Chapter9
Damien
“Are you even listening to me, man?” Jeffrey asks as he leans closer to me in the booth. The guy convinced me to go out tonight instead of staying in, and now I’m regretting that decision. Although I guess being here is better than sulking at home, something I’m not proud to admit.
I can’t believe that when I fucking showed up at her office like that with lunch and flowers, she got mad at me about it.
“Yeah, I’m listening,” I reply before taking a sip of my whiskey and coke. I’m not much of a hard alcohol drinker, but tonight called for something stronger than beer. My confidence is bruised, my head is a foggy fucking mess, and the last thing I want to do is think about what Charlotte and I would be doing tonight if she had been available to hang out. Or wanted to.
I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking, asking her out, but for some reason I just wanted to spend more time with her. Bantering with her, listening to her laugh, making her smile, and seeing the look in her eyes when I tell her that her mom’s an idiot for the things she says to her—it’s making me feel some type of way that I’m completely unfamiliar with. My gut and my brain are like the devil and the angel, sitting on each of my shoulders. Both are competing to convince me of what I should do in my situation.
My gut is the angel in this situation, urging me to spend more time with her, get to know her, find out everything that makes her tick. I’m justifying it so that when we’re in Hawaii, her parents will be more likely to believe that we’re a real couple. But I also have this weird feeling that’s making me think that it’s more because I want to be around her. She gets me, can hold her own against my level of sarcasm, and she’s nice to talk to. The last thing she cares about is how many calories she’s eaten that day or how many followers on Instagram she has.
But most importantly, she’s familiar. She reminds me of home, a simpler time, and a life that seems like another century ago.
But the devil is my brain and the man in red on the other side—he’s feeding the feud between us, reminding me that Charlotte Montgomery is not to be trusted, that this deal we struck was risky at best, and I’m better off keeping my distance, abiding by her rules, and letting this thing run its course so I can go back to living my life the way it was before she popped back in, except for hopefully with a nice, shiny promotion and raise.
But the devil? Yeah, he really wants me to fuck her too.
And that’s the problem. Charlotte has temptation written all over her—from her curves to her big, brown eyes and long brown hair, to her sass that has me wanting to smash my lips to hers just to crush every rebuttal she fires off against me.
“Then what did I just say?” Jeffrey asks with way too much indignation.
“You were complaining about the fact that you haven’t been laid in six months.”
“It was five, thank you very much,” he corrects me. “Why make it sound worse than it really is?”
“You’re making it sound worse, Jeffrey. Stop fucking complaining about it, get out of this booth, and go put in some work. Find a woman, talk to her, buy her a drink, and lay the groundwork so hopefully, she’ll let you take her home later and you can end your five-month drought.”
“Easy for you to say, Damien. Women fucking flock to you.” He lifts his glass to his lips and then stares down at it, looking defeated. Jeffrey isn’t a bad looking guy—with dirty blonde hair, green eyes, and a nice smile—but he’s lacking confidence. That’s the key component women look for. Not cockiness—confidence. And yes, there is a difference.
“You need to be more confident, man. You’re a decent looking guy, but you cower too much. Go up to a woman, be honest that you think she’s attractive and you would like to talk to her. You’d be surprised how far that will get you.”
“And if she says she’s not interested?”
“Then you thank her for being honest and move on.” I take another sip of my drink. “It’s really that simple.”
“So why aren’t you out there making moves tonight since you have the art of picking up women narrowed down to a science?”
“In case you’ve forgotten, I have a girlfriend now.”
Jeffrey smirks. “A fake girlfriend, if I recall.”
“Yes, but she’s real to everyone else. And if anyone we know was to see me with a woman that is not her, it would not bode well for either of us.” That’s the explanation I’m giving Jeffrey, and it does have merit. But honestly, no other woman here has sparked my interest, which is yet another issue that I’m having with Charlotte. She’s the only woman I’ve been thinking about lately, especially in the shower. And fuck, she does not disappoint in my imagination.
“Good point.” Jeffery stands and then buttons up his coat again. “Okay, well, here goes nothing.”
“Unbutton your jacket. We’re not at work. And undo the top two buttons on your shirt,” I say, pointing to my own that I unfastened before we arrived. My light blue shirt is also rolled up to my elbows, showing off my forearms. I don’t know what it is, but ladies go nuts for forearms. Not that I’m looking for that attention tonight, but old habits die hard
“You’re not trying to get me to strip for you, are you?” he asks me.
“Fuck, no. I’m trying to help you.” I stand, help him situate himself, and then smack him on the ass. “Now go get ‘em, tiger.”
“I never played football in high school, so that was my first ass slap, and I can’t say that I hated it.”
“Just go.” I pinch the bridge of my nose and say a little prayer to the man upstairs for Jeffrey’s benefit. But when I lift my head to see where he ran off to, the last person I expected to see here tonight is on the dance floor, swinging her hips in a gold sequin dress that looks like the gold foil on the end of a champagne bottle you have to rip off before you can pop the cork.
And I have never wanted to pop her fucking cork more.
Charlotte is dancing with a drink in her hand, swaying her body to the music blaring from the speakers. Her friends—the same ones I saw with her at dinner the other night—are circled around themselves, laughing and moving their bodies to the beat.
But Charlotte steals the show, her hair down and wild from her movements, her body fucking delectable in her dress, and her smile bright and free—like she’s been transported to another world tonight as she dances her troubles away.
And for a moment, I wonder if I’m part of those troubles.
I knew I caught her off guard when I surprised her earlier this week, and for someone like Charlotte—put together, type A, and a bit of a perfectionist—I’m sure the lack of her control at that moment only spurred on her frustration with me.
But that fire I saw in her eyes, the same one I got pleasure from igniting when we were younger—it was muted somehow, probably subdued by the disappointment I exhibited in front of her when she told me she was busy. I tried to hide it, brush it off like it was nothing. But now that I see her here, I know she was telling the truth. It wasn’t a lie she used to get out of seeing me, and it seems she’s having a really good fucking time.
Realizing that my drink is empty, I head for the bar, trying to keep my line of sight away from her, but failing miserably. She’s captivating me, and as I wait for the bartender to make my drink, I realize I’m not the only one. Several men, all around my age probably, are eye-fucking the shit out of Charlotte and her friends. I can’t very well blame them. All four of those women are stunning, each in their own unique way.
Penelope has a Cindy Crawford look to her, height and all, but you can tell she has a few notches of crazy lurking under her smile. Amelia has wild, curly blonde hair and glasses that give her that librarian look that any red-blooded male would be into. And Noelle has the classic, girl-next-door look going for her, with light brown hair and green eyes and a petite little body.
But Charlotte—she’s curvy, naturally beautiful with her dark features, and has that sass that gets my engine revving. She stands out in a crowd of gorgeous women because she has that little something extra that is too enticing to ignore. And it’s not just her appearance that gets me going, it’s her mind. The girl has always been intelligent, even though I know I could match her in that department. But her tenacity, that edge she has that drives her determination and goal-oriented mind is what keeps reeling me in.
And now I know she has a vulnerable side too, a part of her she never let me see before since that would have been like her showing me her weakness back when we used to compete over everything. Knowing she struggles with appeasing her mom was like a breath of relief because I’ve been dealing with the same shit with my dad for as long as I can remember.
And Charlotte was always a huge part of that.
When the bartender slides my drink to me, I thank him, tell him to put it on my tab, and then turn back around just in time to see one of the guys who was standing next to me approaching Charlotte and her friends. I can almost feel my hackles raise as I watch him slither through the crowd and come up behind Charlotte, planting his hand on her hip. She looks over her shoulder nervously, gives him a tight-lipped smile, and then turns back to her friends with wide eyes, a gaze that says, ‘help me.’
Every instinct in my body is telling me to go over there, but then the devil appears and holds me back, reminding me that Charlotte is a grown woman and can handle herself.
But then he whispers in my ear, “But she is supposed to be yours now, right?”
Fuck. I don’t own her. But she clearly isn’t asking for this attention. So does that mean that I should do something? Say something? I mean, we are a fake couple, and for the same reasons I told Jeffrey, I should go over there to keep up appearances. Heaven forbid someone we know says something to one of our colleagues, or worse, our parents. You never know who has eyes, ears, or a camera phone recording something in this day and age.
I know I’m getting a little far-fetched with the possibilities right now, but as I watch this guy clearly not take the hint that she’s not interested, I decide my plan of action. Tossing back my drink, welcoming the burn that courses down my throat, I slam my empty glass on the bar and then march over to where they’re standing, parting the circle the girls have created and pulling Charlotte into me.
“There you are, sweet pea.”
Charlotte’s eyes bug out, but she quickly puts her hand on my chest and gets closer to me, pressing her entire body against mine. And fuck, does she feel good. “You’re here?”
“Sorry I’m late.” I lean down and kiss her on the cheek, just an inch from the corner of her mouth, and I can smell the alcohol on her breath mixed with her sweet scent. But before I become far too enraptured in her, I lift my head and make eye contact with the man who was dancing with her. “The woman’s taken,” I declare.
He scowls at me, but then puts his hands in the air in surrender. “Sorry, man.”