I feel her presence before I actually see her and she comes around the couch so she’s facing me, Doja in her arms. “Oh.”
That’s all she says.
Is she surprised to see me? Did she think I was going to leave?
Hell no, not after that interesting little interaction we had.
I’m staying. Besides, this apartment is dope as fuck and relatively close to Halcyon. Why would I leave?
Deciding to pretend I didn’t kiss her neck, I ask, “You hungry?”
She nods, cuddling Doja close.
“You like sushi?”
“Yes. No sashimi though. Or raw tuna.”
“I’m going to order a couple of rolls. Want to choose?” I hold my phone out toward her.
“You go ahead. I’m not that hungry.”
I pretend to read the menu, my gaze on her the entire time as she moves about the living room, finally settling into the couch across from me, Doja in her lap. She looks so small sitting on the overstuffed couch, her hair hanging damp around her face, clad in a cream-colored sweatshirt with matching sweatpants.
She just took a shower too. Did she touch herself while thinking of me?
Huh.
Probably not.
I bet she thinks about me though. I know I think about her. What we’re doing. How it’s all going to work out—or will it? I think she’s cute. sitting on the couch, petting her cat, pretending she doesn’t notice me staring.
She has to feel it, right? Feel me?
Her gaze flickers to mine, a quick acknowledgement just before she starts sweet-talking the cat. Doja purrs, rubbing her head against Charlotte’s hand and I realize quick that I’m jealous over a fucking cat.
A cat who accepts me a lot more readily than her owner.
Determination sets in and I can feel myself tumbling deeper. Getting more involved. Winston used to tell me I care too much what other people think of me, and he’s right. It matters, what this woman thinks. About me.
Us.
I’m going to break through Charlotte’s walls.
Even if it fucking kills me.
Chapter Sixteen
Charlotte
I’m entering awedding dress shop in Soho with my mother on a sunny October morning, the chic woman who greeted us at the door practically salivating over her.
Louisa Lancaster is well known. My entire family is—with the exception of me.
“Her gown is almost ready. We’re prepping it now in one of the dressing rooms,” the woman says with an enthusiastic smile, never looking at me once.
And I’m the freaking bride.
There’s not much I planned for my wedding, but I at least had a say in the gown. After giving up on the black-dress idea—Charlotte, we are Lancasters. You cannot get married wearing black. I won’t allow it—I went through one magazine fat with images, found the style I preferred, zeroed in on it enough to find three gowns I liked, went in and tried them on and made my decision.