Faking It This Fall

Chapter 1

Ari

There are a surprising number of songs about going home.

Missing home.

Returning home.

Can’t wait to get back home.

Yet, here I stand in front of Autumn Ridge High, disappointed that my life has taken me back to the small town in Vermont where I grew up.

It’s a setback for sure.

Who am I kidding? At this point, my entire life is a setback.

I’ve waved the white flag, admitted defeat, and moved back in with my parents.

Humbling prospect at twenty-seven years old, to say the least.

My gaze sweeps across the two-story, red-brick building that felt like a prison when I was seventeen. Nine years later, I’m interviewing to spend my days here.

What a plot twist.

I run my fingers through my long, brown hair, fluffing it over both shoulders before heading inside the high school.

Nostalgia smacks me in the face. Maroon lockers.

A gold-and-maroon eagle mascot painted in the middle of the floor.

Wooden cases with thirty-plus years of trophies and team pictures.

My mind flashes to a younger version of me in a cheer uniform, running down the hall to the gymnasium.

Everything’s the same as when I walked out of here on graduation day nine years ago.

Even Mrs. Albany, the school secretary, is still here, like a relic from the nineties.

She looks up at me with a stern slant to her lips. “Can I help you?”

“Ari Langford.” I smile, thinking she might remember me, but as her eyes grow narrower, I decide Mrs. Albany’s kindness retired years ago. That, or she does remember me and all the trouble I got into. I clear my throat. “I’m here for the job interview for the English teacher position.”

“You can wait in Mr. Stevenson’s office.” If I hadn’t been sent to the principal’s office a few times as a student, I might’ve asked for more directions than just her head nod toward the hallway.

I stop in front of the door, expecting the old, chipped plaque reading Mr. Stevenson but see they’ve at least updated that. I peek into his office—same melamine desk and brown leather chairs. I guess new furniture isn’t in the school district’s budget.

Instead of taking a seat, I walk to his back shelf, admiring the trinkets, books, and school accolades that make up the office decor.

My gaze lands on a familiar picture of the Stevenson family on the shelf.

Mr. Stevenson, his wife, Gina, and their three children.

In tenth grade, Liv and Reese dared me to sneak into his office and steal this very picture.

I agreed because one: I don’t back down from a dare from friends.

And two: the picture is at the beach, so teenage Ryan and Wade Stevenson are shirtless—the gift that keeps on giving.

Unfortunately, I was caught red-handed and endured a fifteen-minute lecture from Mr. Stevenson on the importance of good character, trust, and honesty.

Let’s pray that moment doesn’t weigh into his decision to hire me today—or any of my other youthful indiscretions.

But for old time’s sake, I pick up the photo and study it.

Good grief, those Stevenson boys were attractive.

There wasn’t a girl at Autumn Ridge High who would’ve disagreed.

Ryan had that classic attractiveness with dark hair and dimples, but Wade’s good looks came with a heavy dose of charm and charisma—my weakness. I was always more drawn to him.

I wonder what happened to Wade. I mean, I know he still lives in Autumn Ridge, but that’s where my knowledge ends.

Despite growing up as good friends, we lost touch.

And even though he wrote Call me! in my yearbook with his phone number, we haven’t talked since we were eighteen. What a shame to lose touch like that.

A male voice down the hall startles me, and I quickly place the picture back on the shelf before I get caught with it once again.

But the frame is old, and the easel flap on the back doesn’t stay open.

Before I can stop it, the picture tips over, falling off the edge of the shelf in the most dramatic slo-mo of my life.

Tiny shards of glass burst across the carpet as the frame crashes.

Most people would be, like, “Oh, sorry. I accidentally broke your frame. Let me replace that for you.”

Not me.

I drop to my knees in sheer panic and begin crawling around the desk in my tight pencil skirt, haphazardly picking up broken pieces of glass as if my skin is made out of leather. You’d be surprised by how far those shards went. I had to push his chair back and really get in there.

I hear—not see, because I’m currently under the desk—Mr. Stevenson enter his office but stop at the door.

My eyes grow wide.

Me under his desk is a bad look.

A crazy look.

“Mrs. Albany, I thought you said Ari was here,” the voice calls down the hall.

Her deep, grumpy tone bellows in the distance. “I sent her in there. Not my problem if she got lost.”

I decide to raise my hand out from under the desk.

Give a little wave too.

Like an idiot.

I figured it’s better than slowly peeking my head up over the edge. But now I’m not so sure. I begin my humiliating crawl out as Mr. Stevenson chuckles.

“And to think, you want to be a high school English teacher.”

That doesn’t sound like old Mr. Stevenson’s voice.

I freeze—fully aware that my butt is in the air, facing whoever is behind me. I move to stand, but the straitjacket of a skirt I’m wearing doesn’t agree with fast movements.

Rrrrip!

My spine snaps straight as I reach around to assess the damage.

Lots and lots of exposed skin.

My inner thigh, to be exact.

And a sudden draft.

“It’s as bad as you think.” The amusement coming from the voice behind me seems familiar.

I scramble to my feet, whipping my body around as I try to cover up my butt with my hands.

My heart trips over itself.

I no longer have to wonder what happened to Wade Stevenson.

He’s here at Autumn Ridge High, standing two feet from me, looking exactly the same as he did nine years ago.

He’s wearing a fitted white t-shirt and black gym shorts that seem an inch or two too short for a Tuesday afternoon at a high school.

Same brown hair but with a mustache that’s new since I last saw him—it’s fitting in a sexy-Wade kind of way.

He’s even more attractive than he was back then. Although, I’d never tell him that.

“Wade!” I tug at the back of my skirt, forgetting that I’m holding sharp pieces of glass. The top of my finger slices open. “Ouch!”

A surprising amount of blood begins rolling down, and I quickly grab my wrist with my other hand to stop it from going the length of my arm. It’s a bloody mess—and I mean that literally. Not in the British-swear-word way.

I move to step toward him and bang my knee on the desk, knocking over a different frame next to the computer.

“Sheesh, woman! Do we need to put you in a room with padded walls?” Wade grabs my shoulders, manhandling me into one of the leather chairs. “You’re a hot mess.”

“Uh…” I look up at him, completely flabbergasted—and I don’t use the term ‘flabbergasted’ lightly. It’s a rare-use word, but I think the events of the last fifteen seconds call for it.

My eyes sweep over him, just processing everything. The amusement in his eyes drifts to concern, as if he takes my non-responsiveness to mean I’m about to pass out. He leans down in front of my face. “Ari?”

And that’s when Earth-to-Ari finally kicks in. “The frame fell and broke.” I eye the one on the floor just in case he’s confused by which frame I meant. “I was just picking up some of the pieces…under the desk.”

“What is it with you and that picture?” Tragic that he remembers my past with that photo.

“I was just…” My words trail because I have no excuse.

He grabs my hand, assessing my cut. His expressive brown eyes shift to me as he smiles. “I think you’ll live.”

Before I can say anything, he leaves, returning a few seconds later with some wet paper towels and a first-aid kit. He pulls the other chair next to mine and takes a seat, opening the kit out on his lap.

“It’s fine.” I hold my hand close to my chest. “No need to play doctor or whatever your fourteen-year-old mind is imagining.”

That’s when his smile stretches into something dripping with charm.

“Fifteen, but who’s counting?” He grabs my hand and begins wiping the blood off my fingers.

“When I’m done here, you can bend over, and I’ll sew up the back of your skirt.

” Playful eyes shoot to me, but it’s his mischievous smile that makes me laugh.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re implying, but”—innocence morphs over his face—“my mom’s a seamstress, remember? I know a thing or two about sewing things up.”

“Why are you really here?” I tilt my head so I can meet his gaze.

“I live here. Why are you here?”

“No, I meant at the school, and I’m here because I’m waiting for your dad.”

“My dad?” His brows lift at that, but he keeps his focus on treating my wound.

“Yeah, I’m here for an interview. There’s an opening for an English teacher. I guess Mr. Jeppson fell and needs hip surgery. Early retirement.”

“I think he’s, like, eighty, so I wouldn’t call it an early retirement.”

“True.” I watch as he holds a small piece of gauze to my finger while his free hand sifts through the first-aid kit. “Are you waiting for your dad too?”

“I work here.”

“You work here? At the high school?”

“Why is that so shocking? We’ve already established that my maturity level is at fourteen.”

“Fifteen.” I smile, liking the way he meets my gaze for one second before going back to medic. My eyes drop to his casual apparel. “What are you, like, the P.E. teacher?”

The corner of his mouth curls as his eyes lift to mine again. Instead of answering my question, he leans forward and slowly blows on my finger where he just applied rubbing alcohol. And I thought the boy I grew up with was charming. This man-version of him could run circles around teenage Wade.