His lips were soft against mine, so gentle and electric. The salt of our tears mingled as his tongue swept inside my mouth. Our first kiss was beautiful, so much more poignant than any kiss ever could have been at sixteen, and so much more real than it would have been at seventeen.
Logan and I have been together since, and every first we've experienced in the years since that long-awaited kiss have been worth every tear I shed that day and all those that came before. It was not an easy road for either of us, but looking back now, I can say with absolute certainty that some things are worth it.
For me, eighteen and Logan were those things. They still are.
And every time he looks at me, with his cool green eyes filled with love, I know he feels exactly the same.
His stomach twisting and flipping.
His heart racing.
Tingles everywhere.
This morning, he woke me with his fingertips against my cheek. "How old are you now, sweet Hope?" he asked, staring down at me when I opened my eyes.
"Old enough," I whispered.
The smile that spread across his face was radiant.
"Kiss me, baby," he breathed, brushing his lips across my cheek.
I kissed him.
Happily, I kissed him.
A young executive. A street-wise musician.
Two worlds that never should intersect.
Until they do.
Charlotte Preston is tired of the world she inhabits. Her life consists of meetings, deadlines, and budgets. She is surrounded by chaos—stuck in a job she hates, and a life that is slowly killing her. The only thing that brings her happiness and peace is him.
Montgomery Logan is the voice that soothes her at the end of the day. He’s the stranger with the whiskey-colored eyes whose music is the balm to her weary soul.
They never speak. At least not with words.
Until one day things change.
Can their worlds combine? Can they see past their differences for the people they are within? Or will they forever be defined by outward appearance?
Voices droned on about numbers throughout the boardroom. Projected budgets, debt ratio, timelines. All very important—all very dull. I stared out the window at the darkening late afternoon, losing myself in the sway of the tree branches as the wind lifted them, graceful and flowing. Snow swirled, light and diaphanous; the flakes caught in the streetlights beginning to flicker on. It was a dance of sorts—a beautiful, elegant display of the winter that was closing in all around us.
Much like these walls I felt closing in around me.
I shook my head to clear the cobwebs and tried to concentrate on the meeting. Casting my gaze around the table, I saw that everyone was now looking at the forecasted dates, so I hastily flipped the pages, knowing I had missed much of what they’d discussed.
“Charlotte, do you have any concerns in this area?”
I lifted my eyes, meeting the intense gaze of the CEO, Charles Preston. His stare was calm and steady, yet I wondered if he knew I had been drifting.
I swallowed and shook my head. “Not at this time.”
“Good. Ben, what about your area?”
I huffed a small sigh of relief, grateful I had gone through all the notes on the project prior to the meeting. I knew the ins and outs, and at that point, barring some catastrophe, I had no concerns.
I made an effort to concentrate. I attempted to pay attention, jotting down notes and nodding my head as others around the table made comments. It lasted about fifteen minutes, until a gust of wind rattled the glass, and I looked over to see the snow getting thicker. A familiar thrill ran through me.
I loved winter. I loved the cold, the snow, and everything it brought with it. The sounds and sights of the upcoming holidays. Sledding, skiing, even walking in the newly fallen snow—especially at night when the flakes drifted down and the streets were empty. I would walk for hours, bundled up and protected against the frigid cold. I would walk until my nose tingled and my fingers curled inside my mittens.
I loved mittens.
My favorite thing to do in the winter was to curl up on the sofa with a good book, a steaming cup of hot chocolate, and a cozy blanket. Alone and peaceful. It was a stolen pleasure most of the time.
“Charlotte?”
I blinked, bringing myself back to the present. My chest tightened when I realized I had drifted away again. My hand was slack, my pen rested on the open file, and my head was down. It probably looked as if I were asleep.
I raised my head, forcing a smile. “Sorry, I was lost in thought. Crunching some numbers in my head.”
Charles lifted his eyebrows, leaving me no doubt he knew my mind had wandered from the meeting, and my thoughts had nothing to do with numbers.
“I asked if you were available to be on the committee. I’d like you involved.”
I stifled a groan. Another committee. More meetings to sit in on and boring discussions to have—to listen to other executives drone on about how important they were to the project. I hated these meetings.
“Of course. I’ll make sure I clear my schedule.”
“Excellent. Okay, everyone, that’s it for today. The snowstorm is getting bad, so be safe out there.”
I stood, grateful the meeting was finished.
Charles held up his hand. “A moment, Charlotte.”
I sat down, keeping the smile plastered on my face, knowing I was about to get a lecture. He waited until everyone was gone, then stood and rounded the table, sitting beside me.
“Are you all right, Charlotte?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t seem like yourself. You’ve been off for the past while.”
I traced the woodgrain with my finger, unable to meet his eyes. I knew I would see disappointment. “I’m a bit distracted,” I admitted. “I have a lot on my plate.”
“We all do. That’s the nature of this business. I need your head in the game on this one. It’s huge. I’m counting on you.”
“I know.” I cleared my throat. “It won’t happen again.”
He studied me for a moment, then tilted his head in acknowledgment. “I expect you to do better.”
Shame tore through me. “I will.”
“You look drained.”
I was surprised at the unexpected, personal remark. “I’m fine. Honest, I am.”
“All right. You’re a grown woman, so I’ll take your word for it. I suggest you limit your nights out to the weekends. I need you sharp. No more drifting during meetings.”
“Yes, sir.”
He stood, smoothing down his suit jacket. An action not required—Charles Preston always looked impeccable. His silver hair gleamed under the lights, not a strand out of place. At sixty, he was still tall and broad, his posture stiff. His blue eyes were like ice—light and piercing. When I was little, I swore they saw everything, no matter how I tried to hide my mistakes. I was sure they still did.
He crossed the room, pausing at the door. “Your mother is expecting you for dinner this evening.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Will you be riding with me?”
“No, I have a few things to do first. I’ll take the subway.”
He sighed, the sound impatient. “You know how I feel about that, Lottie. I wish you would stop with that independent attitude and let me give you a car and driver.”
It was rare to see a glimpse of my father in the office. There we were Charles and Charlotte. Lottie was never used. Personal things were never discussed. The lines were clearly drawn. It was business, plain and simple. It didn’t matter I was named after him, or I was his daughter. He was firm on his rules. I was used to it, and I made sure to follow the rules at all times. That was what was expected of a Preston.
“I like to walk.”
He snorted and rolled his eyes. “And take the subway.”
I shrugged. “I like the people. I like watching them.”
“You can do that from the comfort of a Town Car.”
/>
It was my turn to roll my eyes. “That smacks of being elitist.”
He smiled at me—a cold smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Heaven forbid I sound elitist when it comes to the safety of my daughter.”
“I’m fine. I’m careful.”
“I still don’t like it.”
My stomach clenched at the thought of him insisting on the car. If that happened, the one thing that made my life bearable these days, the one bright spot, would be taken away. I couldn’t let that happen.
“Please, drop it,” I begged, my throat tight with emotion. “Let me have this bit of freedom.”
He pulled open the door. “Fine. For now. But the subject isn’t closed.”
I picked up my files, following him out the door. “I never expected it to be.”
Time dragged. I watched the clock; its hands slowly ticking down the seconds until I could leave. Everyone laughed at my old-fashioned battery operated timepiece I kept on my desk. I liked the soothing sound of the soft movement of the hands as it ticked away the minutes. The quiet chimes it made every hour helped me through the days.
Finally, it was six. I slammed down the lid on my laptop, jamming it into my messenger bag. I made sure I had my pass, and I headed for the elevator. Before the doors closed, my father stepped in.
“Changed your mind? Are you coming with me?”
“Um, no. I’m heading home.”
A look of displeasure crossed his face. “Your mother…”
I interrupted the start of his lecture. “I’m coming for dinner. I have to go home first.”
His brow furrowed. “You live on the East Side. We’re on the West. What is so important you have to go all the way across town?”
My heart started to hammer in my chest. I felt the back of my neck grow damp with anxiety. “I want to change, and ah, Sally is calling.”
“What nonsense.”
“She needs to talk to me, Dad. I promised.”
“Fine. I’ll get the driver to take you.”
“No!” I almost shouted the word at him.
He stepped forward. “Charlotte, what is going on with you?”
“Nothing. I just . . . I need to do a few things. Dinner is never until 8:30. I have lots of time.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “And you insist on taking the subway?”
“I like the subway. I listen to music and it gives me some down time.”
“I don’t understand you. You’re distracted. I don’t like it.”
“I’m fine.” The doors opened, and I hastened ahead of him. “I’ll see you soon!”
He didn’t chase after me. I knew he wouldn’t. Charles Preston would never make a scene in public. Still, I didn’t stop until I was around the corner. I leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, forcing myself to calm down.
He was right, of course. It was stupid to travel across town to my own place, then head to theirs for dinner.
But if I didn’t, I would miss him.
I couldn’t let that happen.
He was the only thing I lived for these days.
Even if he didn’t know.
I exited the train, my eyes scanning the area. I felt frantic tonight. The anxiety I’d been experiencing grew daily, and I was always tense until I saw him. Then my body would relax, my heartbeat slowed, and I felt better.
It happened every time.
I heard him first. The strains of his guitar met my ears, his music settling into my head, blanketing me with peace. I followed the sounds, finding him close to the benches, playing. His head was down, sandy brown hair falling into his face as he looked down at his hands. Leaning casually against the wall, he was tall and lean, his fingers long and strong as he coaxed notes from a guitar so old, I was sure it was an antique. A battered case lay on the ground in front of him, coins thrown in by commuters glinting in the light. There were only a couple of paper bills among the collection, and I wondered, as I did every time I saw him, if he had collected enough to eat tonight. If he had somewhere to sleep.
My fingers curled around the bills I had in my pocket. Tonight, I would somehow distract him long enough to drop the money into the case. Every time I tried, he frowned at me. He let me know, silently, with his whiskey-colored eyes, he didn’t want my money. He had accepted it once, and never again. The last time I edged closer, intent on dropping in some cash, he used his foot to snap closed the lid, giving me a glare and a firm shake of his head. When I retreated and sat back down on the bench, he flipped open the lid, letting others drop in money.
Why he wouldn’t allow me to do the same, I had no idea.
As I stood, watching and listening, his head lifted. Our gazes met, locking across the busy platform. The ghost of a smile curled the corner of his mouth. Tonight, his chin was dusted with a five o’clock shadow, darkening the sharp edges of his jaw. Sometimes he was clean-shaven. Other times a beard appeared. I never knew what to expect.
His ever-present dimple deepened when he grinned. My chest loosened as I moved closer, sitting down on one of the benches with a deep sigh of relief.
I never spoke to him. He never approached me. But every evening, I was there, hoping he would be somewhere in the station, playing. And every evening, he was. His music soothed and calmed me. His presence did the same.
And tonight was no different. I was ready to let the day melt away.
The first time I heard him, I was rushing through the terminal, stressed and upset. The latest project I was working on wasn’t going well. It was behind schedule, and investors were balking, threatening to pull their support. My father had been on a tear, and it didn’t matter if I was his daughter. I was included in the rant, which was long and loud. After he finally let us leave, I headed home, feeling exhausted and deeply distressed.
I hated my job with a passion. I hated every aspect of it. I did it because of obligation and duty. I was good enough at it, but found no joy in the routine. Others around me lived for it, and I often wished for their drive.
My legs felt too weary to hold me up any longer, and I stumbled to a bench to sit and find enough energy to walk the short distance home. I shut my eyes, letting my head fall forward. A few minutes later, I heard it. The strains of a strummed guitar, and the timbre of a low tenor singing. The notes and music filled me. As I listened, I felt a wave of calm flow through me, and my strength returned. I lifted my head, and I was met with a gaze that shook me to my very soul.
Eyes the color of the finest whiskey regarded me. His sandy-colored hair was long and shaggy, yet it suited him. Dressed in torn jeans and a worn leather jacket, he stood tall and confident, meeting my eyes. His brow furrowed as he observed me, still singing and playing. His head tilted, as if asking me silently if I was okay. I found myself nodding in his direction, and then it happened.
He smiled.
His dimple popped, his lips curled, and it felt to me as if the sun had suddenly burst forth in the station. I felt the warmth of his soul in that smile. Then as suddenly as it appeared, it faded, leaving me feeling cold. Still, his eyes remained on me, as he played, moving from one song to another.
I sat for as long as I could, listening. Then, when I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer, I stood. I loathed to leave. Leave him. I dug in my pocket, knowing I had a couple twenties in there. He watched me close the distance between us, pausing in front of him. For the first time since I opened my eyes, he faltered in his movements, no longer playing. Our connected gazes, however, never broke.
I tossed the money into his case. “Thank you,” I whispered.
He resumed playing, another grin appearing on his face.
His music followed me all the way up the stairs, and echoed in my head all evening.
He had been there every night since.
Time went too fast. I knew I had to get to my parents’ place. All I wanted to do was sit and listen to him for a while longer, but I knew I couldn’t. I stood, brushing off my skirt, sliding my hand in my pocket. I glanced around, re
alizing how to get the money into his case. He expected me to go past him on the left and head toward the stairs. Instead, I would be heading back to the tracks, which meant I would pass him on the right where the case rested on the ground. I wouldn’t stop; I wouldn’t make eye contact. I would simply breeze past and drop it in. It was a large enough target; I couldn’t miss. To be extra sure, I balled up the bills tight in my fist.
I inhaled and slung my messenger bag over my shoulder, walking toward him. Luck was with me, as a few people stood in front of him, listening. He often drew a small crowd, which always pleased me, especially if they dropped money in his case. I felt his eyes on me as I approached. Then at the last minute, I veered to the right and went past him, with hurried steps. I dropped the wad of bills into the case, and watched them nestle next to some coins. His guitar playing faltered, but I kept going, feeling satisfied. He accepted it from everyone else. I was his most appreciative customer, and it was important to me.
I waited on the platform to head back to my parents’ side of town. I stepped on the train and sat down. Glancing up, I was met with those tawny eyes through the glass. With his guitar in its case and slung over his shoulder, he had his hands on his hips, looking at me in disapproval from the short distance. Unable to help myself, I gave him a thumbs up.
His smile appeared—the one that lit up my world, the dimple in his cheek deep and prominent. As the train pulled away, he stepped back, then, in an old-world gesture I didn’t expect, laid his hand over his heart.
Mine sped up at the sight.
“I thought you went home to change.”
I lifted my wine to my lips, stalling for time. “Sally talked longer than I expected.”
“You could have called her from here.”
What the Heart Wants: An Opposites Attract Anthology Page 25
