by Aly Martinez
“Really,” I confirmed.
“Thank God,” he breathed in a strange mixture of relief and excitement. “I should probably introduce myself, huh?” He thrust a hand over the desk dividing us. “Hi. I’m Porter Reese.”
I didn’t know it yet. But those four simple words changed my life all over again.
* * *
“So let me get this straight. Your brother is supposedly a famous chef named Tanner and the two of you named your restaurant The Porterhouse?” she asked then slipped a spoonful of potato salad into her mouth.
I laughed. “You can’t argue with the winner of the Ninja Warrior course.”
She blinked. But her lips tipped up in a breathtaking smile.
After I’d completed the grueling—and slightly terrifying—task of convincing her to have lunch with me, Charlotte had led me through the hospital maze to the packed cafeteria. No one spoke their hellos as we walked past, but more than once, I caught hospital personnel doing an openmouthed double take. Though, if Charlotte noticed, she didn’t let on. She kept her head down, eyes forward, and ignored the world.
I had to admit I was envious. I’d been trying for years to accomplish that feat.
First stop on my way home was going to be to buy myself a flame-retardant suit because there were no ifs, ands, or buts about it—I was going to hell.
I’d yet to mention Travis or the appointment I so desperately needed from her, but that could come later. And there was absolutely going to be a later.
Charlotte Mills was fascinating.
She didn’t talk much, but she wasn’t quiet, either. She was very much present in the conversation, one sentence or sarcastic comment at a time. Engaging, but still withdrawn. The emptiness rolled like waves through her dark eyes, occasionally fading out of view as a subtle light flickered in the background.
I didn’t know much about her other than the fact that she picked all the sesame seeds off her burger and used thick layers of mustard like most people would use ketchup.
But I was drawn to her in inexplicable ways.
She spoke my language, even if I didn’t know why.
I’d gone there for Travis, first and foremost. But, somewhere around the point when she breathed my name, I knew I was going to have to multitask.
There wasn’t a chance in hell I was walking out of that hospital without an appointment for myself too. Mine was going to be after hours and sans the hospital johnny.
Christ, she was cute.
Her smiles were reserved, but when she aimed them at me, it felt as though I’d conquered Mount Everest. I knew firsthand how arduous it was to produce a smile.
Not the one I displayed like an avatar.
A real one.
Gone was her hoodie, and in its place was an equally flattering scrub top. But I didn’t care what she was wearing. Her being beautiful was nothing more than an incredibly nice by-product.
I wasn’t a rash person by any stretch of the imagination, but I felt it with her—the common denominator I’d never found with anyone else.
Don’t get me wrong. Love at first sight didn’t exist. Soul mates were the likes of fairytales. And lust wasn’t love, no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself otherwise.
Feelings faded. Obsessions got rerouted. True colors never stayed hidden for long.
So, while I was absolutely intrigued by this woman, I wasn’t delusional enough to think it would ever be anything more than that. I was a numbers guy. She was only one woman out of the 3.7 billion on the planet. Statistically, I had a better chance of falling in love with a sheep than this broken woman. But I was also a believer that people entered your life for a reason and it was up to you to figure out why.
Yeah. I was going to hell, because before I gave her the chance to shoot me down about Travis, I was going to figure out why she’d entered mine.
“So, what are you naming the new restaurant?” she asked, pinching a bite off her burger before popping it into her mouth. She’d eaten nearly her entire sandwich in the same manner.
Seriously. Fucking cute.
I chuckled and leaned back against the padded cafeteria booth, my burger long since gone. “The Tannerhouse.”
She lifted her hand to cover her mouth and mumbled around her food. “Seriously?”
“Unfortunately, yes. And it gets worse. It’s all one word. Tannerhouse. Like Porterhouse, only not actually a word.”
She laughed, and the sound danced over my skin.
Fuck Mount Everest. That felt like I’d built a ladder straight to the heavens. (And yes, I’d realized exactly how goddamn cheesy that thought was. But fuck, it felt that fucking good when the sound of her laughter drew a laugh from my own throat.)
I tried not to stare at her mouth, but it was a futile effort. Her pink lips were a perfect crescent, pouty and pink.
While Charlotte didn’t have the warmest demeanor, there was no mistaking the fact that everything about her was entirely feminine. Even the simple things, like the way she used two fingers to tuck her hair behind her ear or the way she set her fork down after every bite, were almost graceful.
When she caught me staring, her cheeks pinked and she looked down, her long, straight hair falling forward to curtain her face off.
My hands ached to brush it over her shoulder so I could see her again. Just as I was about to give in to the urge, she looked up, a new confidence blazing in her eyes.
“Your brother sounds like a character.”
I nodded. “If, by character, you mean his life goal is to screw with me, then yes. He is a huge character.”
“Is he older or younger?” she asked before pinching another tiny bite off her burger.
“Younger by two years.”
“So that makes him, what, like, twenty-five, twenty-six?”
I wasn’t the only one at that table flirting. Mine was slightly more overt, but she wasn’t fooling anyone.
Leaning forward on my elbows, I shot her a teasing side-eye. “Are you asking because you want to know how old he is or how old I am?”
Her face remained stoic. “Well, you said he was famous. So, clearly, I was asking about him.”
She was kidding. Dry as the Sahara Desert. But I fucking loved it, so I remained stoic as well.
After picking my cell phone up, I opened the web browser. “He’s thirty-two. You want to see a picture?”
“Absolutely.” She leaned forward with mock interest.
I knew that it was mock because her heated gaze roamed over my arms and my shoulders when she thought I wasn’t looking.
Shaking my head, I went to work searching through Google images for exactly the right picture. Passing it her way, I lied, “If you’re interested, I could see if he’s free for dinner tonight.”
I would quite possibly light Tanner on fire before I’d let him anywhere near her.
“That sounds amazing. I’ll rush home and…” She didn’t finish the thought when her gaze landed on the screen. “Dear God,” she whispered, covering her mouth with her hand. “He’s an Adonis.”
The picture was of Sloth from The Goonies.
“People say we look alike, but I don’t see it.”
“Oh, you don’t look anything alike.”
“No?” I smirked.
“Oh, no way. He’s so much better looking than you are.”
The smile that split my lips was unrivaled. But the real surprise was when it traveled from my mouth through my body, igniting me in the most unfamiliar way.
“Obviously,” I replied, reaching for my phone. “If you give me your number, I’ll be happy to forward you the picture. You know, so you can stare at it later.”
“Really?” she breathed. “Your kindness knows no bounds.”
Swear to God, there wasn’t an ounce of humor in her voice. I was so fucking impressed.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket and rattled a string of numbers off. I couldn’t program those digits in quickly enough.
Flashing her a
grin, I got busy typing a text out.
Me: Hey, it’s Porter. AKA: Grill Master Max.
I looked up as her phone vibrated. “You should probably reply to that. It might be an insanely gorgeous man trying to ask you out.”
Her lips twitched as she brought her phone up, her thumbs fluidly gliding over the screen.
Her: The ugly Reese brother?
Me: I prefer genetically challenged, but yes.
When I pressed send, I turned my attention back to her. And I had the absolute pleasure of witnessing that lip twitch transform into a full-blown grin.
Her: My sincerest apologies for my insensitivity.
Her head lifted to mine, and I dodged the eye contact by focusing on my phone.
Me: Accepted. Listen, so I was thinking…
I sent the picture of Sloth.
Me: I may not be an Adonis, but maybe you could do your good deed for the year and go on a pity date with me tonight?
She laughed softly as she typed.
Her: Sorry. I already did my good deed by having a pity lunch with a man today. He fed me dog.
I barked a laugh but kept my head down.
Me: Wow. He sounds terrible. I can’t imagine eating my Wagyu terrier.
Her: Yeah. He was charming in an awkward way, but I have no doubt he’s a serial killer. He tried to light me on fire the first time we met.
My head snapped up. “Oh come on! I wasn’t trying to set you on fire!” I exclaimed, placing my phone on the table.
She let out a loud laugh and followed suit, shoving her phone back into her pocket.
We sat in silence for several seconds. She poked at her potato salad with a spoon, while I stared at her, wishing she would give me her gaze back. Finally, I got up the nerve to slide my palm across the table until it covered her hand.
“You think I’m charming, huh?”
“I also think you’re a serial killer,” she told the potato salad.
Rubbing my thumb over the back of her hand, I asked, “So, just to be clear, where do we stand on the whole dinner thing?”
She looked up and her playful gaze had dimmed. “Porter, listen.” She started to pull her hand away, but I refused to let go. “I’m not sure what Rita told you about me, but—”
“Rita didn’t tell me anything.”
“Right,” she said dismissively. “You just happen to know where I was and how I eat my burger?”
And that you refuse to treat children.
“Okay, so Rita told me a little. But that’s not why I want to have dinner with you.”
She leaned back, slipping her hand from under mine, and crossed her arms over her chest. “I think you’re a really sweet guy, but you should know I’m completely emotionally unavailable.”
“No, you’re not,” I replied nonchalantly, reaching for her hand again.
She dodged my touch. “Oh, I’m not?”
“You aren’t emotionally unavailable. You’re emotionally closed off. Those are two totally different things.”
She scoffed. “You don’t know me.”
After quickly sliding out of the booth, I swung around until I was sitting next to her.
“Wh…what are you doing?” she stammered, scooting over.
I followed her until her back hit the wall. Her leg was crooked up on the bench between us, so I slid my arm across the back of her seat and leaned forward until our upper bodies were mere inches apart. Her breathing sped, and my heart raced.
“I know you better than you think.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but I didn’t let her get a word in edgewise.
“You smile for people because it makes them comfortable, but it makes you feel like a fraud. You go through the motions of living but only so people will stop asking if you’re doing okay. You laugh to remind yourself that you can still physically make the sound, even though you’re so fucking numb you don’t feel it. And you keep to yourself not because you like to be alone, but rather because you’re the only person who truly understands.”
Her mouth fell open and a soft gasp hitched her breath. “How…how do you know that?”
I finally gave in to the urge and tucked a strand of her soft, silky hair behind her ear. Then I cupped her cheek. “Because they’re the same goddamn things I do every day.”
She swallowed hard and then cut her eyes off to the side. “And let me guess. You want to sit around and commiserate with me because you think we both have issues? I guarantee you we’re not as similar as you think.”
“I know. And I assure you I have zero interest in commiserating with you. I wouldn’t understand your demons any more than you would understand my personal circle of hell.”
Her sad eyes flicked back to mine. “Then what do you want?”
I sucked in a deep breath that did nothing to calm the eternal storm brewing within me. “Just a little company in the darkness. No questions. No judgments. No faking it.”
Her mouth fell open, and anxiety painted her face.
It was risky, coming on to her like that. Of all the fucked-up people I’d met over the last few years, only about a quarter of them knew they were fucked up.
My chest tightened as I waited for her reaction. There was no middle ground when you cornered a woman like that. She was going to either explode into an angry fury or melt into my arms. I prayed for the latter, but the former wouldn’t stop me. Determination was like that. And, when it came to Charlotte Mills, determination was my middle name.
Nervously, I licked my lips, and much to my elation, her gaze dropped at the action.
Victory was within my reach.
She couldn’t heal me. And I couldn’t heal her.
But sometimes, when the overwhelming weight of gravity had you pinned to the Earth, two hours of simple conversation with no pressure to pretend was the only reprieve people like us were ever going to get.
Gliding my thumb over her bottom lip, I ordered on a low rumble, “Dinner, Charlotte. Say yes.”
* * *
With shaky hands, I smoothed my black blouse down. No freaking clue what the material was or the shape to describe it. But it was sleeveless, not a scrub top, and it made me look like I had boobs. The trifecta of amazing when it came to my wardrobe.
On a breathy sigh, I’d agreed to dinner with Porter.
No questions.
No judgments.
No faking it.
The word no hadn’t been in my vocabulary after an offer like that. It’d felt like I’d been waiting my entire life for someone to give me that out.
Just a little company in the darkness.
My heart hadn’t stopped pounding since he’d slid into my side of the booth. His large body pressed against mine as those daunting, blue eyes had held me captive. My lids fluttered closed as I remembered the heat from his palm on my face, his fingerprints branding me.
After I’d left the hospital, I’d promptly gone to the mall and burned a hole in my debit card. Twelve tops I hadn’t bothered trying on—all of which were black, only one of which (the one I was wearing) fit—and two pairs of black pants—both of which fit, only one of which made my ass look good (hence why I was wearing those)—later, I’d gone home. The nerves were nearly paralyzing when I pulled into my driveway. I had two hours before I was supposed to meet Porter. If I stuck to my normal getting-ready routine, that meant I had one hour—and forty-five minutes to talk myself out of going. Throwing the car in reverse, I headed back to the mall to see if the hair place could squeeze me in for a blowout.
They did. It looked incredible. Which meant my simple-splash-of-makeup face looked like shit. So I swung by the MAC counter on the way out.
By the time I walked through the heavy wooden doors at The Porterhouse, I looked like a new woman. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as easy to dress the inside of me up to match. I wanted to be there. To see Porter again. But old habits were hard to break. I’d mentally stockpiled at least a dozen excuses for why I had to leave before our salads. (Okay, fine! Two
of them would enable me to make a break for it before we’d even ordered drinks.)
The moment I heard his deep, gravelly voice, I knew I’d wasted my time.
“Charlotte,” he greeted behind me as I stood at the busy hostess stand, waiting for my turn.
Whirling around, I found him prowling toward me, a smile on his face, unmistakable heat in his eyes.
My stomach dipped as I raked my gaze down his body. Porter was tall, probably around six-three, and while he didn’t carry a suit of muscle, his every curve was toned and hard. His built shoulders strained against the confinement of his white button-down. And, with his sleeves rolled up, stopping below his elbow, his powerfully veined forearms were on full display. He’d been attractive at the hospital. But, God, he was in an entirely different category now.
“Jesus,” he breathed, stopping in front of me. “You…are stunning.”
His hands landed on my hips as he dipped to kiss my cheek.
“Hi,” I whispered, peeking up at him.
He grinned. “Hi.”
We silently stared at each other for several seconds as the waiting crowd carried on around us. I was more content in that quiet moment than I had been in years.
No questions.
No judgments.
No faking it.
“I’m glad you came,” he said, releasing my hips, and backing away a step.
The absence was staggering.
I swallowed hard. “I’m excited to see where you order cocktail napkins.”
He chuckled. “Smartass.”
After grabbing a menu from behind the hostess stand, he placed a hand on my lower back and led me through the restaurant. I had to give it to him; The Porterhouse was a sight to be seen. Tall booths lined the walls, while rustic, distressed tables created an aisle down the center. At the back, it T’d off to the left and the right, revealing smaller, slightly more secluded rooms. Brass lanterns with flickering candles adorned the tables, while the bright, white plates and shiny silverware gave it a classic Southern elegance.