by Elise Faber
“The Wave Organ?”
“Yeah, it’s this huge musical instrument that sits on a jetty in the bay. As the tide comes in, the waves make music with its series of pipes.” Hutch nodded, looking about ten years old. “I’ve never seen it, but it sounds cool.”
Charlie could only stare. Hutch Barlow was unlike any guy she’d ever met. This was becoming more and more apparent by the minute. That only made it harder for her to put a stop to whatever they were doing. But she had to put a stop to it.
She pulled in a deep breath and rallied her resolve. “I can’t do this. I like you,” she said, hoping the truth of it showed in her eyes. “I really do, but I just got this job, and right now, it has to mean everything.”
He kept stroking her hand, looking determined to argue. “I—”
“I’m sure you understand that, right? I mean, you’ve probably wanted to go pro your whole life, and here you are — living the dream,” she said, hoping to turn the tables. “I’m sure you’d never choose to do anything to jeopardize that.”
“That’s—”
“Not if it means everything to you.”
His eyes went hard. “Football’s never meant everything.” Charlie heard history behind his words, a history she had no way of understanding. “I told you. I’m all about balance.”
In response, she made herself shrug. “Well, I guess that’s where we’re different.” It was the truth. She was a stranger to balance. She had to be. Her life was — and had always been — about extremes. The fastest. The best. The only. Such distinctions were the only way she could compete. The only way to hold her own…
Charlie had enjoyed college. Pepperdine had been a welcome departure from the UCSB community — which was the domain of her parents. She’d enjoyed college, but she’d had no desire to make a career in academia. Her parents had been disappointed — quietly — when she’d chosen to major in public relations, and they’d been disappointed again when she turned down their offer to help her pay for graduate school.
They had not understood her choice. What was so appealing about the private sector? What contribution was she making to society? Where, in essence, had they gone wrong?
If Charlie lost her job and had to return home to them, it would be like an admission that they had been right. They’d see it almost as an act of contrition, and Charlie had no doubt they’d expect her to enroll in graduate school in the fall.
She could just hear them.
“Darling, that public relations degree has probably left you well-prepared for law school. You could still make a difference…”
“With a few extra courses, you could get your master’s in psychology and follow in your mother’s footsteps…”
Charlie pulled her hand from Hutch’s grasp, shaking her head. “I can’t.”
He watched her for a moment, a question in those verdant eyes, and she was relieved to see that he didn’t look angry. She saw, though, a hint of sadness in the set of his mouth, and she had to push aside the ache that rose in her chest.
“You do know,” he said, leaning forward just a little, a small frown creasing his heroic brow, “… that you can trust me, right?”
His words were the last thing she expected. Trust? What did that have to do with anything? She shook her head again.
“It’s not that. I-I really just can’t.” Charlie got to her feet and moved to the door. If she let him stay any longer, her confusion would only mount. Best to tell him goodnight now and move on from this.
Hutch rose, and, again, she felt relief. He wasn’t going to make this any more difficult than it already was. And it was far from easy. She could still feel him on her lips. His masculine scent was now rubbed into her skin. Charlie had no doubt she’d lie in bed for hours. Remembering. Savoring. Mourning.
He moved toward the door, and she opened it. He stood before her and watched her in that unnerving way he had. “Thank you for having dinner with me,” he said finally, the look in his eyes soulful and sincere. “It’s been a night I won’t forget.”
Clinging to the doorknob for support, Charlie couldn’t agree more, but she gave only a small nod. “Thank you for dinner. I-It was lovely.” It was so much more than lovely, but words couldn’t help her now.
He reached up, and Charlie froze as he brushed his thumb across her cheek. She was so close to caving again that she couldn’t allow herself to move, but she couldn’t make herself pull away.
“I’m glad I get to see you again on Friday,” he whispered.
It would be torture, surely, but she felt the same. Of course, admitting to that would only threaten her resolve. “Goodnight, Hutch.”
His eyes held hers as he stepped out into the night, and then he was gone. She heard his footsteps as he descended the stairs, and she listened until the noises of the city swallowed them whole, and she was left staring into the darkness.
CHAPTER FOUR
“WOODRUFF, CAN I see you in my office?” Kurt, her boss, barely made eye contact as he uttered the words. No “hello.” No “good morning.” And was his mouth set in a grim line?
Charlie’s heart plummeted. He knows.
Somehow, he’d found out about her night with Hutch. He was going to fire her, and she’d done nothing but kiss the guy. Bitter regret swirled in her gut. If she was going to get sacked for fraternizing with a client, she should have at least fraternized until neither one of them could walk straight.
Standing, her mouth suddenly dry, Charlie followed Kurt to his office. He took a seat behind his desk and motioned for her to sit across from him.
“I hope you don’t need me to tell you this…”
Charlie gulped.
“Hutch Barlow,” he said, arching a brow at her.
Her eyes went wide, and her pulse pounded in her throat.
“Did you know he has a shellfish allergy? Is the menu going to present a problem?”
Her relief was so great she almost slid out of her chair. It took her a moment to fill her lungs with air before she could answer.
“One of the platters on the buffet will have buffalo shrimp, but I can swap it out for wings or southwest eggrolls,” she said in a rush.
Kurt narrowed his eyes and steepled his fingers just beneath his chin. “Southwest eggrolls, huh?”
Charlie nodded.
Her boss cracked a smile. “Go with those.”
Grinning in relief, she nodded.
Kurt waved her off. “Sounds like it’s going to be a great party. I’m headed to the Seattle office this afternoon for a meeting tomorrow, but I’ll be back in time Friday. I’ll make sure our client knows that you planned the whole thing.”
Her breath stopped. “Oh… sir… you don’t have to do that,” she stammered, rising to her feet and shrugging away his offer. “Just doing my job…”
“Well, you’re doing a good job, Woodruff. You’re single-minded, and it shows.” He nodded in approval before swinging his gaze to his computer screen, effectively dismissing her.
“Thank you, sir.” Charlie turned away and headed for the door, willing her legs to move one after the other.
Single-minded?
She could hardly claim to be that anymore. Charlie was definitely of two minds when it came to Hutch Barlow.
She hadn’t even taken two steps out into the nave — the office’s open space — when Darius intercepted, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Girl, you been holdin’ out on me?” He spoke the question with a snap of his neck and a glare in his eye.
Charlie just stared. “What?”
He crimped his lips in an unamused smirk. “We’ve had lunch together almost every day for the last two weeks,” he said, swiping his long index finger in front of her like a metronome, “and I been telling you about all the tasty morsels I got my eye on, and you don’t share with me none a your candy?”
“Darius, what the hell are you talking about?” It was no secret Darius had a sweet tooth, but he was well aware that Charlie avoided sugar
like most people avoided lice.
He rolled his eyes in disgust. “I’m talking about the sugar daddy you been keeping to yourself who just had a damn Pasadena Rose Parade float delivered to your desk,” he said, jerking his head over his shoulder. Charlie’s eyes followed, and she gasped.
A flower arrangement the size of a small refrigerator crowded her space. The perfume of tea roses enveloped her as she approached them. Two dozen, pale yellow flowers, their blossoms like cupped hands, spilled out of the arrangement. Charlie recognized them immediately.
Charlotte roses. Just like the ones Grandma Dee grew when Charlie was little.
“They look ole-fashioned. Like he got money,” Darius said, swishing his hand as he approached the flowers. “I didn’t know you liked them old, Charlie-girl.”
Charlie frowned. “He’s not old.”
Darius plucked the card from the trident hidden among the roses and presented it to her with a flourish. “He is if his name is Harold. Honey, nobody named Harold is under fifty years old.”
Snatching the card from him, Charlie glared. “You read my card?!”
He fanned away her censure. “You would have shown it to me anyway.”
Charlie spoke through her teeth. “No. I wouldn’t.”
Darius drew his left shoulder to his chin. “Well, I’m sorry, princess,” he purred, sounding about as sincere as a soap opera. “I wouldn’t have had to pry if you’d have told me about him. Go on. Read the card. The class has questions.”
Rolling her eyes, Charlie opened the envelope and slipped out the card.
Just trust me.
Harold
The first three words sent a ripple of warmth down her body that pooled in the vicinity of her thighs. The fourth almost made her smile, but the recklessness — the over-the-top display, the relentlessness, the fact that he sent her flowers at work — all made her want to scream. She had half-a-mind to shred the card and chuck the flowers out the window.
But not really.
She looked up at the bouquet. It was breathtaking. And it smelled heavenly. It was only just after nine. He must have ordered them first thing this morning. Which meant she’d been on his mind. Maybe even all night — just as he’d been on hers.
“So Harold’s not a creepy old man?” Darius asked, his pointed gaze watching her every expression.
“No. He’s not called Harold. That’s an inside joke,” she said, shaking her head.
“Well, then, what’s he called?”
Charlie wondered if Darius’s left brow could climb any higher. “He’s called… Harry,” she declared with something close to confidence.
Darius’s eyes went wide with excitement. “Ooh… Like Prince Harry?” His gaze turned smoky. “Or Harry Potter? Why does he say ‘trust me’? Does he want to give you a ride on his magic broomstick?”
Darius clutched an imaginary broomstick between his legs and wiggled his behind.
“Darius!” Charlie smacked him on the elbow.
He straightened and pretended to dust off his sleeves as though vulgar behavior was far beneath him. “When will you be seeing him again?” He smoothed his non-existent hair over his ear.
“I-I won’t,” she stammered.
His theatrical look of shock would normally have made her laugh, but not today. He put a hand to his chest and let his cheeks hollow while his mouth remained closed. “And why not?”
Charlie shook her head. “It’s just not going to work.”
Darius rolled his eyes and tipped his head toward the enormous arrangement of flowers. “This ain’t the gesture of a man who seems incapable of making it work… or working it for that matter. We’ve established he has money. Does he also have the face of an ostrich?”
“No.”
“Rodent?”
“No.”
“Does he spit when he talks?”
Now Charlie was laughing. “Darius, no. He’s gorgeous.” She let her eyes drift back to the flowers. “And he’s kind… and he pays attention.”
“Ooh, girl. You got that dreamy look in your eye. I think Harry’s got a better shot than you say.”
Charlie shook her head. “No, no. We want different things.”
“These flowers and the look on your face tell me you want the same thing,” Darius said with certainty.
Charlie didn’t want to talk about this anymore. She rounded the corner of her desk. “No. My job needs to come first, and he doesn’t get that.”
She sat down and logged into her laptop, ready to get back to work, but Darius just stared down at her, his expression confused and a little… concerned. Concerned was an unusual look for Darius, and it left her rattled.
“What?”
“That don’t work.”
“Huh?”
“That all-work-and-no-play bullshit.”
“Who said anything about no play? I play,” Charlie said, but even she heard the wavering in her voice.
“You can dance and suck down a margarita, I’ll give you that,” Darius conceded. “But if you think you can be your best here without having a personal life to go home to at night, you wrong.”
Charlie blinked at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, honey lamb, that everyone here has a family or a sweetheart or a cocker spaniel they go home to at the end of the day that makes it all worth it.”
“You don’t.” Her tone wasn’t cruel, only confused.
Darius shook his head as though she were daft. “I have Tasha, my exquisite Himalayan, and we are just waiting on the perfect beau to make us one happy family.”
Charlie frowned. “So everyone here is paired up? All happily ever after?”
Darius huffed. “No, sugar, of course there are a few of us singles and a couple of recently divorced. Monica in sales just ended it with her husband after nine years, but she has her two kids. My point is that the job is never everything. And it should never keep you from living the rest of your life.”
She could only stare. This from Darius? Who would’ve thought?
“Where do you think Kurt goes every Thursday at four o’clock?”
Charlie shrugged.
“He picks up his daughter from ballet while his wife gets a manicure. And I promise you, if he’s in town, he takes his wife out every Saturday night. I know because I make the reservations, and I book the babysitter.”
Charlie looked back over her shoulder at Kurt’s office. Kurt? Really?
“I ain’t gonna lie. The job demands a lot. But if you let it take everything, you’ll have nothing left to give. And everyone at Prestige respects that, so you better give Harry Potter another chance.”
Charlie sighed. If only it were that simple. “Thanks for the lecture, Darius. I’ll keep that in mind.”
He swiveled on his heel and then looked back at her over his shoulder. “Just listen to Uncle Darius, sweetheart, and you’ll be fine.”
She watched him sashay back to his desk before she let herself look at the card again.
Just trust me.
How could she trust him when this could never work? And even though she knew that, she couldn’t help but relish the quickening in her stomach. He’d sent her flowers. Amazing, beautiful, meaningful flowers.
Yes, a part of her was shocked he would do something so bold — so brazen — while at the same time asking her to trust him. But another part of her just wanted to thank him.
Charlie was grateful Kurt had assigned her to write a press release. One of Prestige’s clients, a young Olympic hopeful in tennis who was looking for sponsorship, had just organized a fundraiser through her sorority for children with autism. The girl was attractive, squeaky clean, and she liked helping kids. Corporate sponsors would go wild about her — if only they knew her story. This was where Prestige came in. More specifically, where Charlie came in.
She was about halfway through the piece when her desk phone rang.
“Charlie Woodruff,” she answered without taking her eyes from the screen.
&n
bsp; “Did you get them?”
Her eyes shot to the digital display on her phone. It read “PRIVATE NUMBER,” but Charlie didn’t need the caller ID to know exactly who was on the line. Hutch’s voice was unmistakable, the melted butter of his Midwestern drawl had echoed in her ears long after he’d left the night before. It poured into her now, leaving trails of heat all the way down her neck, spurring the beat of her heart.
But she couldn’t let him know that. Not when he was clearly above crossing every line she drew in the sand.
“You’re calling me at work,” she said, leaving no room in her own voice for the joy she felt at hearing from him.
“I am, and nobody knows it but the two of us… So, you got them, right?”
“Yes.” She sighed. “And they’re gorgeous… Thank you. No one’s ever sent me flowers, much less two dozen.”
He chuckled. She loved the sound. “I had to make sure you noticed.”
“Noticed? They’re crowding my desk and practically blotting out the sun. Everyone on the floor’s noticed.”
It was true. Other than Darius, the guys in her office had walked by her desk and given her an appreciative smile or a nod at the outrageous bouquet, but three women had stopped on their way to the breakroom to ooh and ahh over the blooms. She’d said as little as she could about who they were from, and the admirers were surprisingly easy to redirect after Darius’s interrogation.
“And, yet, no one knows they’re from me,” he said, smugly.
Charlie coughed her indignation. “Only because you were smart enough not to use your own name.”
“Exactly. We can see each other if we’re smart. If we’re careful. No one else needs to know.”
She ignored his argument. “You can’t call me at work.”
“You left me no choice. You didn’t give me your number last night.”