Cyrus
Chapter thirty-one
Slow It down
Fallon’s old colonial home stands tall. While all of the homes downtown are vibrant enough to slap on the cover of Better Homes and Gardens, Fallon’s stands out from the rest; it’s a remarkable remodel, a stunning testament to craftsmanship.
We make our way up the porch steps, enjoying our evening.
The kids run inside, confectioner’s sugar smeared on their faces, both wanting to go out back to play.
I clasp Fallon’s hand in mine. She freezes for a split second, and it hits me how long it’s been since I’ve held any part of her.
Her skin is soft, more so than I remember—soft, but not fragile.
Fallon’s fire still burns bright: beautiful, unpredictable, impossible to tame.
She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t squeeze me tightly either.
Beggars can’t be choosers—and I’ll take any sign that she’s willing to meet me halfway.
“Can we sit on the porch swing for a bit?” I ask, holding my breath, waiting for an answer that may leave me desolate. Fallon chews on her lips. I watch as she considers my question.
“Thanks for today, Cyrus, but we really shouldn’t,” she finally says.
“You don’t have to like me for this to work.
” I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair.
“But we can’t keep doing this dance every time we’re in the same space.
Sit with me for a minute, Fallon.” Her breath catches mid-step, the request landing faster than she can smooth it over.
For a split second, her expression goes unguarded—like she’s been caught off balance—before she reins it back in.
I don’t miss it.
I guide her toward the porch swing, steadying it with one hand while she lowers herself carefully, fingers worrying at the frayed hem of her shorts instead of looking at me.
“Have I told you yet that your home is unforgettable? It’s really something.” I’m really referencing her, but she looks ready to bolt. So I keep the conversation safe.
“No, you haven’t, but thank you. I’m proud of the home we’ve built here.” Fallon’s words sound surer now that we’re on a safer topic. Tilting my body to face hers, I run my hand over the back of the swing, wanting to know more of her and her story. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“We have a camp up north, nothing big. There’s a creek that, if used at the right time of the year, can double as a lazy river. Billy and I head up any chance that we get.”
I straighten, “You’re kidding?”
Humor plays on her face as she replies, “It’s where I hide the bodies of all the old rich men I kill after I convinced them to marry me, total black widow situation.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Watch your back.” Her crooked grin means everything to me. Hoping she continues smiling, I gesture to the large white pillars on her porch.
“The craftsmanship is remarkable. It truly is a replica of its owner. When did you buy it?” Her color rises quickly, warmth spilling across her face and drawing out the faint freckles scattered over her cheeks and nose. Something about it pulls my attention in a way I don’t bother to fight.
“I bought it almost four years ago. The remodel took an entire year. The materials weren’t available locally, but the construction company has the best designer on payroll.
It’s an entire business run by women. I was more comfortable asking them more detailed questions, sharing my ideas, and tackling problems than I would have with a team of men.
The builders all had an eye for detail, and I contributed to the results looking so good because it really was a team vision.
We worked around the clock for months, planning every detail. ”
Her passion explodes as she explains, her hand gestures growing more frantic as she describes the lengths her design team went to in order to make everything the way she envisioned. I also note that she took this opportunity to move her hand from mine. I miss the contact immediately.
“It’s definitely impressive,” I say, trying to focus on the words, not the curve of her chest. Can’t. Blood thrums in my veins, eyes locked, body betraying me. Every part of her is a goddamn turn-on.
“Yeah, it was extensive.” She leans back, getting comfortable. Her warmth presses into me as her back settles against my hand. She doesn’t pull away.
Curiosity eats at me. “You’ve built an extraordinary life for Billy.”
Her nose crinkles, “Not by robbing a bunch of old ladies at rummy and poker, if that’s what you’re asking.”
I lift my hands in mock surrender. “My intention is to get to know you, not throw accusations.”
“Do you know the color-line I use at the salon?” I think back to my time there, along the back wall, are small, neat little boxes with blue dots.
“The little Poka dot boxes?”
She nods. “The color line, Billy Blue Cosmetics is mine.” She preens, a slight flush rising on her cheeks.
“You were always better at chemistry than the rest of our class.” I admit.
“It’s easy to be better when you were setting the lab on fire.”
“Allegedly. It’s how Jonah decided to become a firefighter. One could call me an inspirational career coach.”
Her laugh eats up the small space between us, drawing me closer to her. My body leans instinctively toward her, drawn to the curve of her smile, the way her face lights up. That pull guides me, her foot nudging the porch, propelling us into a steady sway on the glider.
“I always knew you were destined for greatness, Fal.”
“My life didn’t turn out the way I had planned, but it’s as fulfilling as I need. Billy is happy, so I’m happy.”
“Happiness suits you, Fallon.”
Her blush deepens. “It’s easy to smile when my character isn’t being attacked.”
My lips thin with embarrassment, and possibly shame. She built an empire and it still wasn’t good enough for me.
Her brow quirks slightly. There’s a firmness in her stance that commands attention. I remember how easily I swallowed the rumors about her, letting whispers shape my thoughts instead of giving her the benefit of the doubt.
Old patterns have a stubborn way of not dying. Every mistake pressing in, suffocating me. I should have known better. I should have trusted her.
I shift slightly, fingers curling around the edge of the swing, grounding myself. She doesn’t recoil; she doesn’t relax. And I realize I’m the one holding my breath, trying to steady the nerves.
I can’t erase the past, but I start by making it right. By seeing her clearly, by seeing us, by letting the truth of our relationship be known without the filter of gossip or pride.
I exhale slowly, a quiet acknowledgment of my own stubbornness. And honestly…I’m disappointed in myself.
“I’m sorry, I realize I haven’t been fair. Something I need to work on is trusting you instead of being suspicious. You don’t have to forgive me, but if you could find it in that big heart of yours to let me at least try.”
She flips her hair to one side, fingers running through the chaos of curls, and I burn with jealousy.
I ache to touch her, to remember the softness of those curls in my hands, the curve of her neck, the tremble of her spine under my fingertips, the small sounds she made when we fit together perfectly.
Every inch of me craves her again. That patient smile she offers—undeserved as it is—I’ll take it, anyway.
Grip it, hold it, until she’s mine once more.
“Agreed, let’s start over, shall we?” She offers me an olive branch, one I desperately grab.
“Can we please?”
It’s a moment of truth as I place my hand between us. “Hello, I’m Cyrus McCoy. Father of two fantastic children, Chief of Police, and basically a cautionary tale in work boots.”
Our hands connect, hers soft, mine calloused, her eyes sparkle.
“Hi! I’m Fallon Lawson, mother to your adorably cute daughter, salon owner, cosmetics line boss bitch, and entrepreneur. It’s nice to meet you.” She pulls away from me. My hands sweep across my chest in a dramatic show of admiration.
“I think I’m in love.” Something in those green eyes shifts. Her smile lines fade as she lays the truth at my feet.
“You find comfort in admiration for my success and not the horrible reputation that comes from carrying the last name Lawson; God forbid you be guilty by association. Please don’t reference the word love when you speak to me.
I’ve learned those who use that endearment leave me feeling burned.
” Her voice pitches higher toward the end of her statement.
Choosing to ignore her warning, I tell her.
“I’m willing to take my chances.”
“Be careful, Cyrus, you sound smitten. When moments ago, you were shocked that I could tie my shoelaces for any reason other than committing a crime.” She jokes.
“You being extraordinary isn’t surprising to me. I knew you were meant for great things.”
She sobers, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. I have no clue how she’ll react when I finally do what I’ve been desperate to do since the moment I saw her standing in the salon, that curling iron to her lips, my lips.
Her skin is soft, delicate as my fingers caress her cheek, my fingers trailing their way into her hair. I lean down, my lips, capturing hers.
Her lips taste of summer sunshine, the first change of the leaves in autumn, her kiss is the most exquisite taste.
I take advantage of her gasp, sliding my tongue in, teasing her, tasting her.
She melts to me, a small, desperate moan escaping her.
I twine my hands in her hair, a touch of what I’ve been craving; her silken strands do not disappoint me.
I lose myself, groaning as I pull her flush against me and deepen our kiss.
She is everything, and I am nothing without her.
This woman does things to me I haven’t felt since… the last time with her.
The fabric of my shirts whispers as she clutches onto me, desperate, trembling, and the way she kisses me back—it’s raw, it’s wild—she will be my undoing. We move together, instinctual, inevitable, made for one another in a way that feels too precise to be coincidence.
And I know.
Not the way you assume things. Not the way you hope. The kind of knowing that settles deep in your bones and rewrites everything you thought you understood about your life. There’s nothing I won’t do to kiss her for the rest of my life.