by Gina Azzi
“Who was it?” he demands, his gaze flickering to my phone.
“Huh?”
“The phone call? Did you receive bad news?”
“Oh, no. I mean, kind of.” I blow out a deep breath, standing from the couch. “It was just Trent. He received a rejection email from Garner & Gibson and was calling because…I received the same one. It was generic like that.”
“Oh,” Evan says, his eyes glued to mine. I see the moment he realizes what that means for me because his eyes widen and soften, a streak of tenderness rippling across his expression. “I’m sorry, Charlie.”
I shrug.
“No, don’t do that.” He shakes his head.
“Do what?”
“Act all blasé, like you don’t care. I know this is the company you were hoping for. It sucks that it didn’t work out, and you’re allowed to feel crappy and wallow in it for at least twenty-four hours, maybe forty-eight if you’re hungover.”
I chuckle, wrinkling my nose. “I got my heart set too early. You know how I am, always too emotionally invested,” I say the words casually, purely thinking of the position.
Evan’s face twists as if I’ve slapped him, regret flaring in his bright eyes.
I realize too late that my words could be misconstrued, that he could be thinking of us. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine.”
Evan runs his hand over his jawline. “Being emotionally invested isn’t always bad; it means you care.”
I shrug. The problem is that I always care too much. Instead of admitting that little nugget of truth, I ask, “Can I take you up on that ‘anything stronger’ now?” I glance at his fully stocked bar.
“Of course.” He walks to his bar. “I’ve got vodka, rum, whiskey, gin…”
“Tequila?”
“Tequila.” He pulls out a bottle of Patron just as the doorbell rings. He glances at the door. “Pizza is already paid for and tip settled. Can you grab it and I’ll pour these?” He balances two shot glasses on his palm.
“Yes,” I agree, heading to the front door.
The moment I breathe in the cheesy, doughy deliciousness of Romero’s pizza, a wave of homesickness rushes through me. I grin at the delivery guy and thank him. Balancing the pie on one hand, I peek inside the box and some of my disappointment from moments ago eases.
I’m okay. It’s all going to be okay. Not landing a job at Garner & Gibson is disappointing, but it’s not going to ruin my life in any way. On the bright side, instead of wallowing in this unfortunate news on my own, or with Mom being secretly pleased, I’m with Evan. Deep down, I know he understands my disappointment and will allow me to flounder in it with tequila for a minute. Being here, tonight, it feels…right.
Being with Evan again feels like home in ways that I’ve forgotten. That, coupled with my current disappointment, is a lethal combination. Tonight, while I’m all in my feels, I can’t shoot Patron and let my guard down. My own self-preservation requires me to keep the ball in my court and do things on my terms. I can’t let the feelings Evan provokes in me to conjure up fantasies that will never come true. I let out a long exhale and roll my shoulders. I got this.
“All good?” he calls from the kitchen.
God, even the sound of his voice, deep and rumbly, hits me square in the chest.
I close the pizza lid. “Yes. Pizza’s here and it smells delicious.”
I enter the kitchen and place the pizza box in the center of the island.
Evan sets out two place settings while I slide onto a barstool, lifting my shot glass of Patron toward him gratefully. “To pizza and tequila.”
He grins, sitting across from me. “It’s like college all over again.”
“Maybe for you. This is sort of a staple dinner of mine.”
Evan chuckles, sliding a slice of pizza on each of our plates.
I take a huge bite just as he asks, “So, tell me about him.”
“Who?” I ask around the pizza I’m chewing. Classy, I know.
“The boyfriend.” His eyes hold mine for a long moment, and I don’t miss the way his jaw tightens.
Confusion blares through my head like a foghorn as I continue to chew pizza and stare at him.
He clears his throat. “How’d you meet?”
“Are you talking about Trent?” I swallow and take a sip of my wine, much to the chagrin of wine drinkers everywhere who are most likely cringing. Hard. Pizza, tequila, and vino. With Evan. My disappointment is slowly fading.
Evan’s eyes narrow at Trent’s name. He gives a curt nod, his hands splayed against the countertop.
“He’s not my boyfriend. He’s my New York BFF.”
Evan continues to glare at me and a thrill flares low in my belly as I study his expression. Wait a minute, is he jealous? Excitement zaps through my body. Is it awful that I hope the answer is yes?
I fiddle with my napkin, letting him stew for a moment longer than necessary. “You know, like my best friend forever? But don’t tell Zoe. Because her feelings would be hurt, and she’s more my soul sister for life.”
The corner of Evan’s mouth lifts. “And he knows that?”
“Of course he knows that. I made us create a secret BFF handshake and everything.” I roll my eyes.
Evan’s mouth lifts higher, until he’s smirking at me. “I mean, he knows you guys are just friends? Or is he secretly pining for you?”
“First of all, guys don’t secretly pine. They’re either oblivious to life or ridiculously obvious.”
Evan snickers.
“Secondly, Trent is gay. And even though I’m a badass bitch, his boyfriend Kevin knows jiu-jitsu and could take me down in a heartbeat. It’s something Trent and I regularly gush over.”
This time, Evan laughs and relief floods his eyes. “Okay, well, I’m glad you have such a great friend in New York.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you are.”
His eyes glimmer as he takes his first bite of pizza. “I am. I was just — worried.”
“Worried?” I shovel another mouthful in.
“Yeah. You know, about this poor guy’s heart. If he’s desperate for a chance and you’re just friend zoning him, well, us guys gotta stick together against vixens like you.”
I tip my head back and laugh. “Bro code?”
“Exactly.”
“There’s no code if you don’t know the guy.”
Evan leans back in his barstool, his expression smoother than I’ve seen it in years. It’s as if the worry has melted off of him, and he’s truly enjoying our banter.
Fine, I am, too. More than I’d like to admit. More than I’d ever confess to him.
“I’m more surprised you didn’t give me shit for ‘vixen.’”
I shrug, folding my pizza slice in half. “If the shoe fits…” I take a bite.
Evan chuckles, the sound deep and relaxed and…cozy as AF. It wraps around me like a familiar hug, and I revel in the knowledge that I still have it. I can still make Evan Holt laugh. “You’re one of a kind, Charlie.”
“The best kind.”
He nods, his eyes warm and sincere as they hold mine. He fills our shot glasses and holds his toward me. “To the best.”
I smile, too damn big and cheesy and silly, and clink my glass against his.
Then, we both drink.
7
Evan
“Another shot?” My mouth drops open in horror. When was the last time I actively took shots of tequila?
“Line ‘em up,” Charlie says, looking less tipsy than me after two glasses of wine and just as many shots.
This should concern me.
Instead, I feel…excited. Adrenaline mixed with anticipation buzzes through my body. It’s a heady combination, and I feel a swell of freedom I haven’t experienced in so long I don’t even know how long it’s been.
“Seriously?” I narrow my eyes.
“Yes! I just got job-dumped.”
I snort, tipping the bottle of Patron. “You didn’t
get job-dumped. You didn’t have the job to begin with.”
“Job ghosted then.”
“They sent you an email.”
“Job lust? I’m suffering from a job lust rejection,” she laments, draping the back of her hand over her forehead.
I chuckle. “You’re no damsel in distress, Charlie.”
“Tell me about it,” she huffs.
“You sure about this?” I ask, passing her a glass.
She lifts it in my direction. “To the unknown.”
“The unknown,” I repeat, throwing back the alcohol. It burns in the best way possible, and I relish the feeling. I drink in the gleam in Charlie’s eyes. I savor the moment. The simplicity of…this.
“Are there other jobs you’re considering in New York?” I ask, leaning back in my barstool.
Charlie shrugs, spinning her shot glass around on the island top. “Yeah. I mean, of course there are. I’m casting a wide net and all of that. I just…” She wrinkles her nose. “I had my heart set on this one.”
“Maybe the job you land will be even better.”
“Maybe,” she sounds unconvinced.
“Is there anything here in Chicago?”
She nods. “There are a handful of agencies I’ve submitted applications to this week. Mainly because my mom asked me to.”
“But you would prefer New York?”
“Yes,” she says, offering me a small smile. “Other than Mom, there isn’t really anything here for me.”
I frown, leaning forward until my elbows rest on the island.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Charlie continues, “Chicago is home. Of course I adore my friends and missed everyone when I was away, but New York was just…it was everything. I loved the grit and the glam. I loved the hustle that seemed to burn the pavement when you walked down Broadway. There was so much happening, so many opportunities and events and just, life.” She sighs, looking exactly like the idealist student I grew out of long before graduation.
The wistfulness in her expression causes me to smile. I wish I had that same zest for…something. Still, the desire with which she speaks of New York fills the pit of my stomach with stones of frustration. Of course she’s not coming back. Why would she? I hate that I carried a shred of hope that she would decide otherwise.
I always knew when Charlie left that she wasn’t coming back. I always wanted more for her, so much so that I worried the passion between us would alter her mindset and hold her back. Back then, if she stayed because of me, it wouldn’t have been a conscious decision as much as a convenience. A convenience that would eventually fester into a resentment. Another Sophie.
But now, if she decided to stay it would be a choice. A decision made after weighing options and comparing experiences. There would be possibilities between us that weren’t a reality three years ago.
“You know what I mean?” she asks curiously, interrupting my thoughts.
I clear my throat and nod, unable to tell her I know exactly what she means. A million years ago—before law school, before Sophie, before I thought about retirement and Ollie’s college education and adulting—I yearned for the freedom and flexibility she wears like a cloak. I wanted to be a hockey coach, to help boys perfect their game on the ice, and help shape them into young men off the ice. The thought causes me to grin; it seems like a million lifetimes ago now.
“Besides,” she sighs, filling up our shot glasses, “I don’t want to lose face.”
“Lose face?” I repeat, turning the words over in my mind. In front of whom?
Charlie winces, a flush coloring her cheeks the softest pink. I want to reach out and run the back of my hand over her skin. “Yeah. God, this is so fucking embarrassing. Look, I just, New York was good for me. Living there, completing my program, it sort of bolstered my confidence. I don’t want to come back here, with my tail between my legs. Like, oh look, Charlie Adams is back. She couldn’t make a marriage work, she can’t make a career work, she’s failing at life.”
The word marriage slams into me like a freight train. In fact, it’s the only word I really hear. “You were married?” When? To whom? How did I not know this?
She cringes and tosses back another shot, smacking her lips. “Almost. Engaged is more accurate.”
I stare at her in shock. “Seriously? Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“I don’t like to talk about it.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like to talk about Sophie, but you know about her.”
“You also have a kid together. Everyone knows about her.”
“Okay. But we, we dated.”
She raises an eyebrow at me, and shame burns my stomach. We dated in the most casual sense. Dinners that ended with hook-ups. Saturday hangouts with Ollie that were more friendly than romantic. I never really gave having a real relationship with her a chance.
“It never came up.”
“What happened?” I ask, curiosity blazing through my veins. A million questions flare in my mind. Why didn’t it work out? How long were they together for? Why the hell didn’t I know about him? Who the fuck is he? I slam my shot back, barely tasting the burn as my body feels too hot for other reasons. Charlie was engaged.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s honestly not worth talking about. The point is, it didn’t work out. And afterwards, well, I sort of lost myself for…a long time. This program, New York, it’s the most significant thing I’ve done in my twenties, and I don’t want to give up on that. I don’t want to have to come back here and have everyone I know think I’m the same girl from years ago. Because I’m not.”
“Then why do you care what they think?” I ask gently. It’s obvious that Charlie has grown. She’s evolved into a beautiful, capable, devastating woman. Who in their right mind would think less of her for moving back to Chicago, to her family, to her roots?
She narrows her eyes, but I can tell she’s thinking over my question. “I don’t know,” she says softly. “I know it shouldn’t matter but it does. It matters to me.” Determination blazes from her dark blue eyes. Her jaw is set, her teeth raking over her bottom lip. Part of me wants to reach out and hug the shit out of her just to remind her that she doesn’t need anyone’s approval; she’s perfect the way she is. The other part wants to kiss her mouth until I can bite that bottom lip and let us both work out our emotional demons. The way we used to, tipsy, breathless, and fucking high on each other.
“Sometimes coming home is harder than going away,” I offer.
She tips her head in agreement.
“I know what you mean, though. About their—the random people from your childhood, your neighborhood, whatever—opinions mattering. When Sophie and I first split, I hated, hated, the rumors that swirled among our circles of friends. Everyone’s opinion on the matter pissed me off, even if they agreed with me. I didn’t want Ollie to be subjected to that type of treatment—the pity, the ridiculous questions, the nosiness. Sometimes, I used to think, maybe we should just up and move, start fresh, you know?”
Charlie nods, her eyes wide.
“But my career is here, and I felt awful about ripping Ollie away from the only life he’s ever known so…”
“You learned to deal with the people and their opinions?”
“Or I learned to manage my own expectations. I learned to grow a thicker skin, too.”
She chews the ends of her hair. “I know people think I’m tough. I mean, I kind of had to be after…” She shakes her head. “But I still carry around a lot of hurt from that time, and coming home, you’re right, it is harder.”
“You’ll figure it all out, Charlie,” I tell her, knowing it’s the truth. But I don’t want to sound like a preachy old guy to the beautiful girl fresh out of school, so I refill our shot glasses instead.
“Hope so.” She raises her glass.
I clink my glass to hers, and we take our shots.
Our conversation shifts into more neutral territory. We talk about Ollie, we reminisce about old days when we would dance at n
ightclubs and eat dinner with Eli and Zoe and Connor and Harlow. We joke and we laugh and we fall back into an old life that is familiar and nostalgic and…right. I lean closer to her over the kitchen island. She stacks her feet on the barstool next to mine. The drinks flow freely, the conversation bubbles effortlessly.
When I get up to pour us glasses of water, I glance at Charlie over my shoulder. She’s staring at me, her gaze heated. Working a swallow in my throat, I admit, “I’m feeling these drinks.”
“Me too.”
I place a glass of water in front of her.
She reaches out a hand and places it on my waist, right where my dress shirt is tucked into my suit pants. The heat of her skin presses through the material and I step even closer. Her fingers curl into the material of my shirt, the drag of her nails seductive.
“Charlie,” I whisper.
She glances up, her eyes inviting. In this moment, all I want to do is accept. I forget the past. I forget that she’s on the cusp of her life, and I’m grinding through mine. I forget that her life exists outside the realm of Chicago. Instead, I lean forward, my palm sliding around her waist to the small of her back. She arches up toward me as I dip down.
She sucks in a breath, her eyes widening as she tips her head back.
My lips brush against hers for one millisecond before I press my mouth to hers and kiss her sweet lips.
She tastes like goddamn sunbeams and rays of hope.
It’s disarming, the graze of her smooth skin beneath my palm, the tiny gasp that drops from her lips, the feel of her fingertips twisting my shirt.
It’s been so long since I’ve been with a woman, I could combust from her kiss alone. My hands slide down to the swell of her ass and I pause, hesitating. Is this what she really wants? Or is she just wallowing tonight because of the job news?
“Why did you stop?” She looks up at me, hurt coloring her tone.
“Charlie, we don’t have to—”
“I want to,” she insists. Her eyes hold mine, the depths of them bottomless. “I want to.”
At the conviction in her voice, I snap like a rubber band. The frustration and anger I’ve carried around lately, like a noose around my neck, dissipate. I’ve been stretched thin, operating on adrenaline and caffeine, and at the heady gleam in her eyes, I give in. I allow myself to fall forward into this moment, into the salvation Charlie’s body offers.
