To See You

by Rachel Blaufeld

  Love at Center Court Series

  Vérité

  Dolce

  The Electric Tunnel Series

  Electrified

  Smoldered

  Crossroads Series

  Redemption Lane

  Absolution Road

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  For My Electric Readers –

  I wouldn’t be here today without you (I don’t care if it’s a ridiculously cliché thing to say). We’re a crazy crew—young and old, American and not, curvy and slender, with long hair and short. But we all love ankle boots and doughnuts, and most importantly, we love one another.

  No judgment. Only conversation, support, and a common love of reading.

  Thank you for the steady encouragement and daily friendship. You hang, read, share, write reviews, and most of all, believe in my words and me.

  We have shared many milestones together, happy occasions and sad. Here’s to many, many more.

  This is for you.

  And for Nicole –

  Who is really my better half, my way better half. The more organized one.

  Thank you for decoding my choppy e-mails and sending me reminders and, well . . . just about everything.

  Hope to see your smile again—real soon.

  What is it about this guy?

  On paper, he’s one hundred percent wrong for me. His e-mails are equal parts annoying and funny.

  Okay, more funny than annoying. More like refreshing. Different. Exciting.

  But as I stand next to him now, he’s giving me head-to-toe tingles, and I find myself dwelling on his e-mails.

  Meet smart, sexy career girl and New York snob, Charli Richards. She has everything except happiness until the day she meets Layton Griffin. It’s a random encounter on an airplane; it couldn’t mean anything, right?

  Layton isn’t even remotely close to who Charli sees herself hooking up with . . . ever. Her mom and best friend agree he’s not for her, but he makes her feel something exciting, awakens her world.

  But then Layton changes, going to great lengths for Charli to see him for who he really is.

  Will those changes bring them closer together, or will she never be able to see him in the same way again?

  I half sat, half leaned at the bar waiting for her. It was an overpriced, cliché hole-in-the-wall in Manhattan she’d suggested. Best burgers in New York, she’d written in her e-mail. She’d assumed I’d want something big and heavy to eat, overselling the place to me and avoiding the fat fucking elephant in the room.

  Which was me, so I didn’t take the burger suggestion as a slight. I deserved that one. Especially after the sushi debacle.

  But I wasn’t one bit hungry for burgers—not tonight. To be honest, I was famished for her. I was so fucking starving for this woman, I’d gone without an apology, showed up like a good little puppy without even as much as an apologetic whisper. No sorry or a single freaking misgiving about what had happened the last time we saw each other. Zip.

  Now I sat in the bar area like one of those big whales at Sea World, waiting in line for a dead fish. It was dingy and dimly lit, but the Yelpers loved this joint. Of course I’d googled it, making sure I was hip enough to show my face in the establishment.

  Impatient, I swirled the Scotch in my tumbler, the ice clinking against the glass. Out of habit, I pulled my shirt down at the waist, making sure it covered my waistband. It was a habit I still couldn’t quite shake. I’d worn a waffle-knit shirt and khakis, the new trendy kind, elastic at the ankle and a drawstring at the waist—all the bells and whistles.

  I wasn’t sure why I felt like I had to forgo my usual look. The only other times we’d met up, I’d been wearing a music tee and jeans. Except for the premiere, but tonight was different from the other times . . . I hoped. That assumption was probably false and premature on my part.

  As I took a sip of my drink, the liquid burned the back of my throat and warmed me all the way going down, heightening my arousal and calming my nerves at the same time.

  Tiny bells chimed above the door, signaling it was opening—a touch that was out of place for New York City, but I assumed it was part of the charm of this joint.

  She stepped over the threshold, shaking the snow off her now longer hair before swiping her gloved hand down the front of her coat. I saw a hint of red peeking out from underneath her black coat, reminding me it was just past Valentine’s Day, making me wish I’d come earlier in the month. She could have been mine.

  She still hadn’t seen me, so I indulged in a second or ten, allowing my gaze to roam her small frame all the way down to the fur-lined ankle boots . . . with a heel . . . on her feet.

  Unable to get up or move toward her for fear she’d reject me all over again, I turned back toward the bar and caught the score of a basketball game on TV while tossing back the remainder of my Scotch. I felt her presence singe the back of my neck before she laid eyes on me.

  Willing myself not to turn and seek her out, I ran a hand through my hair and mentally chastised myself.

  You pussy. Just look at the woman.

  My hair was styled the same, so she should recognize me from the back. At least, that’s the sorry excuse I gave myself . . .

  Ten Months Earlier

  “Oh my God, Mom, do we have to discuss this? Now? Over the phone? Crap.”

  I bit back a curse as my ankle rolled inside my boot, then stopped and shook out my foot. Stupid me, insisting on wearing stylish wedge ankle boots that were clearly not made for travel. That was me—I hid all my insecurities deep down inside my expensive shoes like a good New Yorker.

  “Charli,” my mom said with exasperation, the i at the end coming out like a very long eee as she begged me to listen to her.

  “Yes, I know,” I said quickly into the phone. “I take birth control seriously. I will . . . I promise to call the doctor. Yes, I swear, but honestly, Mom, it’s not important right now. I barely date, and no, Garrett isn’t the solution. Listen, I have to go.”

  For the second time, I stopped in my tracks and looked up at the gate number, checking to make sure I was at the correct one, and only half listened to my mom’s reply.

  She whined something more about Garrett and him being the solution, and then dropped the guilt card on me again.

  “Honey, you need an important man, one who puts on a suit like your dad always did. That’s what he wanted for you, and I need you to do that for me. He made me promise you would find happiness.”

  Happiness. I snorted to myself. Whatever that is.

  “It’s been a hard week, Mom, but I think you’re getting overly stressed or something. You’re not acting like yourself.”

  “No, it’s not that . . .”

  I tilted my head to pin the phone against my shoulder, feeling a jagged pain shoot down my neck and shoulder blade, and I didn’t bother to listen to the rest of what she was saying.

  “I’m at the gate. I have to go. Don’t stress,” I whispered, handing the gate attendant my ticket while holding the phone awkwardly, my heavy bag cutting off the circulation in my shoulder.

  “You just made it,” the woman said with more pep than a cheerleader at the Super Bowl.

  “Thank God. I have to get out of here and back to New York, where reality is reality,” I told the overly perky blond attendant and shoved my phone in my tote, hoisted it back on my shoulder, and began walking the plank.

  My life was a supersized episode of Bridget Jones. Except I wasn’t chunky and definitely wasn’t as nice as she was in that movie. I thrived on the grimy, rushed mess known as the Big Apple. My faltering ego and stunted soul relied on being better than at least half of the other 8.5 million souls in the city. That way, I continu
ed to feel okay with my deficiencies.

  As usual, I was the last to board the flight. Eternally grateful for first-class upgrades and checked luggage, I walked through the door and looked toward seat 2C.

  Another perky blond airline employee stood in the entryway to greet me. “Welcome aboard.”

  I couldn’t respond because I’d just caught a glimpse of seat 2D. In it was a pretty large man, huge by Manhattan standards, and not in that alpha-male, football-player type way. No, he was big—just big—with half his thigh rolling over into my seat.

  Blech. I’d grown less and less tolerant of others during my years in the city. I used to be different, but now I was a cookie-cutter model of two-thirds of the arrogant women in New York. On the small island, I’d grown accustomed to everyone looking like Sarah Jessica Parker or Mr. Big. They were the golden standard of life and love, even though they were fictional and an unrealistic ideal.

  There the man was, next to my well-deserved cushy leather seat, the one freaking perk I actually liked about my job. The big career—the one I wasn’t sure I even wanted anymore—but at least I could sit in my first-class seat thanks to the frequent-flyer miles I had accrued.

  I quickly scanned the remainder of the first-class cabin and saw every seat was taken. His dark brown eyes took in my frown and defeated sigh before they quickly cast down to his open tray. I made a half-feeble attempt to plaster a fake smile on my face and slid into my seat, cocking my whole body toward the armrest nearest the aisle. Without a word, I shoved my bag under the seat in front of me just as they closed the cabin doors and started the safety announcements.

  The big guy finished off his drink—a Bloody Mary, from the looks of it—and closed his tray without so much as a glance my way. The least he could have done was grab a mimosa or something for me, but nope. He’d sat his fat ass down in 2D and drank to his heart’s content, waiting for the unlucky person to be seated next to him.

  It was my own doing, but I was fully wedged into the outer steel armrest . . . this was my fucking luck. There was plenty of room on my oversized leather seat for my slender size 4 hips, but I was pissed and letting it show.

  Perky blond number two came through and collected Biggie’s empty glass without offering me anything.

  “Can I get one? Or is it too late?” I pointed at the fancy airline glassware and prayed to every god I knew that she would say yes.

  “After we take off.”

  Shit squared. The one time I desperately needed the complimentary cocktail.

  Snatching my phone as we taxied to the runway, I sent my best friend, Janie, a quick text.

  CHARLI: On plane, taking off, seated next to the Biggest Loser. Really. Will need a drink later.

  I powered off my phone before she could reply, twisted my hair into a messy bun, and pushed back into my seat while the captain announced we were next in line for takeoff. Closing my eyes, I squeezed them shut and giggled to myself.

  Janie was probably going ballistic from my text. She could never wait patiently for the scoop. I imagined the two of us later, laughing until it hurt over cocktails, our hair blown out, stilettos on our feet, and not a worry in the world.

  Then later, remorse set in. I was a grown woman, not a college coed, laughing at another human being. I shouldn’t make jokes at this guy’s expense, an innocent bystander I didn’t even know, and I shouldn’t even want to find it funny. I mentally scolded myself for acting like a spoiled Manhattan socialite until we were in the air.

  That’s the problem with moving too fast in life . . . you skip important stages like getting the giggles out. If I’d had a normal college career, maybe I’d be able to move forward without turning my nose up at this guy. Then again, Janie had one, and I bet she couldn’t behave around this dude either.

  I need a new life.

  The minute we reached cruising altitude, I opened the tray, pulled out my laptop, and looked toward Ms. Perky Pants, sending her urgent mental signals for my drink.

  I powered up Lucy and signed in to the back end of my work. I was an editor for BubblePOP, and I’d been off for a week due to my grandmother’s death and funeral. Now I had a shit-ton of work to make up and my mom was going off half-cocked, trying to set me up with Garrett, my fourth cousin twice removed. He was adopted and half Asian, so it was all kosher in her mind.

  “Garrett’s a real catch, Char, ” my mom had whispered into my ear after the funeral. “He’s got a good job at some law firm, travels to all these exotic places because he’s trilingual, and he’s ready to settle down. Look at him. He’s not bad at all, and his life is a perfect combo of wanderlust and settled. And he’s going to be in New York for the next six months! You’re twenty-eight . . . enough with the crazy career stuff already. Time for you to make a life with someone. It’s meant to be, like Dad and me. For the right guy, I didn’t mind giving up everything,” she’d practically squealed in a house of mourning.

  Garrett had been standing in the corner, drinking tea. When I gave him a hesitant smile, he’d practically peed himself. Bottom line, he was a dweeb loser who was smarter than most but had little to no experience with the opposite sex—except for the occasional call girl in Hong Kong, I presumed. And based on the designer Euro-trash skinny suit he was wearing, his secretary obviously dressed him.

  I had zero clue as to why my mom wanted me to date him. She’d always been a free spirit and now suddenly she was all too serious. I chalked it up to my grandmother’s death and shoved Garrett to the back of my mind.

  “Ouch,” I yelped as a sharp pain shot through my elbow and jolted me out of my daydream/nightmare.

  “I’m sorry,” Biggie murmured as he dragged his own laptop up to his tray after accidentally smacking me in the arm.

  “It’s okay,” I huffed. I went back to Lucy, scrolling through recent posts in the section I oversaw.

  “So, BubblePOP?”

  My concentration was again interrupted by the large person next to me. He was leaning over the armrest and inserting himself even further into my personal space.

  Actually, he smelled kind of good. Like rain and something else, maybe cinnamon. Was that his gum?

  “Excuse me?” I turned my head the slightest bit so I could see him.

  He had wedged one of his very large neon-green Beats noise-cancellation headphones to the side, freeing an ear, and smiled as he nodded at my screen. His smile was so honest, so endearing, I found it hard to be annoyed at his spying.

  “BubblePOP? You know, the online megasite with Bubble in script letters and then POP in all caps? You like it? I see you’re reading it.” He prodded me with questions, pointing at my screen and beaming that epic smile my way the whole time.

  “I do like the site. I mean, I work for them and I’ve been off, so I kind of have to get caught up.”

  Semi-reluctantly, I gave him the brush-off. We had a ninety-minute flight ahead of us and I needed to work, yet something about his confident smile made me want to chat more. But that would make me weird, right? He certainly wasn’t my type, nowhere near what I’d convinced myself I needed or wanted. Or both.

  “Here you go, ma’am.”

  The stewardess—flight attendant—handed me my drink, mocking me with a little smirk on her face. She should; I sat there with my tight smile and even more strangling attitude.

  “Cheers.” My seatmate good-naturedly tipped his glass toward me. He wasn’t going to leave me alone.

  I took a long gulp and looked back at my computer screen.

  “Do you like working for them?”

  I tugged at my turtleneck; it was so freaking hot all of a sudden. My nosy neighbor’s face had a slight sheen to it, clearly from being hot, and now his warmth was seeping into my space.

  “I do. They’re a growing company and . . . I’ve made great strides there.”

  What the heck? Why was I even answering him? Because he asked, and if I was honest, it was the nicest anyone had been to me in months.

  Furthermore, why did
I sound like I was on an interview? Or an infomercial?

  He was kind—I could tell—and his smile was gentle and calm, his eyes like warm coffee with just the right amount of cream swirling through it. I turned a little in my seat to face him and my knee brushed his thigh. I let my gaze travel his Beastie Boys T-shirt until I settled on his computer.

  Playing on it was a rom-com, one I’d never seen before, but Katie What’s-her-name—all stunning, shiny hair, celebrity mom, perfect life—was front and center. Her arms were full of shopping bags and she was wearing a big grin on her perfect face as she walked down a city street.

  “You don’t strike me as the romantic comedy type.” I felt my eyebrow lift. I wasn’t sure if I was teasing him or myself as the question floated from my mouth.

  He laughed. It was soothing and comforting like a coffee-and-Kahlua on a cold night, and warm like the sun on the first few days of summer.

  I allowed my eyes to close and imagined he looked like somebody else—not someone else totally, but just different. Fit, not slender but muscular. He still had the same gracious smile and inviting eyes, but he wasn’t wearing a music T-shirt in my imagination. Maybe a Henley? And dark-wash jeans instead of the regular everyday ragged blue I’d noticed him wearing.

  “It’s work too,” he said, interrupting my fantasy.

  “Oh.” I chugged the balance of my mimosa, cooling the wash of desire recently conjured up from my brain.

  “Actually, I’m pretty sure BubblePOP will end up reviewing this one, will probably have someone at the premiere too. That’s why I asked about the site. Six degrees of Kevin Bacon and all that. Our worlds are connected.”

  “I don’t do movies. I’m the fitness editor, but if Katie What’s-her-name is in it, I’m sure we’ll be all over it.”

  He shifted his gaze over fully to me now. His eyes weren’t exclusively deep brown; tiny flecks of amber circled his pupil. They were captivating in a weird way, as if they didn’t belong with this guy.