by S. L. Scott
“I’m not one to turn my nose up at a cupcake, so any kind you like,” I reply, resting my shoulder against the case.
She leans forward and picks a pack of liners that are white with a lime wedge design on the side. “I’m thinking of making margarita cupcakes.”
“I’ve never heard of cupcakes the flavor of cocktails. It’s genius.”
This elicits a giggle from her. She takes her liners, and I trail behind as she proceeds toward the checkout counter.
Walking out into the early June heat, we both pause at the store’s door before we’re hit with the sun’s harsh rays. “I freckle easily,” she says, looking at me.
“I know.” I’ve watched freckles slowly start to cover her nose and cheeks as the warmer weather set in. I even made my heroine freckle. I recall a passage of my book that I wrote the other day.
My Everything ~
Though she considered them blemishes, he loved them. He loved every unique little sun spot on her, and often let his eyes drift from one to the next, making invisible patterns on her beautiful skin.
“Charlie?” she asks, breaking into my thoughts.
“Let’s go get you a hat,” I reply. I hope she didn’t notice my momentary mental disappearance.
She walks from one awning to the next, staying in the shade as much as possible.
Ducking into a corner store, I see a shelf in the front with baseball caps. “Yes, you need a Mets hat,” I say, convinced this is the right choice as I put it on her head.
“No, the Cubs.” She scans the shelves for a Cubs hat. She won’t find one, because this is New York City, and no store here is stupid enough to carry a Cubs hat.
“The Cubs? Are you crazy, woman? Talk like that can get us hurt in this city. I almost could have tolerated you supporting the Yankees, but the Cubs? No can do.” I shake my head at the horrid thought. “Maybe we should go to a Mets game this year. The smell of peanuts and popcorn, a cold beer on a hot day, watching one of the best baseball tea—”
“A Yankees game?” she asks, putting on a Yankees hat.
“You’re hilarious,” I deadpan. “The Mets. Always the Mets. Their games are more entertaining.” She rolls her eyes, and I decide I can’t stomach seeing her face under such an abhorrent logo, so I swiftly remove the offensive hat. “You’re a New Yorker now, pretty girl. It’s decision time. The Mets or the Yankees?”
“Why do you like the Mets so much? Don’t the Yankees have more history?”
“The Mets are the underdogs. I liken myself to them. Oh, I know what’s going on here. Don’t tell me Jim was a Yankees fan?”
I knew I shouldn’t have said it the second the words came out. But they did, and though I know it’s painful for her to think about him, I’m glad she’s faced with these memories. She’s been more open about her life with him, and how she felt after they broke up. The hardest part has been trying to help rid her of the guilt she feels over his death. Why should she feel guilty? He was the ass who cheated on her. He was the ass who ended it with her. She has no reason to feel guilty, but maybe that’s what happens. Maybe the living carry the burden of the deceased.
She takes the Yankees hat from my hands, tosses it back onto the shelf, and slips the Mets hat on. “I think it’s time for a change.”
I nod in agreement. I can feel the tension from a moment earlier lift. “That hat looks good on you.”
Putting one hand on her hip and one behind her head, she wiggles her hips for me, showing off. “Why thank you, kind sir.”
“Come on. I’ll buy the hat after that little show.”
Back out on the street, she hooks her arm with mine as we stroll. I’ve been meaning to tell her something, but haven’t found the right time. I just say it, because I hate not being open with her.
“So, I was asked out yesterday.” I wait for her reaction.
She doesn’t look my way, but busies herself with the small shopping bag in her hand. “Oh yeah?” She’s trying for indifference, but I see through her. We may not know every secret about each other, but we’ve learned to read each other pretty well.
“What do you think about that?”
“That’s kind of forward of a woman to ask you out.”
I nudge her. “You know what I mean.”
She points across the street. “You want a coffee?”
I point to a bistro next to the coffee shop. “You want food and a drink?”
That makes her laugh. “I can eat.”
“Good, because I can drink.”
We walk into the little café and ask for a table outside. It’s midafternoon, and the crowd reflects that in their business attire. I met her at her work because she had a half day, and we’ve been walking around shopping for the last two hours.
“It feels good to sit down. These shoes are not made for walking.” Her eyes meet mine and she adds, “Ironically.” She takes her hat off and tucks it into her purse.
“No, but they’re sexy on you so they’re worth the pain, right?”
She gives me a mischievous smile, and a pale pink colors her cheeks. Someone else might think it’s from the heat, but I know different. “Always with the compliments.” She leans down to rub her ankle and says, “Yes, they are sexy, which was the initial appeal, but I only wear them to work, so I don’t think they were one of my best purchases.”
Leaning down, I lift her ankle onto my thigh and rub gently. “Then wear them for their intended purpose.”
She watches as I caress and massage. Resting her elbows on the table, she asks, “And what is their intended purpose?”
“Is this where I’m supposed to give you my best line?” Her body is relaxing before me, her pretty eyes looking right back into mine.
“No, this is where—”
“Hi, can I start you off with drinks?” The waitress asks. Charlie drops her foot to the ground, the intimate moment we were sharing interrupted.
I should look at the waitress, but I’m too fascinated by the emotions playing in Charlie’s eyes to look away. I order wine. “Do you have Rombauer Carneros Chardonnay?”
“I believe we do. Let me look that up,” the waitress replies, turning her attention to the menu. “Yes, we carry that. Two glasses?”
“The bottle, please.”
“Would you like to hear the specials tonight?”
I break my stare from Charlie and look up. “I’m feeling adventurous. Surprise me with the special. Charlie?”
“I’ll have one of your specials, too. You decide.”
The waitress smiles and then says, “You won’t regret it. They’re both delicious. I’ll be right back with your wine.”
I want to pick up where we left off, but something tells me that ankle massages and the topic of sexy shoes and their intended purposes are over. We sit in amiable silence until the wine is uncorked and poured.
After a sip, she says, “Tell me about this date.” She’s not looking at me, and it makes me wonder if me dating really does bother her.
I lean forward, wanting her eyes back on me. As soon as she looks my way, I say, “I never said I was going.” I take a sip—okay, it’s a gulp—and hold eye contact.
“Why wouldn’t you go? You don’t like the desperate type?”
That earns a solid laugh from me, and a little giggle from her. “If I went out with every woman who asked, I’d never get to spend time with you.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“Apparently not,” I say, raising an eyebrow.
She squirms a little under my gaze, but I’m just speaking the truth. We’ve gotten so close over the last couple of months, yet we still aren’t talking about what we are to each other or want to be.
She turns back to face the street, sipping her wine nervously, or what I like to call jealously. I can see it in the way her eyes study every woman who glances my way. I can see it in how she tries to pretend I didn’t make that dig at our relationship, at us, and her avoidance of becoming more than friends with me
.
“How’s the book coming along?” she asks. Another obvious sign of how she gets annoyed at herself for feeling jealous—she changes the topic.
“Swimmingly.”
“That’s not a word,” she says, leaning back, relaxing again. Avoiding.
“Are we going to play this game again?”
“I’ll bet dinner on it.”
“I’ve eaten here before. Dinner can be quite expensive.” I wink to antagonize her. “You sure you want to take that bet?”
She straightens her spine, defensive. “I can afford it.”
“I’m not judging you, Charlie, just letting you know.” I hope she doesn’t think I’m teasing or taunting her. I know this place is more on the higher end. I would’ve ordered something different if I’d known she’d be buying, something less expensive.
“You must be very confident?”
“I am. And you like my confidence.”
She rolls her eyes in that cute way she does when she feels I’m being arrogant then grabs her phone from her bag and searches for ‘swimmingly.’ Dropping her phone into her purse with attitude, she takes another large gulp of wine. “Sometimes you really frustrate me, Charlie Adams.”
I’m right on the word, but I have a feeling it’s the thought of me dating that really frustrates her. “I know.” I lean in close and whisper, “And it’s so fun to push those buttons of yours.”
“Speaking of buttons, how many dates have you been on in the last six months, anyway?”
I’m so right. She attempts to wrap her jealousy into a casual question. Our food arrives, but it feels intrusive to the moment we’re having.
When we’re alone again, I reply, “Not many. I’ve got pork.” Her eyes flash to mine. “I’ve got pork loin. You should get your mind out of the gutter.”
She laughs. “I like being in the gutter. Ooh, I got salmon. You want a taste?”
I nod and open my mouth. She slips the fork in and drags it slowly back out. “Yes, yours is delicious. Open up.”
Feeding her a bite of mine, I watch her lips gently cover the tines of my fork and pull back.
“I like the pineapple chutney with it. What does ‘not many’ mean? Under fifty, more than three?”
I can’t keep from laughing. She’s so jealous. Why will she not admit this to herself? I want this relationship to become more, but only when she’s onboard of her own accord. I won’t push to make this happen, but I’m willing to wait and see where this goes.
Until she says, “Maybe you should date.”
I stare at her in astonishment. “Really?” Lame response, but that’s all that’s coming to me right now. Questions start to fill my head and get me wondering. Maybe she’s seeing someone. Maybe she wants to see someone and feels guilty because of me. “Are you dating?”
“No.”
I watch her take a bite of her food, chewing so slow before she takes another sip of wine. “Why not?” I ask.
“Just haven’t been feeling it, or maybe I haven’t met the right one yet.”
That’s a punch to the heart. I should wait to respond when I have a rational reply, but my heart overrules my head. “I think I’ll call her back right now and set it up.”
“Why?” Her words are rushed. “What’s the big deal? You can’t wait? I thought we were eating?”
Relief washes over me. She may know how to push all of my buttons, too, but even she realizes she went too far this time. I smile at her, glad she stopped this silly game before it turned ugly. She cares more than she lets on, that’s for damn sure. Now, how can I make her admit she wants to be with me when she can’t seem to see it herself?
This is the challenge I face. Nothing great was ever achieved by taking the easy route, I remind myself.
“You’re right. We are, and just for the record, Rachel is the only one I’ve been on a date with since we met.” I hold up my wine glass and offer a toast. “To good food and the two of us living in the here and now.”
Chapter 20
The first of July brings hotter weather, it’s lighter later, and I find my mind drifting off to the thought of beaches, vacations, and Charlie in a bikini. I wonder if she wears bikinis. With a body like hers, I hope she does. That’s a nice image.
I’d like to spend more time picturing Charlie in a bikini, but I need to concentrate on the book because the first part of it is due to my editor soon. Turning back to my laptop, I continue writing.
My Everything ~
Her laugh didn’t sound like bells chiming, or birds singing. It was better than that. Her laugh was hardy and sometimes punctuated with a snort or two at the end, and I absolutely could not get enough of it. I was willing to embarrass myself on purpose just to invoke it.
I often wondered if she was onto my games, but she never said anything. Although sometimes, just sometimes, I also wondered if the laugh was coming from somewhere other than the superficial stuff that supposedly caused it. I could see it in her eyes. That look. That look that told me it was more, that there was more between us than ridiculous jokes and cocktails. She was happy and laughing from the heart.
Her eyes gave her away. She felt more, just like I did. But now, it was time to test our relationship and tell her. Her beauty tonight made me think impossible things. Impossible things and heartfelt confessions, such as adding a future to our past and present.
I save the document, ending it there for the day. Writing this book has been draining. I know it’s not what Alec expected from me. Hell, a love story isn’t what I expected to be writing either, but that’s exactly what’s being written. That’s what is flowing and needs to be told.
The hardest part of this process has been relying on Charlie to lead me in the direction of the story. She’s been guiding me to the ending all along, completely unaware. Sometimes I worry that neither the story, nor we, will get the happy ending we want and deserve, but I try to believe and hold onto hope.
I’m giving her time, because I’ve never felt like this about anyone. I stay in this relationship, this friendship with her, because I realize that this might be it. This might be all we ever are, and being the loser I am, I’d take it. I’d settle for this if this is all she can give me. She’s the one, but she’s skittish from being burned by love, so I’ll just have to show her I’m the one for her.
Time is what’s needed. I’m the impatient sort, so time has become my torturer.
My phone buzzes, inching across the desk in front of me. Justin’s calling. “What’s up?”
“Just got a call from my girl. Rachel said you need to come up here today. Charlie might need you.”
“Why, what’s going on?”
“Something about an auction and Charlie crying. That’s all I got from Rachel. When emotions get involved, I tune out. You know this, dude.”
I shake my head. “Yeah, that’s real appealing to the ladies, I bet. How ever does Rachel resist your charms?”
“She doesn’t. The woman is insatiable.”
“No, don’t go there,” I say, cringing. “Let’s get back to Charlie. She’s at work?”
“Yeah, something about some dead ex-boyfriend and an auction today.”
Jim’s estate is being auctioned and it’s happening today? “I’ve gotta go. Bye.”
I hang up and call Charlie’s cellphone, but there’s no answer. I grab my wallet and keys and take off.
Grabbing a cab because it’s faster, I hurry into her building on Madison and up to her floor. I approach the reception desk. “I’m here to see—”
“Charlie Barrow.”
“Yes,” I reply. I’m surprised the receptionist knows.
“I remember you from the last time you were here.”
“Good memory. Can I go back?”
She leans forward on her elbows, and her smile grows wide. “She won’t be at her desk. There’s an auction in less than an hour. She’ll be gone for a while. Do you want to wait here with me?”
She’s flirting. I know all the tellt
ale signs. Her eyes are wide and focused on me with a little glint in them. She readjusts until the V of her top is highlighting her cleavage. She leans forward, even at the expense of it appearing odd and uncomfortable.
“Thank you, but I need to find her. It’s important.”
She sits back, not wasting another minute of her time on me now that I’ve shown no interest. With a dismissive wave of her hand, she says, “In that case, she’s down on the first floor in the gallery or the auction room.”
I hurry back to the elevators and down to the first floor, rounding the corner to find the entrance. When I enter the auction room, it’s empty. I call her name out a couple of times anyway. “Charlie?”
A man pushes through wide double doors off to the back and props them open. I see people milling about back there. Walking into the large gallery, I look for her, but still nothing.
“Charlie!” I hear Rachel call me, and I turn. Her heels echo in the large room as she hurries over. “I’m glad you came. She acted like it didn’t matter all day, but now . . .” She sighs and looks around. Leaning in, she whispers, “This is the first time I’m clerking an auction on my own. I want to be there, but—”
“Don’t worry. You go do your job. Where is she?”
“She’s by the jewelry display case.” She points to the back left of the gallery.
As I walk over there, I notice all of the stuff going on the block today. A leather couch. A painting that looks like the ones sold at the corner of Washington Square, but the expensive version, and a crystal vase. Everything is very traditional, formal, the painting an exception. From the photo frames to the dining table and chairs, the items piece together the mystery of who Jim used to be, but I don’t see much of Charlie in the belongings.
I round a large china cabinet and see her standing in front of a jewelry case, not touching it, but staring at the backlit glass box. When I touch her back, she startles. “Hey there.” I’m hoping I can calm her, support her, be whatever she needs me to be for her.
Being discreet, she wipes underneath her eyes with the back of her hand, and the action alone shows me how vulnerable she is to what’s happening. “I thought I was over all of this, but seeing it here . . .” Her eyes drift to mine. “Why do these things affect me this way?”
