The Charlotte Chronicles (22 page)

Mutely, he shakes his head.

“Then why on earth, Nathan, do you blame yourself?”

An internal dilemma plays on his face while he struggles for the words. “I don’t like admitting I’m weak and not in control.”

“It’s better to shoulder the blame?”

“Easier to cope with.”

I have no response and so say nothing. He hasn’t coped with it, or rather his way of coping was shutting down. I can only hope that if we hit rough times in the future, he doesn’t turn away from me again, 
for my own good. 

He pushes my face up to his for another kiss. I melt under his attention, but there’s a tiny part of my heart that I’m afraid to give, 
for my own good.

“
I
s there a family joining us
?” Charlotte asks. Her voice is husky from sleep. As she raises her arms to stretch, her oversized robe gapes in the front, revealing the edges of her delicate collarbones and the soft inner flesh of her breasts. Beyond her is the bed that we spent the better part of the afternoon, all of the evening, and some pre-dawn hours destroying. And I’m still ready for another round.

Trying to distract myself, I assess the room service cart that was just delivered. There are six silver-domed plates full of steak, waffles, bacon, three different types of eggs, fruit, and oatmeal. Seems reasonable.

“I see only enough for me,” I joke. “Unless it’s a family of mice, I think everyone but you and I are going to go hungry. Come on and sit down.”

I’m sprawled on the sofa, wearing nothing but a towel that has loosened at the side, and I pat the cushion beside me. She settles under my arm without argument or complaint. It’s not easy eating one handed, but I’m not taking my arm off of her. Part of me is unconvinced she’s real and thinks that the whole night was just one fucking vivid dream.

“What do you have going on today?” I ask.

“I’m finishing up with a client. We’re closing the sale on a house, and then the wife and I are meeting with the principal of the new school.” She leans forward and takes a bite of the omelet.

“School’s already in session?” I ask. It’s July.

“No, but I want to make sure that the transition is smooth. That’s what I’m hired to do.”

I know about her job because I have grilled Nick constantly about it, but there’s something domestic and comforting about hearing her explain. “Let me come with you. I’ll be your assistant.”

The request causes her to fumble with her coffee mug. After a noticeable hesitation, she asks, “Is shore leave like some kind of vacation?”

Her uncertainty is disturbing, and my hand tightens around her shoulder unconsciously. She’s forgiven me, but she’s not forgotten, and her heart isn’t fully mine. If it was, she wouldn’t pause for a second to invite me along. She’s okay with fucking me, but she’s not convinced she wants me in every part of her life. I see it in the stiffening of her body and how she shrinks in my embrace.

I close my eyes for a minute and stifle my impatience. Did I really think one letter and several orgasms were going to make all the past years of heartache disappear? Apparently I did. Of course she’s skittish.  My past history with Charlotte is abandonment and pain. Failure is refusing to keep trying. I’d failed her before. Not anymore. I had to prove myself, though—be a man of actions, not just words.

The key here would be to stay close and become so deeply embedded into her skin that she won’t be able to walk away from me. But I have to play it close to my vest. If I come on too strong, she might flee.

“Yes. Some of the guys will go fishing or spend time with their families.”

“And what would you do on past shore leaves?”

“Go fishing or visit my family.”

She flinches because my family should have included her. It did once.

“You’ll have to put on clothes.”

“I can do that.” 
I will do anything.

“Do you have a suit? Or is your entire closet uniforms and beach bum outfits?”

I try to keep the tone light. “It’s like you’ve seen my closet.”

I realize my error before the last word leaves my mouth. She doesn’t know what my apartment looks like, let alone the interior of my closet. Everything I say is just a reminder of how I’ve cut her out. Of course she hasn’t seen my closet. Of course she doesn’t know what I do on shore leave. Maybe sticking close is a mistake of epic proportions. Everything out of my mouth is salt in a wound.

After some internal struggle, she gives me a small smile and tucks a few strands of hair behind her head. “To the mall and then a few errands.”

I curl my hand around the back of her neck. “As long as I’m with you, I’ll wear a clown suit if I have to.”   My lips meet hers tenderly, and as her lips part, I press her into the cushions. I hadn’t intended to take her there on the sofa with the eggs and coffee growing cold, but I can’t resist. When we’re connected like this, I feel invincible. Nothing and no one can separate us. Not even me. With a fumbling hand, I loosen the tie around her waist. “Charlotte, you are so beautiful.”

Her breath catches and her eyes grow luminous as I trail the backs of my fingers over the rise of her breasts, to her stomach, and then lower. At my touch, her thighs clench together in aroused discomfort. I waste no time in spreading her legs and delving between them. She’s swollen, tender, and wet.

“I think I’m too sore,” she whispers with regret.

“Not for what I have in mind.” I hook one of her slender legs over the back of the sofa and lower to my knees. My tongue strokes over the engorged lips.

“Okay, maybe I can endure.” Her words are a joke, but her voice is thready and weak.

As I apply myself, her words become short, huffed out moans. When I add one finger and then another, those moans turns to pleas to make her come.

“I love this, Charlotte. I love being down here. I want to eat you for breakfast every morning.” I tongue her harder in small circular strokes. Every tiny inch of her flushed and engorged skin is explored. I hold her down as she writhes underneath me.

“I need more,” she cries. Her non-pinned leg wraps around my hip and tries to pull me closer.

My dick tells me to give her more and suddenly resistance is stupid. Pushing her thigh up higher, I take myself in one hand. “You sure you want this, Charlotte?”

She licks her lips and nods.

“Yes. Right now. I need you inside me.”

I don’t need to be asked twice.

“
Y
ou’re staring again
,” Charlotte complains. Her mouth is slightly open, and she’s applying mascara to her eyelashes. It’s true. I can’t stop staring at her.

It’s all new to me—from the way she brushes her teeth with an electric toothbrush to the complicated blow drying of her hair with a big round brush only to end up with perfectly straight strands. Watching her dress herself is almost as erotic as undressing her. Her panties are pulled up her legs and smoothed over her sweet ass. Her delicate lace bra cups her tits and pushes them together, creating a small, delicious valley that I’d like to tongue repeatedly while she straddles me.

Unfortunately, she dons her robe again which covers her bare skin and the skimpy pieces of lace. But before I can argue, she starts applying makeup, which I find fascinating.

It’s like watching a behind-the-scenes documentary of a magic show. Not that Charlotte isn’t gorgeous without the makeup. She definitely could be naked constantly around me, and I’d be happy.

“I didn’t realize so much work went into not looking like you wore makeup,” I observe from my perch on the edge of the tub. I’m trying to maintain some distance because every time I’m within about three feet of her, I get hard. Her body needs a rest. I might break something if I keep pounding her.

“Oh yes, the infamous natural look. I saw that report online where something like nine-out-of-ten men like women without makeup followed by men voting a girl wearing makeup is more attractive than one without.”

“Why do you listen to anything we say?”

She drops her tube into a bag full of dozens of other sticks and tubes and bottles. “I have no idea.”

Out in the room, she shrugs off her robe and pulls on the blouse, skirt, and jacket. I like that I’m the only man to have seen her this way, in this intimate setting. The other dicks in the world only get to see the Charlotte dressed in her work uniform. I get to see naked, aroused, fucking sexy as hell Charlotte.

“How come you have to wear a suit?” In Southern California, shorts and T-shirts are considered formal attire.

“My clients like it. It helps for them to take me seriously. For some of them, the only people who wear suits are the guys who sign their checks. The suit conveys that I know what I’m doing and smart enough to handle their problems.”

“Like a uniform.”

“Exactly.” Her smile of approval makes me feel like I answered all the questions on
Jeopardy
correct.

When we arrive on the first floor, I start herding Charlotte down toward the lot where my Rubicon is parked. As the dark blue Jeep comes into view, I turn on my heel and usher her back toward the lobby entrance.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“I think we should take your car. What is it?”

“Honda Fit,” she says bewildered.

I nod to the valet. “We need her Honda Fit. Under Charlotte Randolph.”

As we wait, she gives me a long perusal.

“What?” I ask finally.

“I’m trying to figure out if you’re going to fit in my rental. It’s kind of small.”

“I’ll be fine.” The Rubicon is completely stripped down. The doors are off, and the soft top is gone. It’s great for off-roading, but it’s not the vehicle for Charlotte to travel around in with her nice clothes and her glossy hair. The image of my bare apartment and my even more bare refrigerator springs to mind. My vehicle, my apartment, and even my clothes all scream single bachelor. The only saving grace is that everything has been carefully cleaned and put away.

“Was the Jeep yours?”

She doesn’t miss a thing. When the valet arrives, she waves him off. “I don’t need it, but here’s something for your trouble.”

Grabbing my arm, she drags me back to the parking lot and my Rubicon. “Is that your Jeep?”

I nod reluctantly. From her bag she produces a scarf which she ties around her hair. “I’m not a delicate flower, Nate.” She sounds disgruntled. “I can ride in your Jeep.”

I stare at her, sitting in my Jeep looking prettier than a picture, until she bangs on the dash with impatience. With a wide-ass grin, I round the front and climb into the driver’s seat. “Just admiring the view,” I murmur and lean over to kiss off some of her lipstick. “The mall first?”

She shakes her head. “No, let’s just get going. You drive a stripped-down utility vehicle and wear cargo shorts and flip-flops. That’s who you are, and I’m fine with it. I’m not forcing you into a uniform on your vacation.”

The Jeep’s engine throttles noisily as I shoot out of the parking lot. “You weren’t forcing me into anything,” I say.

“We’re both different people today than we were years ago. If we’re going to make this work then we have to accept that and work with those differences. The car you drive, the clothes you wear—those things are the least of our worries.”

“Sounds ominous.” I try to be lighthearted, but she’s right. After a mile or so of silence, I ask about her well-dressed companion from yesterday. “Tell me about your friend from the restaurant. He looks familiar.”

Despite my attempt at studied nonchalance, the request comes out more like an order. She raises one eyebrow as if to say she doesn’t have to tell me shit, or maybe the expression is saying that if I had been more present in her life, I’d know exactly who this guy is.

“It’s Colin from Switzerland. He had cancer treatment at the same time. I wrote to you about him. We’ve kept in touch.” Her words aren’t meant to be accusatory, but like my earlier references, they are.

My mood darkens immediately as I make the connection. The least favorite period in my life was those months Charlotte was away from Chicago. I prefer to shut those memories out, as if that time didn’t exist. Revisiting the past was painful enough when I wrote the letter.  Colin from Switzerland is an enemy, as is any other person who might try to keep us apart. I will find out everything there is to know about him and then eliminate any possible dangers.

“He’s not a threat, you know.” She reaches across the center console and touches my arm. I force my tense muscles to relax. “He’s a good friend. He . . . provided a male perspective of things when I was busy being lost in my own head.”

“Intellectually, I get that. But I can’t deny seeing you with him, seeing you touch him makes me crazy. I don’t like you being around other dicks. I have about a dozen insane utterances I’m keeping to myself so that you don’t jump out of the Jeep.” 

“When you meet him it will be different,” she assures me. “He’s a great guy, and I think the two of you will get along.”

Like hell we will. Unless you never utter his name again, I’m going to hate the dickbag. 
Out loud, I pretend to agree, “Sure, can’t wait.”

Apparently despite the long absence, Charlotte can read me better than anyone. She smirks and then laughs outright. At least she’s laughing. I grab her hand and place it on my thigh, as much for my benefit as it is for her. I need the constant contact.

We drive down a lane of expensive houses filled with equally expensive green lawns; the drought bans make watering lawns like these prohibitively expensive. She gestures for me to stop at one of the imposing structures. “Who’d you say this was again?”

“Baseball player. If you have a kid who can play all the sports, baseball is the most lucrative and longest-lasting career,” she answers.

Before she can climb out of the Jeep, I grab her wrist. “I regret not being there when you needed me. I dislike that this Colin guy was, but I’ll deal with it.”

With a small shrug, she says, “Our past is what it is. Nothing we can do is going to change it. I’d rather look forward, wouldn’t you?”

She hops out before I can reach her, and I’m left straggling behind. A bony blonde woman with a shit ton of makeup on runs up to Charlotte and hugs her. A lanky guy who I vaguely recognize from ESPN follows behind, carrying an equally blonde-headed baby. Charlotte holds out her arms and plucks the baby from the dad’s arms. My stomach clenches at the sight, and I grow half hard. I can hear Cabby standing beside me, mocking me.

It’s time to pack it up when you get a woody staring at a Norman Rockwell painting. You’ve lost your edge, gone around the bend—whatever you want to call it—but stick a fork in you, because you’re done.

So what? I want that. The family, the house, the kid. I want all of it with Charlotte. She’s right. Looking backward isn’t going to erase the past, but we can make our tomorrow exactly as we once imagined it could be.