Wickedly Charming (13 page)

“Of course not,” she said. “I haven't met your daughters. But I believe what you say. The youngest is sweet and shy. There's no reason to go after her—for her own sake. But there's a reason to go after your oldest daughter. Power struggles start young, particularly among girls.”

He frowned. “This means the other girls are smart enough to figure out what bothers Imperia.”

“Of course they are,” Mellie said. “They're prepubescent girls.”

He blinked hard, thinking about that.

“That is assuming,” Mellie said, “that it's the older girls going after Grace.”

“Yes, it is,” he said. “That's why the principal said it would stop. The older girls would give up once they found a new target.”

Mellie shook her head. “They have their target and it's Imperia. Grace is collateral damage. I'll wager that Imperia just comforts her sister and tells her to buck up, doesn't she?”

“I taught my girls to solve their own problems,” he said.

“Well, tell Imperia to solve this one,” Mellie said. “If she can intimidate those other girls, then she needs to do so now.”

He thought about that for a moment. He had always told the girls to keep their problems separate. That one won't be around to help the other when they get older. Not that Grace helped Imperia much—except on girl things, things Charming didn't entirely understand.

He smiled almost involuntarily. This felt right. This felt completely right. And Mellie even had the solution.

He had to get to his girls, and tell them how to solve this. He stood. “I don't know how to thank you,” he said.

“Just let me know if it works,” she said.

He felt so relieved that he wanted to hug her. He bent over to hug her, and thank her, and tell her how grateful he was.

Somehow he kissed her instead.

His lips met hers and hers opened. She tasted like coffee and sunshine and something wonderful, something he had never ever tasted before, something he couldn't taste enough. His hands slid onto her shoulders and were about to slide down when he remembered where he was.

A coffee shop.

Public.

He never kissed a woman in public except that one time with Ella, and look where that had gotten him.

He stopped, and took a step backwards. He was old enough—and Charming enough—to know better than to apologize. He didn't say anything at all, because he wasn't sure what the best thing to say was. He would either grab her and kiss her everywhere or he would shut down and apologize.

He didn't dare do either.

Mellie looked up at him, her emerald eyes open wide. She looked young and vulnerable. Color touched her cheeks—a rose color that matched that faint rose scent she had.

She looked as stunned as he felt.

And that thought made his brain start to work again.

“Thank you,” he said. “You have no idea how much this is going to help.”

Then he grabbed his briefcase and fled the coffee shop, before he did something they both would regret.

Mellie had never been struck dumbfounded by a kiss before. It was a hell of a kiss. A no-holds-barred-oh-my-heavens kind of kiss. The best kiss ever.

And it was her fault, because she had tilted her head upward just a little, meeting his lips—lips that were probably going to brush her cheek—with her own open mouth. She had forced the kiss, and lonely man that he was, he had enjoyed it.

Until he remembered how she was.

She pressed her hands against her hot cheeks. It had taken all of her strength to keep from grabbing him and forcing him backwards over the table. And when he stepped back, it took even more strength to keep her arms at her side so that she didn't grab him, pull him forward, and kiss him until someone kicked them out of the coffee shop for lewd and lascivious conduct.

He was a Charming. Hell, he was
the
Charming. How many people thought of Snow White's Charming when they thought of Prince Charming or of Sleeping Beauty's Charming? They all thought of Cinderella's Charming.
This
Charming.

Mellie's Charming.

Her cheeks grew even warmer.

She knew she had looked at him like a silly little fan girl when he stepped back. And that look had caused him to grab his briefcase and flee.

Of course, he'd said something polite—a nice, tame thank-you, with a calm voice and such a warm smile. But he was a Charming, he was
the
Charming, and of course he was nice about it. He saw that he had rattled her and he couldn't deal with it (after all, he was a
shy
Charming), and he fled before the situation got worse.

She was still in her chair, two unfinished cinnamon rolls in front of her (neither of those would last long), but she was staring at the door now, probably with a wistful look.

How many women launched themselves at him? How many females had done so—females of all ages? And what about gay men? Charming probably had to dodge admirers everywhere he went, all of whom looked at him with that same combination of wistful and longing.

The same way most people from the Kingdoms looked at her when they met her—with terror and utter loathing. Then they got to know her and they realized she wasn't so bad after all.

She wondered if anyone ever completely got past Charming's charm. Which made her wonder if anyone ever completely got past their loathing of her—and that thought made her cringe.

“That was weird,” said the pudgy guy.

She looked over at him, about to make some kind of comment about the pudgy guy's nosiness, but she stopped herself in time.

Besides, the pudgy guy wasn't done talking.

“I mean, you gave him the answer, then he kisses you, and runs away as if whatever he had to do was more important. Weird.”

Her cheeks warmed even more. She shrugged, uncertain what to say.

“I didn't mean to listen in,” the guy said. “But he named his daughter Imperia. I didn't even know that was a name.”

“Anything's a name,” Mellie said, “if you use it that way.”

“I guess,” the guy said. “He's kind of a piece of work, isn't he?”

“Charming?” she asked. Who would describe Charming as a piece of work?

“Oh, hell, no,” the pudgy guy said. “He's not charming at all. What kind of charming guy leaves without a proper good-bye?”

It took Mellie a moment to realize the guy thought she had said that Charming was charming, which he was—except, apparently, to the pudgy guy. Although Charming had gotten mad at him after all. She wouldn't have thought that a Charming could get mad. Or at least, this Charming.

“Look,” the pudgy guy said, “you're a pretty lady and awfully smart, and you deserve someone better than that guy. I mean, he can't even sit still.”

“He's not that bad,” Mellie said, her cheeks so warm that they actually hurt. The pudgy guy had called her pretty.

“I don't mean to be talking about him,” the pudgy guy said. “It's just that I don't want you to think I'm creepy or anything, but I couldn't help noticing you the last few days. And that guy aside, I'd like to get to know you better. How about lunch?”

She didn't recognize him, and he didn't have that sparkle that indicated he was from the Kingdoms. He was from the Greater World and he had just asked her to lunch.

Normally, she would have gone. Then she would have regaled him with her stories of downtrodden archetypes, after she quizzed him on his knowledge of fairy tales, of course.

But she didn't want to do either today. She didn't care what he thought of evil stepmothers. She didn't even care that he had a mind open to change. She used to think she could conquer the fairy tale myths, one open mind at a time.

“Thanks,” she said, “but—”

“But you're holding out for that guy,” the pudgy guy said.

“No,” she said quietly. “He's nice, but we're such opposites. And besides, I don't hold out for anyone.”

The pudgy guy smiled. He wasn't bad-looking when he smiled. “There was still a
but
after you thanked me for the invitation.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I'm not really up for lunch.”

She looked at the cinnamon rolls.

“But you could save me from one of these.”

He patted his stomach. “Like I need more cinnamon rolls,” he said, and grinned. “However, I'm not the kind of man to turn one down.”

She laughed. “I'm Mellie,” she said, pushing a chair back.

“Dave,” he said, and she actually flinched.

“Seriously?” she asked.

“Seriously, I'm David. But to people I like, I'm Dave.”

“And you hope to be someone's prince charming someday,” she said softly.

“Oh, no,” he said. “I've been someone's prince charming. I don't like being an illusion. I want to be someone's Dave someday.”

She smiled. “That seems like a reasonable ambition,” she said as he joined her at her table.

“I don't know about reasonable,” he said. “But it's practical. And I've learned the hard way that we should be practical in relationships.”

“Yeah,” she said, feeling more than a little sad for both of them. “Practical always works best.”

It worked!

Mellie's suggestion had worked!

Charming had never been so startled by anything in his life. That wasn't true, of course. He'd been startled by Ella's abandonment of their daughters, constantly startled by his father's self-centeredness, startled by Mellie's protest at the book fair. But this startlement had been so much better than those.

Charming actually could do something for his daughters. Something good.

He had told Imperia to defend her sister before comforting her. He had even implied that it was okay to get physical. (He implied it because his contract with the school stated that physical arguments between students [fistfights, in other words] could result in expulsion.)

Imperia had looked relieved. So had Grace.

He bundled them off to school the very next day, and they had come home laughing.
Laughing
. His daughters, happy because of school.

Not that he had to worry about any untoward magic. The Charming family didn't have conventional magic. (That's what real witches were for.) They had unconventional magic—charisma, power absorption, charm, and grace. So his daughters couldn't turn anyone into toads or bowling balls.

But Imperia could make people feel very small without casting a spell, and make them regret they ever picked on Grace. And Grace would forgive them which would make them feel better. Because that's how Grace worked.

He was so happy he actually cooked them an aged mutton dinner, the Kingdoms' equivalent of pizza. Then he watched and waited for the next few days, hoping that the change in his girls wasn't a fluke.

He also hoped that he wouldn't hear from the school. He didn't want to discover that he had been wrong about his girls—that they actually had real magic after all. (He had been afraid that some real magic lurked in Ella's family; something neither of them knew about.)

But no calls, and no change in mood. After nearly a week, Grace wanted to go to school. She was starting to make friends.

And Imperia actually smiled a few times on her way to school.

Charming saw both responses as the most positive thing that had happened to him since he got full custody of the girls.

That, and the kiss.

The second kiss. The one he had initiated.

The real kiss.

He wondered what Mellie thought of it. He wasn't sure he wanted to find out.

He wasn't the suave, debonair man of the fairy tales. As a young man, he had looked suave and debonair, and he had seemed mysterious because he was so shy. All he had to do was smile at a girl and people talked for weeks.

But that never taught him social skills, and he really never had to court anyone before.

Although he was hesitant about courting Mellie. He had his girls to think about. He needed to give them time to settle.

Still, he couldn't stop thinking about Mellie. Every evening, he thought about calling her, and every evening, he didn't. He didn't quite know what to say.

He would surprise her instead, and show up at the coffee shop. He had promised he would teach her how to enjoy reading. He wasn't sure how to do that.

He also wasn't sure whether or not it would make a difference once he did teach her how to read for enjoyment. Not everyone who read for enjoyment wrote good books. If that were the case, then the numbers of writers and readers would be roughly equivalent.

As a bookstore owner, he could attest that was not true.

He found some books that had appealed to him, and guessed as to whether or not they'd appeal to Mellie. He packed them into his briefcase.

Then he drove his daughters to school, looked at some properties for his bookstore, and finally, finally drove back to the coffee shop to see Mellie.

He didn't call ahead.

He didn't want to scare her off.

***

So far, Mellie had had three lunches, one dinner, and more coffee than she wanted to contemplate with Dave. He was a nice man, although not all that physically attractive. Still, he had a sense of humor, and he was smart.

More importantly, he was a writer. A real writer. He was a script writer for a television show she had never heard of—one that involved terrorists, violence, and one heroic man who could save the world. She didn't entirely understand. It sounded like pure fantasy to her—particularly when Dave told her what this man went through.

Apparently, all the writers worked in the same room. They came up with the plots together, and then they assigned who would write what. He came to the coffee shop to do his writing because otherwise, he said, people would look over his shoulder and make him nervous.

She didn't make him nervous—or so he said. But he did get serious about his work. Toward the end of the afternoon, he pounded out the pages rather than converse with her.

She didn't mind. She was surreptitiously observing his method, trying to copy it. He wouldn't let her see what he was writing, day in and day out, because he couldn't, he said. His work was embargoed, whatever that meant.

But he was sharing other screenplays with her, the ones he wrote “on spec” which he explained, over their only dinner, meant “on speculation” which meant that he was writing for free, hoping that someone would buy the screenplay.

Rather like she was trying to do with the novel.

She thought about telling him her idea, and then having him write her a screenplay “on spec.” Or maybe she could get him to outline a novel for her, so that all she had to do was fill in the rants.

But she hadn't asked yet.

She read Dave's spec screenplays and they made her nervous.

They were filled with nuclear bombs going off in cities, mass murder, the rise of dictators, and one man (always one
man
, never one
woman
) who was the only person who could hold back the threat.

There was no romance. There was no magic.

And mostly, there were no women.

She disliked that the most.

The one thing she knew about her book—if she ever got a chance to write it (or got someone to write it)—was that it had to be woman-friendly. Women would understand all the pressures stepmothers went through. Women knew how hard mothering was. Women knew what it was like to feel less and less attractive as they aged.

Women were her target audience.

And the more she talked to Dave, the more she realized he was not her target writer.

He hadn't arrived yet this morning at the coffee shop. He had warned her he would be late. There was some kind of writer's strategy meeting at his television show, and he didn't dare miss it.

In fact, he had warned her it might take all day.

She understood.

What surprised her, as the morning wore on, was that she didn't miss him. In fact, she was a bit relieved he hadn't shown up.

Which meant she probably couldn't keep coming to this coffee shop. He was making her uncomfortable, and she would have to break that to him gently. She liked him. He was nice enough. But he wasn't that interesting as he talked about this show she never watched, and then talking about his two ex-wives.

She never talked about her husbands. She did say she'd been widowed twice, and he had raised an eyebrow and said jokingly, “Black widow, huh?”

She had looked up the term later and even though he had been joking, it really, really bothered her.

Her husbands had died of natural causes. What was it about this world and the Kingdoms that kept wanting to cast her as a murderer?

So she sat in the coffee shop and goofed around with the screenplay she had started before she met Dave Bourke. His screenplays flowed, and they had a lot of speakers per page. It looked like:

STAR: speaking, speaking, speaking

MINION: answering, answering, answering

STAR: speaking some more

MINION: answering some more

Hers looked very different. It looked like:

EVIL STEPMOTHER: rant, rant, rant, ranting, ranting, ranting, even more ranting, and more ranting than that, ranting, ranting, ranting, making cogent points, but still on a soapbox, telling the world exactly what she thought all the time without taking a breath without even thinking ofbreathingsometimeswithoutanyspacesbetweenwords at all as if she didn't have spaces between thoughts like Selda once said it was as if she breathed out and breathed in while talking just to make her point before anyone else could get a word in edgewise now that was a magical talent albeit one most people did not have and the people who did have it were people you didn't want to have it which was why Mellie knew her screenplay wasn't working.

But it wasn't just the dialogue in the screenplay that didn't work. It was also the lack of story. She found that very, very, very frustrating. Because she liked movies, and she understood storytelling. Or at least, she understood the necessity for it. And if what Charming had said was true—that someone had to enjoy something to write about it, then she had the prerequisites to write screenplays. Because she did enjoy movies.

She had just never thought about what made them work before.

And she was having trouble thinking about it now.

Someone set a briefcase on her table. She looked up, startled. She hadn't heard anyone come in. She'd been so engrossed in her screenplay thoughts that she had lost track of the time.

The briefcase looked new. It was wide and trimmed in gold. She had to move slightly so that she could see past her laptop and the briefcase.

There, standing at the other end of her table, was Charming.

“You want some more coffee?” he asked. “And a cinnamon roll? I could do with a cinnamon roll.”

And before she could answer, he walked over to the barista. Mellie watched him go. He sounded nervous. He didn't look nervous (did Charmings ever look nervous?) but he sounded very nervous, speaking five times faster than he had before. As he walked to the counter to order, he wiped his hands on his beautifully tailored slacks, as if his palms were moist.

Mellie didn't like the way her heart rate increased when she realized he was back. She didn't want to be thrilled (but she was). She wanted to be calm and collected and completely uninterested.

She could pretend she was all of those things, but she wasn't. She couldn't stop herself from watching him as he ordered, gesturing with his right hand, and then smiling at the barista.

The barista, who wore black, and was tattooed and pierced everywhere, and had to be all of twenty-five, watched him as if she were entranced.

He even moved elegantly, as if he had been a dancer in a previous life. Maybe he had been. After all, dance was required of royalty in all of the Kingdoms. Just like fencing and jousting and horseback riding. He moved like an athlete because he was an athlete.

He just wasn't the kind of athlete she had become accustomed to in the Greater World, the skinny, entitled guys who filled the evening news or the famous, puffy guys bulked up on steroids or the average, everyday guys who were so full of themselves because they started their day by running five miles.

Charming made it all look easy—of course he did. That was part of being charming, making everything look easy.

The way he bought cinnamon rolls (she had yet to see him finish one), he should have weighed an extra hundred pounds or so. But he didn't. He looked perfect, the way that men looked in advertising—with that triangular shape—the broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips and a really, really, really nice butt.

He started to turn and she made herself look away before he finished the movement. She didn't want him to see her. She really didn't want him to know what she was thinking. The very idea made her blush.

She braced her cheek on one fist. How much had she blushed since she met this man? Nearly every day (except in the last week, when she hadn't seen him at all). Sometimes more than once per day. She was blushing like a new bride.

A new bride whom no one had told the facts of life.

A new bride who had no inkling that there even were facts of life.

“I'm sorry,” he said and she jumped again. He took the briefcase off the table. “I forgot to set that on the floor.”

“It's okay.” She smiled at him, hoping the color in her cheeks had receded somewhat.

He set both cinnamon rolls down, just like he had a week ago. Only this time, he remembered the butter, the napkins and the silverware—including the knives.

Then the barista said, “Dave!” and Mellie started for a third time, glancing at the door. But there was no Dave. It took her a half second to remember that the Dave she knew as Dave and the Dave the barista had just called were different people.

Of course, Charming couldn't go around telling people his name was Charming. That would get more of a reaction than telling people his daughter was named Imperia.

He went back to get the coffees. Mellie slid her cinnamon roll closer. She wasn't going to pretend she lacked an appetite. She was going to need all the sugar and fat she could get to make it through this conversation without making a fool of herself.

In fact, she wasn't even going to start the discussion, because she was too afraid she would demand to know where he had been.

He came back, sat down (slowly and elegantly, without spilling anything on those perfectly creased pants), and said, “I owe you.”

She set her fork down. She hadn't expected him to say that. She had expected something witty or just a little bewildered, like
I wasn't sure you'd still be here
.

In fact, if he had come a day or two later, she wouldn't have been here at all.

“You owe me?” Mellie couldn't for the life of her imagine why.

“My daughters love school,” he said as he stirred sugar into his coffee. “They love it.”

Mellie frowned ever so slightly. Did he think she'd magicked them somehow? Because she certainly hadn't done that, nor had she done anything else.

“That's good, isn't it?” she asked, trying not to sound as confused as she felt. “That they love school. It's good, right?”