“Charlotte,” he calls with that authoritative tone. “What’s wrong? Come sit down.”
“That was stupid of me. I’m sorry. I got carried away. It was just the heat of the moment, I guess. I don’t know—”
“Charlotte,” he barks
“I should go. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t go,” he calls, but I’m already to the foyer, grabbing my jacket from the closet and my purse from the bench. When I spin around again, he’s only a foot away.
“I’m really sorry. I’m so embarrassed.” My hands fly up to my face, and my cheeks are hot against my hands. And everything just comes barreling to the forefront of my mind.
I kissed Beau’s dad. My boss. Beau’s dad. A forty-year-old man.
His touch is soft against my wrists as he nudges my hands from my face.
“Are you okay?”
“No!” I shriek.
“Why?”
“Because…” My eyes widen.
“Because we kissed.”
“Oh my God,” I cry out, trying to cover my face again.
“Charlotte, calm down.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. You didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t leave. Sit down.”
He leads me to the formal living room at the front of the house with large bay windows that face the quiet neighborhood. His comforting hand is at the small of my back again, and I relax into the secure way it makes me feel.
It’s quiet for so long before he finally speaks. “I think you were right. We just got carried away in the moment, which was not your fault.”
There’s abuthanging on the end of his sentence and I’m sort of dreading it. As much as I hate the idea of kissing him again, I also sort of…love the idea of kissing him again. Which is so, so wrong. And most of all, I don’t want him turning me down. It hurts to even think about.
“But the two of us getting involved with each other physically is a very bad idea.”
“I agree,” I stammer, unable to meet his eyes.
“I don’t want you to leave like this. I’m sorry it happened, but if you need to leave, I understand.”
I don’t want to leave. Suddenly, I find myself glued to his presence, craving that comforting touch again. One little brush of our lips and I’m already attached.Stupid, stupid Charlie.
“I’ll stay.”
In my head is a chorus of self-deprecation walloping my ego.Why would he want you anyway? Stupid girl. You really tried to kiss Emerson Grant. A handsome millionaire who could have anyone. Why would he want you?
My eyes are trained on the floor, my hands working anxiously as I let the words have their way, running through my mind until I’m on the verge of tears.
And suddenly, he’s touching my chin. And I glance up in surprise as he lifts my gaze upward until we’re staring at each other.
“It’snotbecause I don’t want you. Understand?”
It’s eerie how well he reads my mind. He’s just being nice, though. Solemnly, I nod.