Char’s arms locked around her neck, their bodies melding together. Char held her like she wanted to hold her forever, as if she wasn’t afraid of hurting her but feared the moment when she had to let go.
Each time their lips brushed was a question posed gently: “More?” Her tongue stretched out, a soft “Yes” in response. When she flicked her tongue across Char’s lower lip, it was another question: “More?” One of Charlotte’s hands cradled the back of her head in answer.
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
Their lips parted, open, inviting. Tongues brushed like silk sliding across velvet. Amarie forgot the pain in her joints, the body that limited her to one space. With Char’s mouth locked to hers, she became more than just herself. Together they were a boundless universe, a frontier that could never be mapped.
Then her brain signaled that it needed oxygen, and she had no choice but to end the kiss and breathe. For a moment, she remained suspended, her arms still embracing Char. They gazed at each other, not speaking, their eyes communicating the mutual discovery of the fire that blazed between them.
“Yeah,” Amarie said again, floating in the glow that hummed through her body. She’d be replaying that kiss all night for sure.
Char stepped back from her, though. “I’m sorry. I can’t do this,” Char said. Without another word, she hopped down from the porch and walked briskly away.
Amarie stared after her. Without Char, her arms hung empty, her body aching for contact. Worse, though, her heart sank, raw and rejected.
Obviously Char totally regretted it.
Blinking back tears, she let herself inside and retreated to her blanket nest. She should’ve never kissed Char. Clearly Amarie had completely misread every signal. Char was just being friendly by walking with her.
The kiss had been the exact kind of kiss she’d read in romance novels and watched on the big screen. No matter wonderful it’d been, though, it would never happen again.
No matter how much she wanted it to.
Chapter 6
Char brushed three fingers across her lips again, her eyelids heavy with stunned delight.
Still.
It had been twelve hours since Amarie kissed her and she had walked away. Of all the ways she had imagined their walk ending, she hadn’t imagined that. Sure, she’d wanted to kiss her. It wasn’t fair for her to kiss Amarie, though.
Not when she was going to get the hell out of Watertown as soon as possible.
She liked Amarie—a lot. If she was going to go to the restauranteur convention, though, she needed to get serious about her future. And it wouldn’t be fair for her to pursue Amarie if she was only going to leave in the end.
Still, that kiss had been better than she could’ve dreamed. Her lips were still warm from Amarie’s touch, her body cold without Amarie’s arms wrapped around her. She wanted a thousand more kisses, yet it could never happen.
The sound of a man clearing his throat jerked her back down to Earth. Slowly, the bar came back into focus. On one end, her bartender Brandon pored over a textbook, his broad shoulders curved as he studied. Her boss Shay stood in front of her.
“Hi Shay,” she said loudly, picking up the serrated knife she’d abandoned. She resumed slicing lemons.
Brandon slammed his book shut. “Shay. You’re early. What’s up?” He ambled over, hands tucked into his pockets. He cast an apologetic glance at Charlotte.
“I’ve got to go over some finances in the office.” Shay tugged a hand through dark hair that fell past his earlobes. Dark circles underlined his brown eyes, making him look older than his forty-three years.
“Everything okay?” she asked, setting the cutting board of lemons aside.
Her boss nodded. “Absolutely. Just got to make some tiny cuts here and there.” He nodded to the textbook. “Anything interesting?”
“My APOL class,” Brandon said with a shrug. When Shay gave him a blank stare, he said, “Contemporary Worldviews. It’s basically about how religion affects the world around us.”
“Keep it up,” Shay said as he headed toward the back office. “Just, ah, maybe finish your other work first.”
When he was out of earshot, Brandon slid the book underneath the bar. “Sorry,” he said to Charlotte in a low voice. “Thanks for your help, though.”
“No problem.” She chewed on her lower lip. Brandon was just moonlighting as a bartender while he went to school online. The 545 was her career. She shouldn’t be covering for him. It made her look bad to Shay.
Leaving Brandon to his bar duties, she headed into the lounge’s small kitchen to finish her own prep for the night. She was never going to be a five-star chef, but she didn’t want to go work at TGI Fridays or anything like that, either. The 545 was a Watertown landmark, a small town nightlife treasure. Places like Fridays could be found anywhere in the country, and served the exact same thing from state to state. No one made beer battered onion rings like she did.
In a way, she’d helped build the place—or at least, the menu. The 545 was such a fixture in her life, never mind the town. Sure, she’d made plans to go to the conference in New York, but the thought of actually leaving town and opening her own restaurant was both exhilarating and terrifying.
She was determined to jump in with both feet, though.
Maybe she needed to let go of the familiar and jump into the unknown. Not that she knew for sure that she’d ever be able to pull it off.
She slid her phone out of her pocket and opened her running text with Rowan.
Charlotte: My expectations for this convention are so high, I’m going to fall flat on my face.
Rowan: Two words: Padma Lakshmi.
Charlotte: Her panel is sold out, though!
Rowan: Boo. Speaking of gorgeous women . . . Have you heard from Amarie at all?
She grimaced. Even though she knew Rowan had been rooting for her and Amarie, part of her wanted to keep the kiss to herself. She didn’t want to tell Rowan that she’d decided to focus on her career instead, and she definitely didn’t want to upset the balance of their little group—especially after the way Lucas had broken up with Amarie. Even though she was Rowan’s BFF, she was still technically an outsider.
“Why would I?” she asked. “Do you mind if I take over the kitchen this weekend? I have an idea for an appetizer. Shay won’t let me play here, but I just have to try it.” She added the heart eyes emoji and hit send.
She prepped wings and onion rings, chopped toppings for burgers, and even scrubbed the pot sink, trying to stay busy. She most definitely did not think about Amarie’s lips on hers. Every minute seemed like an hour, though—no matter how much she tried to redirect her thoughts to the recipe she wanted to try.
Aside from all of the prep she did for The 545, she never got to experiment. If she was going to commit to opening her own restaurant, she needed to start working on her own recipes.
Her phone chimed in her pocket and she nearly dropped it in her rush to tug it free.
Rowan sent a thumbs-up emoji. Then: “You should text her.” Heart eyes accompanied her encouragement, along with the emoji Charlotte thought of as splooping hearts—two hearts rising up diagonally.
Taking a deep breath, Charlotte eyed her friend’s message.
Charlotte: Look . . . It’s just not gonna happen.
Rowan: Well why not?
Charlotte: . . .
She backspaced the words she truly wanted to send: I kissed that girl and I liked it. Then she selected the monkey-hiding-its-face emoji.
Charlotte: I’ve got to get ready for that convention. I just don’t have time for anything else.
Rowan: Pfft. Who are you trying to kid? You like her. I say go for it!
At the thought of Amarie, things inside of her curled tightly like the buds of flowers preparing to bloom. She had to keep her eye on the prize, though. Besides, she hadn’t dated in ages. Any way she thought about it, she had no business chasing after Amarie.
Even if she couldn’t imagine going the rest of her life without another kiss.
She tipped her head back. She shouldn’t have offered to drive Amarie to New York, and she definitely shouldn’t have gone on that walk. Guilt twisted her stomach. She really shouldn’t have left Amarie standing on her porch.
Charlotte: So, I did a thing.
Rowan: Spill it, Butler.
She sent her friend the sad face emoji in response, then slid her phone back into her pocket. Shay was in a bad enough mood. She didn’t need to get caught playing on her phone while she was supposed to be working. No excuse in the world could justify emoji texts while on the clock. All of her prep was done, though, so she went back up to the bar.
The 545’s waitresses on duty that night swarmed around Brandon, as usual. Charlotte privately referred to them as Gaston’s entourage. She liked Brandon, but he was—on the surface—the typical Waterbury player. He knew he was hot, and he regularly slept his way through the lounge staff and its clientele. Except for Char. He kept all of the other women in his life at arm’s length, but in the spaces of time before the waitresses came in and the lounge opened, she’d gotten to know him pretty well. Beneath those smoldering eyes and chiseled muscles was someone who desperately wanted to escape the nightlife and make a difference.
Guys like Brandon eventually settled down and found someone to share a life with and remain faithful to, their player pasts forgiven. It wasn’t fair. Men could have satisfying careers and relationships, while women had to pick one or the other if they wanted to be taken seriously.
She thought again of New York and the conference. Maybe she could make a home there. Open a restaurant. Have a life. Then, after she built her empire, she could settle down.
She forced herself to join the cluster of her co-workers. “Hey,” she said, keeping her voice as neutral as possible.
The three women skewered her with equally disdainful gazes. She didn’t understand why. She wasn’t a threat to them. She wouldn’t sleep with Brandon, even for a million dollars.
He slung an arm around her shoulder. “Hey Char. We were just talking about all going to the Country Cinema next time everyone’s off.”
“It was more of a foursome,” Alyssa said. Her cohorts, Erica and Ginny, giggled.
Charlotte rolled her eyes. She wanted to tell these women that those kinds of suggestive comments only fetishized people who ID’d as bisexual, but her words would fall on closed ears.
“A foursome, huh?” Brandon removed his arm, leaning into the group of women.
She gritted her teeth, revising her earlier thoughts. Maybe Brandon would never change.
Her phone went off. Walking away from the group, she went to a dark corner of the dance floor to read the text.
Rowan: I need details, woman!
Charlotte: Promise you won’t hate me?
Rowan: I’m only going to hate you if you don’t stop keeping me in suspense.
She took a deep breath. Rowan was her best friend. They told each other everything—well, almost everything. She made sure that Rowan didn’t go into detail about her sex life with Matt, for example. Some things were better left unshared.
In that case, maybe she shouldn’t kiss and tell. She’d have to find some way to make things right between her and Amarie, a way to keep things platonic, to make sure the group didn’t get ruffled.
Charlotte: I covered for Brandon so he could do some homework and we both got in trouble.
Rowan: That's it? JFC, girl, I thought you were going to tell me something happened between you and A!
Char’s heart twisted. She’d never lied to her best friend before. Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard. She was dying to talk about the kiss, but Rowan wouldn’t understand her choice. She was one of the lucky ones who could have it all, who’d inherited her aunt’s bakery and snagged the love of her life all in one shot. Not that Char thought she didn’t deserve Elli’s.
But if she was going to go after her dream, there would be no lawyer calling her to tell her that a restaurant had fallen into her lap. She was going to have to make sacrifices.
Even if it meant pretending that she’d felt nothing when Amarie kissed her. It was time to move on.
“Sorry,” she texted back. “I’m just not that exciting.” Tucking her phone away, she headed back toward the kitchen. The 545 would be open soon, their DJ spinning something throbbing with excessive bass. All of that bumping, grinding, and drinking made people hungry, and someone had to feed them beer-battered onion rings.
Lifting her chin, she got to work.
∞∞∞
The thud of the bass was violent, an excruciating assault on Char’s ears. Music—even club music—just wasn’t the same anymore. Bass drops were now atomic bombs, aftershocks skittering through her skull. She winced as she ducked through the doors, a tray in each hand piled with plates full of food. Usually the waitresses ran back and forth, but the club was busier than usual. She set the food on the bar in front of the waiting men and turned back toward her kitchen, where the music was slightly less invasive.
“Char!” Brandon waved her down from the other end of the bar.
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she made her way down. She wasn’t in the mood to play the gay BFF and assist Brandon in yet another conquest at the moment. “Yeah?” She lifted her eyebrows at him.
“No, no.” He gently cupped her shoulders and turned her body in the opposite direction. “There’s someone here to see you. That way.” He gave her a gentle nudge forward.
Glancing around, she scanned the crowded bar for Rowan—the only person who ever visited her at work. There was no sign of her best friend, though. Amarie sat at the other end of the bar, a frozen blue margarita in front of her. The multicolored lights bounced off her dark curls, casting a halo of magenta and orange around her. Amarie gave her a tiny wave.
Charlotte’s jaw dropped open.
“Left foot, right foot,” Brandon said in her ear.
Despite the sudden rubbery feeling in her legs, she moved forward. Amarie’s dark eyes remained on her the entire time. She wore a black chiffon blouse that flowed over her curves. Char couldn’t see the rest of her outfit, but she was positive that it was hot.
She reached the end of the bar and leaned against her side of it. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Amarie replied.
“What are you doing here?” Great. Not only could she not resist walking over, but apparently she no longer had any tact either.
“Neve.” Amarie shrugged. “She YOLO’d me.”
Char glanced around for Amarie’s best friend, but didn’t see her.
“She’s still at Stanford. We FaceTimed and she told me I shouldn’t let you walk off my proverbial porch. She said I only get one life, and if there was ever another time to borrow spoons, it was now.” A smile touched her lips.
“Borrow spoons?” Charlotte eyed the margarita, wishing she could have a drink to steel her nerves. She settled for water, grabbing an ice cold bottle from the industrial cooler under the bar.
Amarie laughed. “Yeah. It was basically the same speech she gave me the night of my birthday. Although, I guess that night didn’t exactly have a happy ending.” She frowned.
Though she hadn’t had anything to drink, Charlotte felt dizzy. The longer she looked into those brown eyes flecked with gold, the more intoxicated she became. Throw in the velvet dark of the lounge and the sexual hormones floating on the air, and she was possibly experiencing a contact buzz. Her thoughts boomeranged back a step and she ricocheted back into the conversation. “But what do spoons have to do with it?”
“Oh!” Amarie grabbed a handful of plastic stirring straws. “Have you heard of ‘The Spoon Theory’?”
Charlotte shook her head. She wished an order would come in so she could get back to work. The longer she was around Amarie, the thinner her resolve wore. As much as she owed the other woman an apology, she needed to step away. Get some air. Get her focus back.
“So this spoonie—meaning someone with a chronic illness—was trying to explain to a friend what it’s like to be chronically ill.” Amarie scattered the stirrers across the lacquered dark wood over the bar. “She told her friend, imagine waking up every day and only having so many spoons to get you through each task. Everything you do costs one spoon.” She began plucking stirrers from the bar. “Take a shower. Get dressed. Eat breakfast. Drive to work. You’re already down four spoons—maybe more, depending on how much pain you’re in.”
Charlotte tapped a stray “spoon,” understanding dawning on her. “You’re probably using a lot of spoons to be here now.” She bit her lip.
“It’s worth it.” Amarie reached across the bar, as if to entwine their fingers together, then stopped. Her hand rested inches from Char’s. “I know what I want. I know you want me, too. I think you’re just scared.”
“I’m not scared. I’m wearing my gangsta bandana.” Charlotte adjusted the red bandana she wore as a headband to keep her hair out of her face—and the food. Despite her cavalier joke, her heart thudded in her chest.
Amarie’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “You’ll see. I’m a catch. You’re going to fall in love with me.”
“Right,” Char said. A year ago, she wouldn’t have believed the words coming out of her mouth. She would’ve jumped on this opportunity. Life was more than just dating, though. She’d been doing just fine on her own. A little longer wouldn’t kill her—not if it meant finally going after her dream.
Amarie’s eyes twinkled as if she knew something Char didn’t.
“What?” Char asked. She wrapped her arms around herself defensively. “Why does everyone have to pair up with someone else? Can’t a girl just focus on her career?”
Amarie tapped the glass of her margarita. “Are we still going to New York together?”
“Of course we are. I’m sorry if I threw out mixed signals. I’d be honored to road trip with you, though.” She sighed inwardly. There was her chance to back out. For some reason, when it came to Amarie, she had the hardest time turning her down.
“I want to kiss you again,” Amarie said, “but it’s getting late. I’m going to turn into a pumpkin if I stay any longer.” She flushed, the strobe lights highlighting the color in her cheeks even more. “Damn. One drink and I’m already way too honest.”
Any Other Love Page 6
