by Celeste, B.
Opening the door, I wave her inside. “Do I even want to know how you got here? It’s not even ten yet, Charlie. What’s going on?”
Her eyes widen a little when they meet my bare chest, quickly snapping away to the half-empty fruit bowl sitting in its usual spot on the counter. She walks that way, letting me close the door behind her.
Digging through the bowl, she makes the same face she always does at the contents inside—lips pinched, and eyes narrowed like the pears did something to offend her. “You should really keep donuts in here, you know?”
Lips twitching upward, I cross my arms over my chest. “In the fruit bowl?”
“The apartment.” Her tone is woven with her usual sarcasm, a language she speaks fluently in.
She isn’t facing me, but I’d bet good money she rolled her green eyes. She thinks they’re boring, generic. She doesn’t see the silver specks that make them gem-like, almost amblygonite. In some ways they remind me of Everett’s hues, just slightly different.
“If I knew you were coming,” I reply pointedly, “I would have made sure there were some waiting for you. Which brings us back to my main question. What are you doing here?”
Her lips part to answer just as a noise stirs from the direction of my bedroom. Charlie’s eyes widen a fraction before glancing at me, her gaze calculated as she takes in my state of undress.
“Oh.” She clears her throat as Rhianna/Rachel comes out in nothing but yesterdays faded 90’s grunge band t-shirt, which does little to cover necessary parts of her anatomy.
She gives Charlie a shocked look, having the decency to yank on the hem of the shirt to cover her a little better. “I didn’t realize we had company, Ollie Poo.”
Cringing at her horrible nickname for me, I glance over at Charlie to see her mouthing back Ollie Poo while shooting me a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me stare.
Wish I was, kid.
Rhianna/Rachel turns her focus to Charlie, examining her from the top of her loose blonde waves all the way down her white fitted tee, denim cutoffs, and worn gray Converse. She looks like she’s about to cruise the—
Fuck.
I agreed to take her to the History Museum today to celebrate her first month of classes being done. She’s wanted to go since she got here, but our schedules hadn’t lined up.
Before I can apologize, last night’s hookup finally finishes assessing her. Any jealousy over another female being in my apartment washes from her made-up face. I don’t remember all the makeup last night, but I was also three sheets to the wind and in the mood for a mindless screw. “Ollie Poo, is this your little sister? She’s so … cute.”
Anyone who really knows Charlie knows that cute is not a word you use to describe her. Whether true or not, this chick just opened a can of worms.
“That’s so funny,” Charlie replies in a sugary sweet tone, giving Rhianna/Rachel a once-over that only I seem to know is dangerous. She turns and bats her lashes at me, which aren’t caked with black gunk and outlined with brown liner unlike my hookup’s were. “Did you hear that, Ollie Poo? Another one of your five cent hookers thinks I’m your sister.” She turns back to Rhianna/Rachel feigning innocence. “Sweetie, if you think you’re the only one lucky enough to have him peel your panties off with his teeth, you’re wrong. Imagine what he does to me at night.”
My eyes bulge. Jesus fucking Christ.
My hookup goes pale, which probably mirrors the expression on my face. Her lips part as she rushes into the bedroom and gathers her clothes, not bothering to change into them before side stepping me.
Reaching out, I try clearing whatever thoughts she must have of me, since it’s obvious Charlie is much younger. “Rhianna, it’s not what you think—”
“It’s Tatiana!” she growls, slapping my hand away from her.
“Hear that, baby? It’s Tatiana.”
Tatiana blanches. “You two are gross.”
She opens the door, but doesn’t make it far before Charlie calls out, “Does it make it sicker that he’s actually my uncle?”
I palm my face as the front door slams.
“Huh,” Charlie muses. “Guess so.”
Shaking my head, I look at Charlie like she’s officially lost her mind. Why the hell would she say that? Ever since she got here, she’s been all attitude and sass. I’m used to it in small doses, easy banters that make me chuckle like when I visited her in New York, but she’s different now.
Her expression beams with pride, not caring what Tatiana must think of us.
“Was that really necessary?” Doubt drowns my tone as I go back for my mug and fill it to the top with coffee. I take a sip and set it back down on the edge of the counter between us.
She crosses her arms on her chest and arches one of her brows. “I don’t know, Uncle Ollie. Was forgetting about our plans necessary? Hmm?”
Ah. “You’re upset.”
“Consider me worried,” she corrects, sliding onto one of the stools tucked under the breakfast counter. “At this rate, your dick might fall off from all the strenuous activity you put it through.”
I practically choke on air, coughing up a lung at her casual demeaner. “Don’t talk like that! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
Her nose scrunches. “Why would you have a heart attack? Because I said the word dick, or because I’m talking about yours?”
Yep, she’s trying to kill me. “There will be no dick-talk whatsoever, get me?”
Usually, she goes easy on me when it comes to what we talk about. She’s mentioned that asshole Jaxson Clark once since moving here, but only to tell me she didn’t want to talk about him. Whenever I tell her we can, she says the same thing every single time.
He’s not worth the breath.
It kills me knowing she must think about him but bottles up whatever the fuck happened. She said he thought of her as a bet, and while she never came out with it, it hurt her. Everett spoke to the douches parents but got nothing from them, which only pissed Everett off more.
And me? I still want to punch the guy.
But punching teenage boys isn’t going to be good for me now that I’m twice their age. Does it make my fists stop twitching any less? No, especially not when Charlie is involved. I know she doesn’t need protecting, she’s proven herself worthy of taking care of herself, but there’s this heavy feeling in my chest that makes me feel the need to look out for her anyway.
“What if I have a question about—”
Covering my ears quickly, I belt out, “No. Nope. This is where I draw the line. I’m not your middle school health teacher. I’m not here to answer your questions about these things.”
I can hear her loud, bubbly laugh through the palms that cup my ears. Shaking my head, I rest my arms to my sides.
She slides off the stool, her Converse smacking the linoleum floor in a thud. “Go put on some pants and take me to the museum like you promised. We don’t have all day.”
Eyeing her, I said, “Fine. But you can’t do what you just did with Tatiana. We could get in a lot of trouble if people start making accusations in public about us.”
She waves me off. “Whatever you say, Uncle Ollie.”
“And don’t call me that,” I grumble, turning to my bedroom.
The humor in her tone echoes as she calls out from behind me, “I’m sorry. Would you prefer it if I call you Ollie Poo?”
I’ve known since the day Charlie Tucker came into my life that she is going to be the death of me.
And I think she enjoys every second.
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Acknowledgments
Four drafts later and we have my eighth book release, and I’m so thankful for the people who are always there to help me make it my best yet.
Micalea Smeltzer is the Kris to my Kim and has reminded me countless times never to get lost in my head when it comes to writing. Shout out to the best Momager a girl could ask for. We’ll talk about that 10%.
Jessica Roessler, you always pull through when I need you. Thank you for dealing with my crazy ass, reading Color Me Pretty, sending me novel-long emails with your thoughts, and running my teams so I can focus on writing.
Melissa Millman and Ashlee Little, you ladies rock! Betas are so important to the process and you both made this book the best it could be. I appreciate all your help on this.
Letitia Hasser has done every one of my book covers, and Color Me Pretty’s is by far a favorite of mine. Everything about it screams beauty, pain, and hope just as I wanted it to. You’re a true queen and I’m so lucky to work with you on bringing my baby’s to life.
My readers. Every single one of you. Thank you. I love you. I appreciate you.
All the best,
B
About the Author
B. Celeste’s obsession with all things forbidden and taboo enabled her to pave a path into a new world of raw, real, emotional romance.
Her debut novel is The Truth about Heartbreak.
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