by Whitney G.
ON A TUESDAY
(Charlotte & Grayson)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by Whitney Gracia Williams
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
Cover designed by Najla Qamber of Najla Qamber Designs
Model: Andrea Denver
Author’s Therapist: Nicole London
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
ABOUT THE BOOK
ON A TUESDAY | SYNOPSIS
GRAYSON: NOW
CHARLOTTE: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
CHARLOTTE: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
CHARLOTTE: NOW
GRAYSON: NOW
CHARLOTTE: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
CHARLOTTE: THEN
CHARLOTTE: NOW
GRAYSON: NOW
CHARLOTTE: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
GRAYSON: NOW
CHARLOTTE: THEN
CHARLOTTE: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
CHARLOTTE: THEN
CHARLOTTE: NOW
CHARLOTTE: NOW
CHARLOTTE: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
GRAYSON: NOW
CHARLOTTE: THEN
CHARLOTTE: THEN
CHARLOTTE: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
CHARLOTTE: THEN
GRAYSON: THEN
GRAYSON: NOW
CHARLOTTE: THEN
CHARLOTTE: THEN
CHARLOTTE: NOW
GRAYSON: NOW
GRAYSON: ON A TUESDAY
CHARLOTTE: ON A TUESDAY
GRAYSON: ON A TUESDAY
CHARLOTTE: ON A TUESDAY
A Letter to the Reader
THIRTY DAY BOYFRIEND
SNEAK PEEK: | SINCERELY, CARTER
Prologue
Fourth Grade
ALSO BY WHITNEY G.
ABOUT THE BOOK
The “One Week” Series is a series of short, standalone novels that are inspired by a day of the week, an Adele song, and a steamy romance trope.
The first book in the series is On a Tuesday and it is a second chance romance inspired by Adele’s “When We Were Young.” The next book in the series is On a Wednesday and it’s inspired by Adele’s “Someone Like You.”
This story is dedicated to all the friends I made in college. I wish we were all back in that space and time, and I wish things were as they once were.
ON A TUESDAY
SYNOPSIS
We met on a Tuesday.
Became best friends, then lovers, on a Tuesday.
And everything fell apart on a Tuesday ...
Charlotte Taylor has three automatic strikes in my book: 1) She hates me. She also claims that I'm a "domineering jerk with a huge, overbearing ego." (I do have something huge. It's not my ego, though.) 2) She takes our mandatory tutoring sessions way too seriously. 3) She's sexy as hell ... And a virgin.
At least, those were her strikes before our study sessions started lasting longer than they were supposed to. Until one innocent kiss became a hundred dirty ones, and until she became the first woman I ever fell hard for.
Our future together after graduation was supposed to be set:
Professional football for me. Law school for her.
But she left me at the end of the semester with no explanation, and then she completely disappeared from my life.
Until tonight.
We met on a Tuesday.
Became everything, then nothing, on a Tuesday.
And now it's seven years later, on a Tuesday ...
GRAYSON: NOW
Present Day
New York City
GRAYSON CONNORS WINS SUPER BOWL MVP, AGAIN
GRAYSON CONNORS LEADS NEW YORK TO CONSECUTIVE SUPER BOWL WIN
CONNORS’ LATE TOUCHDOWN LIFTS NEW YORK OVER NEW ENGLAND
I read this morning’s headlines for the hundredth time and forced myself to smile. I tried to feel something—anything, but it was no use. This wasn’t what “winning” was supposed to feel like, and I would know because— well, I almost always won.
As a heavy snow fell over Manhattan, I walked over to my balcony and watched a construction crew adjust a new billboard that read, "Go, Grayson Connors!"
Last year, I’d celebrated the championship by joining my teammates in a reckless five-day party in Las Vegas. We’d drenched our team plane in thousand-dollar champagne, demanded over the top accommodations for the Super Bowl parade, and basked in the never-ending attention from women who wanted to know “what it felt like to sleep with a champion.”
But this year, when the game clock struck zero, and the score was in my team's favor, I felt no excitement at all. I coasted through the ensuing media interviews with a fake smile plastered on my face, and I didn't bother flying with the team to Vegas. I came straight home and called the police to report the flock of groupies who were waiting outside my condo.
I decided to host my own private celebration, but when I scrolled through the five hundred contacts in my phone, I realized that there were only two people worth calling: My mother and my best friend, Kyle. Then again, my mother didn’t believe in leaving her house for non-emergencies when it snowed, and asking Kyle to celebrate days after defeating his team in the game was a bit egotistical. Even for me.
I’ll ask him about it next weekend...
I scrolled through my contacts again, hoping I’d missed someone, but the results were the same. Frustrated, I tossed my phone at the wall and turned on the TV.
As the announcers walked through their favorite moments of Sunday’s game, a knock came to my door.
Confused as to why my doorman would let anyone up to my floor without asking me for permission first, I walked over and looked through the peephole.
Anna?
“We’ve talked about this, Anna,” I said, opening the door and letting her inside. “You’re supposed to call and ask me if you can come up here first.”
“I’m your agent.” She scoffed and held up her phone. “I called several times because you just bolted after the game. Since you didn’t answer, I was worried.” She looked around the room. “Am I interrupting a celebratory orgy or something?”
“No.” I groaned. “What do you want?”
“I wanted to personally congratulate you on winning your second Super Bowl.” She handed me a bright pink envelope. “I’m so proud of you, that I actually wrote inside of this card.”
“You came all the way over here just to give me a card?”
"Of course not." She smiled and pulled a manila envelope from her purse. "I have a few things I need you to sign, and a few time-sensitive deals we need to negotiate."
“That sounds like it can wait until next week.”
“It could, but what if one of us dies before next week? What if you hurt your throwing arm between tonight and this weekend and suddenly, you realize that no one wants to endorse an injured athlete?”
I gave her a blank stare. This woman was the most anxious person I’d ever met. She was undoubtedly the best when it came to doing her job, but her anxiety made her incapable of relaxing, so she never took a day off. She used the word “time sensitive” for everything, and I knew just by looking at her, that none of wha
t she had to say to me today was that crucial.
“You’ve got twenty minutes,” I said. “I’m not spending my entire day on paperwork.”
“Fair enough.” She carried her envelope to my living room, turned on the fireplace, and hit mute on the television like this was her house. Then she slipped off her heels and plopped onto my sofa, rearranging the ESPN and Sports Illustrated magazines on my coffee table.
“Would you mind making me a cup of coffee, Grayson?” she asked. “I’m thirsty.”
Okay. Now, you’ve got five minutes.
I filled two of my “Yes, I’m That Good” mugs with coffee and took a seat across from her, bracing myself for bullshit.
“Let’s start with the simple things first,” she said, sliding her phone to me. “The gossip blogs caught a picture of you dining with a mystery woman inside of a Tribeca restaurant a few nights ago. I know how annoyed you get about your privacy, so if you want to kill the speculation, would you like to confirm that you have a new girlfriend or tell them that this is just a fling?”
“I would like to tell them to go fuck themselves.” I rolled my eyes. “I was treating my mother to a private dinner. It was her birthday.”
“Oh.” She tapped her fingers against her phone. “Okay, well that’s now handled. Second thing, you’ll need to read over these contract amendments and sign off on them by tomorrow. Speaking of amendments, the last time we spoke ...”
I tuned out her voice and sipped my coffee as she spoke a mile a minute. Without giving her my full attention, I knew that every other phrase that fell from her lips was “speaking of that contract,” “I need you to sign this” or “Oh! Now, this one is really time sensitive.” By the time she finally stopped talking, an entire hour had passed.
“You went over by forty minutes,” I said, standing. “Whatever we haven’t discussed will have to wait. Hopefully, both of us will still be alive by then.”
She laughed. “Fine. Just make sure you’re all packed for your class reunion at The University of Pittsburgh. You’ll need three suits at most, something to wear on a golf course, and your old college jersey, of course. Delta Airlines has promised to leave two first class seats open on all their NYC to Pitt flights for tomorrow, so no need to feel rushed.”
“What?” I raised my eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your class reunion. It’s this Tuesday night.”
“Since when do college classes have seven-year reunions?” I asked.
“When your class is full of achievers, I guess.” She handed me an ivory envelope.
I opened the invitation and instantly remembered when she’d first given it to me months ago, when I agreed to “do whatever they needed me to do.”
I clearly wasn’t thinking straight.
“They want you to give two speeches,” she said. “One before the fireworks, and one at the farewell ceremony. I’ve made a draft of both speeches, a list of additional things you may want to touch on, and a photo collage of your college memories that you may want to look over while we fly. You’re welcome.”
“I don’t recall saying thank you.” I shook my head and returned the invitation. “I’m not going to this. Get me out of it now.”
“Grayson.” Her face paled. “Surely, you know how terrible it will look if you back out of this the day before. You’re the surprise, special guest speaker.”
“I don’t care.” I walked away from her. There was only one person who would make me consider going to that reunion, and since she never came to any alumni events I’d attended over the years, I didn’t need to waste my time. “Tell them something came up. You can also tell them that I’m more than willing to address the crowd via Skype.”
“Grayson, listen.”
“I didn’t stutter.” I kept my voice firm. “End of discussion.”
"Okay." She stood to her feet. "Well, now that you're not going to the reunion, I guess we can get your contract renewal with Nike out of the way. I'm having lunch with a few of their team members tomorrow, and I can make that happen, if so."
“Sure.” I officially gave up on the idea of her ever knowing and accepting when a meeting was ‘over.’
“Great! I’ll let myself out.” She slipped into her heels and headed toward the door.
I walked over to the spot where I’d thrown my phone and picked it up, somewhat surprised it was still in one piece. Before I could call my doorman and tell him that Anna was not an exception to my “call me first” rule, I heard her clearing her throat.
“Yes, Anna?”
“I wanted to ask you one last thing,” she said. “Did you see the note about Charlotte Taylor?”
“What?” I turned around. “What did you just say?”
“Charlotte Taylor.” She shrugged and held up the invitation. “There was a little note on the back about her. Did you see it?”
I didn't answer. I rushed over and took the card from her hands. Flipping it over, I spotted a handwritten note in faint purple ink:
Grayson,
I hope all is well with you. I know we haven't spoken in quite a while, but between you and me ...
Charlotte Taylor RSVP’d for this reunion a few weeks ago.
I thought you would want to know.
—Nadira
I stared at the note for several seconds, feeling my blood boil with each written word.
I hadn’t heard from Charlotte since I graduated college. I’d spent thousands of dollars looking for her the first year she left me, and all I ever found were confirmations that she’d moved overseas, started a new life, and married someone who wasn’t me.
Just the mere mention of her name was bringing back all the memories of what we once had. What we once swore would never come to an end.
To this day, I’d never loved anyone the way I loved her. Hell, I honestly hadn’t “loved” anyone since her because no other woman ever compared, and it still made me angry whenever I remembered that she never had the decency to give me a damn goodbye.
"Well, I guess that's that," Anna said. "But you know, now I think we can kill two birds with one stone during the lunch with Nike, if you don’t mind. In addition to meeting your reps, we can finally film two of those short—”
“I won’t be joining you for lunch tomorrow.” I looked over the handwritten note one last time, knowing I wouldn’t be able to focus on anything else for the rest of the day. “I’m going to the reunion.”
“Okay. Well, it’s not until Tuesday evening, Grayson. You can still join us for lunch Monday, sign your name on a few papers, and fly out to Pittsburgh in the afternoon.”
“I’m flying there tonight.”
CHARLOTTE: THEN
Seven years ago
Pittsburgh
THERE HAD TO BE A SPECIAL place reserved in hell for advisors who steered you on the wrong path during your college career. At least, I was hoping that was the case so my clueless advisor would know what it felt like to have his future in the wrong hands.
“Well, this is quite a problem, Charlotte.” He tapped his fingers against the desk. “Even with all the advanced classes you’ve taken, you’re still missing six of the credits you need for your Political Science degree. I can’t believe that you, of all people, didn’t catch this before now. You’re supposed to be one of my smartest students.”
“Are you seriously blaming me for this?”
"I'm not blaming you, per se," he said. "I'm just saying that for someone who cares so much about your education, you should've known that you hadn’t taken all of your Ethics courses. Hell, I was a Poli-Sci major decades ago, and even I know Ethics III and IV are necessary."
I bit my tongue, resisting the urge to scream.
“On the plus side,” he said, smiling, “You’ve completed everything you need for your Art major, so you’ll at least get that. Who needs two degrees anyway?”
"Mr. Henderson." I took a deep breath. "With all due respect, if I'm only six credits short, it doesn't
make sense if I don't graduate with two degrees. Are you sure there aren't any alternative courses I could take in place of Ethics III and IV?"
"Dr. Bradshaw is offering an internship at her firm this year. You're a perfect candidate, and I'm sure she'd love to sign off on having you there."
"I can't." I shook my head. "I'm already taking eighteen credits this semester, and I'm a resident assistant at a freshman dorm. An internship like that would be complete and utter suicide.”
“Well, there’s always the summer semester.” He smiled. “You’ll still walk with your class. You’ll just take those six credits, then.”
“Ten seconds ago, you said that Ethics courses are never offered in the summer. You literally just said that.”
“Oh, right.” He blew out a breath and looked at his screen. “Okay, look. I need you to give me a few minutes alone so I can figure this out.”
“You want me to leave?”
“Yes.” He pointed to the door. “Step outside so I can be alone with my thoughts. And while you’re out there, go get me a coffee.”
Ugh! I grabbed my backpack and stepped outside his office, walking over to the study room. As I poured him a cup of coffee, I overheard him saying, “Shit, shit, shit!” and calling for his secretary.
I was tempted to add salt to his drink instead of sugar, but I decided to wait until he came up with an actual action plan. It never ceased to amaze me how nonchalant he was about being an advisor, how there was always a “minor problem” at the start of every semester. If it wasn’t for the fact that one of the university’s deans had encouraged me to double major in Art, I might not have a completed degree at all.
I leaned against one of the bay windows and looked down at the campus below. No matter how many times I attempted to describe it to my friends back home or paint it on my canvases, it still managed to look different every time.