Page 6 of Falling into Place
Chapter Four
Brooks
Brooks Martin, please report to the principal’s office. Now .
—Heard over the intercom at Freemont High School, senior year
The email came through late Monday evening while Brooks was sprawled out on his couch, reading about gardening in Oklahoma. As soon as he saw the sender, a stab of apprehension pierced his side.
Well, well, well. If it wasn’t the consequences of his own actions.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Brooks,
Well hi! It’s been a while, huh? Hope things are going well and you’re not dreading this email, because I’ll be honest, I’m picturing you dreading this email.
Sasha really cooked something up this time, didn’t she?
The good news is I’m confident with a few good outfits and avoiding any more of her meddling, we’ll get through it together.
And, you know, if this goes well, maybe you’ll end up with the love of your life. Or get laid at the very least.
Brooks blinked at the screen, taken aback. Had Carly Porter just made a sex joke?
Anyway, Sasha mentioned your work schedule is pretty hectic so I’ll just get straight to the point.
At the bottom of the email there’s a link to our website, feel free to check out the How It Works and FAQ pages to learn more.
I’d like to schedule the initial consultation where I can answer any questions you have and learn about your style preferences.
We can do it in person or via Zoom. In person is ideal but I’m flexible. Let me know what you think.
Carly
Brooks got up and grabbed a beer before following her advice to click on the link, this whole thing feeling more real the further he got.
Mode Style was a decent-size business, founded locally (likely why Sasha picked it) but had expanded beyond Oklahoma, employing several full-time consultants, social media experts, and marketing specialists in other large cities throughout the Midwest. They offered personal shopping, wardrobe styling, and image consulting services (which he understood only slightly better after reading the description).
His natural inclination was to request a virtual consult. He liked being at home, felt more comfortable behind a screen rather than face-to-face, and liked the idea of not being immediately judged for his clothes on their first meeting.
On the other hand, his sisters had implied he’d become some sort of recluse, which he’d grudgingly realized wasn’t wrong. Maybe he needed a trial run with Carly before going on an actual date with a stranger, and this was as good an opportunity as any.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Carly,
Dread is probably too strong a word. Am I looking forward to the next few months? No. But working with you is the least of my worries (please don’t take that as a challenge).
I’d like to meet in person if we can. I’m on service this week, so my days are pretty long.
Maybe we could meet for coffee sometime tomorrow evening?
Brooks
Fifteen minutes later, his phone dinged.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
That’s perfect—I have a different job during the day so I usually meet after hours, anyway. How about tomorrow at 6:30pm? Ever been to Coffee Slingers on Broadway?
Carly
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Love that place. See you then.
Brooks
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Perfect. If possible, could you follow the link at the bottom and fill out as much of this personal style questionnaire as you can before we meet?
Carly
He frowned at the screen. Homework already? Damn.
Brooks walked into Coffee Slingers at 6:24 the next evening. Ever since arriving three minutes late for rounds his first week as a resident at University Medical Center and receiving a public evisceration by the attending in front of the entire team, he’d never been late for anything again.
Like, literally never.
His gaze swept the shop. He didn’t see anyone he recognized, so he headed toward an empty table to wait and keep an eye on the door.
“Brooks?”
He swiveled left, searching for the feminine voice. A (very) pretty brunette sat at the table he’d just passed, offering him a hesitant smile and a little wave.
He blinked. “Carly?”
Wow.
She looked ... different. Fifteen years would do that to a person, he supposed. Why he expected the same girl with short blond hair and massive hoop earrings, he had no idea. He certainly didn’t resemble the high school version of himself, thank God.
Her hair was brown, wavy, and long—so long he wasn’t sure where it stopped—and he had the strangest urge to walk behind her or ask her to pull the mass over her shoulder so he could find out.
Her features were similar to the girl he knew but matured and notably more confident than he remembered, even with her hesitant half smile.
He was nervous, too. Plus, he was staring at her like a total jackass.
“Hey. Sorry. I didn’t recognize you.”
She stood and offered her hand in a formal, professional gesture. “You look different, too.”
Hard to say whether she meant that as a compliment. He shook her hand, firm but gentle, and after a beat of awkward silence he tipped his head to the counter. “Have you already ordered?”
“Not yet.”
“Will you let me buy?” He’d need the bonus points when she saw how terrible he’d done on that questionnaire.
She hesitated for a beat, then shrugged. “Okay.”
Another customer was at the counter, so they stepped up to wait. She stood quietly beside him, and he had no idea what to say, so he studied the menu as if he didn’t know damn well he’d be ordering a quad Americano.
Thankfully, they didn’t have to wait long. Carly ordered a latte, and once they were settled back at the table with their drinks, he eyed the thick leather binder on the table.
It seemed a little rude to jump right into the reason they were here, but he wanted to get this over with. He should probably ask how she was and what she’d been doing the last fifteen years, but the words wouldn’t come.
Small talk wasn’t something he did much of these days. His conversations usually either had purpose, like discussing patient status and treatment plans, or occurred with someone he’d known forever and felt comfortable enough with not to fill empty space with bullshit.
He took a drink of his Americano, keeping his eyes on the table.
“So you’re a doctor now?”
He looked up and met her brown eyes. They were pretty. Warm and friendly and framed by long, dark lashes. “Yeah.”
“And you work at a hospital?”
“Yeah. In the ICU.”
“How much school did that take?”
“I finished last June.” What were his sisters so worried about? Clearly he was a conversational wizard.
“Holy shit. You’ve been in school almost this whole time?”
“Pretty much.” How did he not remember those eyes? Had he ever noticed them at all?
“And here I was proud of my four-year bachelor’s degree.”
“You should be,” he said honestly. “That’s a major accomplishment.”
She muttered a few words that sounded both humorous and self-deprecating under her breath, bringing her cup to her lips.
Something about it relaxed him. “What’s your degree in? Something with fashion?” Was that a thing?
She shook her head. “Nah, that sort of always came naturally to me. My degree’s in accounting, actually.”
“Oh.” Seemed like a significant deviation from fashion, but when he thought about it, math for a career made sense for her, too. She’d always seemed ridiculously smart. “Is that your day job?”
“Yeah. I’ve been at Mode for two years now, though. It might not seem like long, but I’ve always had solid intuition when it comes to clothes. You’ll be in good of hands with me, I promise.”
Did she think he thought she wasn’t good enough to work with him, or something?
God, the idea of doing this with a stranger was ten times worse.
“It’s not like I’d know the difference. According to Sasha, I have no fashion sense.
” He glanced down, then back at her. “You probably already judged what I’m wearing, didn’t you? ”
“Of course not.”
He didn’t usually give a second thought to his clothes, so why he felt the need to defend himself was beyond him. “I only wear scrubs at work, and I don’t have time to shop. Even if I did, now that my sisters made me all self-conscious about it, I probably shouldn’t trust anything I might like—”
He stopped short when Carly laughed. It was one of those unexpected, full-bodied laughs, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard it before.
It slid across his skin like a cool breeze on a stifling summer day.
“Relax, I didn’t even notice what you were wearing,” she said.
But she wouldn’t meet his eyes.
The word slipped through his lips without thought. “Liar.”
She met his gaze and blinked. Her lips twitched, confirming his suspicion, and even though he should probably be offended, he had the strangest urge to smile. This felt familiar, like the other night when he’d sat with his sisters.
Another tiny piece of pressure slipped from his shoulders, and he shook his head slowly, feigning astonishment. “Shouldn’t this be a safe place? An honest environment between expert and client?”
She cupped her hands around the speckled ceramic mug. “Do you really want to do this now? I’d planned on easing you in.”
He met her gaze straight on. When a new patient was admitted to his service, he had to figure out how bad things were before he could come up with a treatment plan. “Straightforward is best. I can take it.”
Her left brow arched as she regarded him. Finally she sighed, seeming resigned. “It’s the jeans.”
The hell was wrong with these jeans? Macy had mentioned them, too. “What about them?”
“They’re one, maybe two sizes too big. I see zero indication there’s an ass anywhere in there.”
He was so focused on them (his favorite pair) he nearly missed the second part of what she said. “Do ... do I want people to see my ass?”