in Uncle Stan’s party, and she will most likely be his strongest competitor in the state primary race for governor.

Good thing no one like him would ever have any interest in someone like me. A relationship between the two of us has way too many Romeo and Juliet vibes. I nod politely at him. “Hello,” I answer.

He cocks his head slightly as he studies me. “You’re Stan Hardaway’s son,” he says slowly.

Holy hell. He knows who I am? Maybe I’m not hiding in Uncle Stan’s shadow as well as I thought.

“Um, yeah. Adopted son,” I add, because sometimes the fact that I call Stan my uncle gets confusing for people, and I like to head off that confusion whenever possible.

Helps to avoid conversations I don’t want to have. “You’re Lilah Warner’s son.”

“I am,” he says proudly. “I met your dad a few times when our parents were working on that health-care legislation bill together.” His face goes a little dark then, and I’m not surprised. That bill was important, and it would have done so much good for so many people.

But it tanked early on in the legislation process. Uncle Stan and I were both crushed, and only Ezra didn’t seem surprised. “When you’re governor,” he’d said. “We’ll get it through then.”

Milo—or should I be calling him Dr. Milo Warner in my head, I can’t decide—quirks an eyebrow at me. “Word on the political forums is that our parents might be going head-to-head in the primary next year.”