“Good morning, gorgeous.”
Charlie jackknifed up. Ridiculously, she clutched her sheets to her breasts. “Jax?”
“One and the same.”
“Why’re you calling me at . . .” She paused to check her alarm, confused for a second when the steady glowing digits were absent. When she spotted it on the floor, she sighed. “ . . . whatever ridiculous time it is?”
“I’ve had a brilliant thought.”
“That must’ve been a shock to the system.” She yawned again, combing a hand through her hair. She’d left it down and as a result the usual sleek curtain was now a web of tangles.
No light shone through her threadbare curtains, leaving her only gloomy shapes to stare at.
She dragged a hand down her face as Jax laughed. As if magnetized, everything in her belly tugged, low, hot.
“Funny,” he said. “No, it’s about your store.”
“Can’t you go bother the new New York winner?”
“She gets the pleasure of my company on Monday, just like you did.”
“I’m sure she won’t mind if you go a day early.” Sleep crooked its finger, and she snuggled into the warm nest she’d created. She hadn’t been getting a lot of sleep lately, not the restful sort in any case. When she wasn’t worried about having to close The Book Nook, she was dreaming about a certain blue-eyed devil. Sans everything but his wicked smile.
“I’m sure she wouldn’t,” the devil said, “but I’ve decided to take the morning off to talk to you.”
“Yay.”
“Now, remember the cupcake I took away with me?”
“That you stole?” Charlie corrected, closing her eyes. “You owe me two dollars.”
“That’s all you’re selling them for?” He sounded shocked. “My brilliant idea just got even better.”
“Uh-huh. Let me hold my breath.”
“Smartass. Now, listen, that cupcake was good. Better than good. Delicious.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I was expecting an aftertaste of bitterness.”
Despite the insult, she had to smile.
“Seriously,” he continued. “You should capitalize on them. Make them a feature instead of having a tiny stand at the cash register.”
“Jax, they’re cupcakes.”
“They’re moreish. It’s a way to get repeat customers. You could offer deals including them, like . . .” He paused. “Buy two romances and get a free cupcake. Or you could have a loyalty card and customers get a stamp every time they buy one, and they get one free when they’re done. And you should be charging at least four dollars.”
Charlie let out a breath. “They’re cupcakes. I can’t make serious money with them. They’re just something I whip up in my spare time.”
“Well, bake more. I’m good at marketing; it’s what I do. It could help turn the store around, especially if good word of mouth comes from a high profile and incredibly gorgeous Genie.”
“I’m relieved your brilliant thought hasn’t impacted your ego.” But she was thinking.
“Look, we can’t talk about this over the phone.”
Something she could agree with. While she enjoyed the tingling excitement and distrust talking to Jax provoked, it was dark outside. And the store was closed Sundays. It was her only day to sleep in. “You’re right.”
“I’ll see you in a minute.”
The phone went dead.
Charlie let her hand fall, cuddling back down.
Three seconds later she rebounded. “A minute?”
Sure enough, one minute on the dot, his voice cut through the darkness. “Charlie?”
She debated acting the shocked maiden, then discarded it. “You can’t just pop in whenever you feel like it.”
“I know.” To her dismay, his voice was infinitely more seductive in the darkness. And he was closer than she’d thought. “But we just agreed we couldn’t talk over the phone.”
“We don’t need to talk at all.” Charlie’s voice rose as she remembered she wore nothing under the covers but an extra-large sleep shirt. She yanked the covers to her chin. She’d never heard that Genies could see in the dark, but he was a magical being and a lech. He’d try.
She cleared her throat. “Especially not in my bedroom.”
“We need to talk about your store,” he argued. “C’mon, I’ll take you to breakfast.”
“I don’t want breakfast. I want to go back to sleep.”
“Sleep’s for when you’re dead.”
“Something you’ll be in a minute if you don’t shoo.”
“Hey, Charlie?”
“What?”
“In the time you’ve known me, have I ever shooed?”
She sighed, succumbing to the inevitable. “No.”
“Great. It’s settled.” A man couldn’t sound more chipper. Or closer. Was he walking nearer the bed? “Come here and we’ll go.”
“What? No. Jax, nowhere will be open. Just—God, would you just get out for five minutes so I can get dressed?”
“Don’t bother on my account.” She could hear the grin. “Hold on.”
Five tense seconds later, a large strong hand closed around her upper arm, making her jump.
“Christ,” she breathed. “You’ll give me a heart attack.”
“Sorry. This will make up for it.”
Before she could splutter a question, a strange liquid sucking began at her feet. It nibbled her toes, sliding up her legs and torso, like she was shooting down a waterslide. Her arms flailed in the sudden vacuum, and she clutched the nearest solid object.
When the ground was once again beneath her feet, she gasped in air. Goose bumps had spread over her skin, and she wiggled her toes on the carpet.
“What in the hell—?” she started before her mouth simply hung open. She pointed. “What the hell is that?”
Jax glanced over his shoulder, out of the pretty shuttered window. “It’s the Eiffel Tower.”
As if it was normal to look out of a window and see the freaking Eiffel Tower.
Charlie swallowed. “Jax?”
“Yes, gorgeous?”
“Where are we?”
“Geography not your strong suit?”
She sent him a glower.
His dimple made an appearance, winking as he grinned. “It’s Paris, babe. City of Light. And we are . . .” He checked his watch. “Just in time for breakfast.”
Charlie’s stomach rolled. “Uh-uh.” She waved a hand. Then realized she was still gripping onto his arm with her other. She backed off. “What time is it?”
“Nine oh six, Paris time.”
“Which makes it . . . four a.m. in New York.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re torturing me now, is that it? I won’t wish so you drag me out of bed and pop me to a different continent?”
Jax was looking remarkably unrepentant, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets, head tilted to the side, hair adorably mussed. Humor lurked within his eyes. “You’re crabby in the mornings.”
“Bah.”
“Look.” Jax took her by the shoulders, steering her bodily toward the window. She noticed in an absent way that they were in a large apartment, furnished with beige couches and rugs—she approved of the color scheme—without any indication of who lived there. Since Jax had popped them in, she assumed it was his.
She rolled her eyes. God. He owned an apartment in Paris—could he be more of a clichéd seducer?
Jax stopped her by the white-painted window, tipping her chin with his hand to look out. His breath warmed her ear. His hand lingered on her skin. “Isn’t Paris beautiful?”
She didn’t want to see it.
She wasn’t going to look.
She was not going to be seduced . . .
Her heart fell and tumbled in love with the skyline as her eyes were drawn to the view. Pastel pinks and soft oranges streaked across the sky in a blaze of color, swirling like an ice cream sundae. Buildings exploding with charm and tiny cobbled streets ran close
together, foliage dotted here and there. Jax’s apartment was high and set back, for privacy she assumed, but it meant an unsullied view.
And smack bang in the center was the Eiffel Tower.
A breath escaped her as she inadvertently leaned forward as though she could touch it.
A quiet laugh. “I thought Paris was overdone.”
“Hush, you’re ruining it for me.”
He chuckled, but kept quiet.
Charlie had never been farther than Maine. Although not one for travelling in a broad sense, she’d always longed to be able to visit the highlights: Paris, Venice, Rome. All the cities that brimmed with history and charm. Unfortunately, her mom had never had the funds when Charlie had been small, and when her mom had had the money . . .
Well. Charlie hadn’t wanted to use it.
“It’s so beautiful.” The words were a whisper, almost worshipful.
“I know. And quiet. I always love cities at this time in the morning. It’s like they’re taking a breath before all the chaos begins.”
Charlie’s heart flipped. “Romantic,” she commented, curling her fingers around the windowsill so she didn’t do something as stupid as reach back for him.
“Maybe, but true.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Let’s get some breakfast.”
Charlie spun as she heard him walk away. “Ah, Jax?”
“Mmm?”
“I can’t go to breakfast in Paris.”
“Don’t be stubborn, Charlie. This isn’t the time to dig in your heels just to be obstinate.”
Her temper fired. “Name one time I’ve done that.”
“Your insane idea not to wish because you think terrible things will happen to you? Or your denial that I am a seductive, desirable man?”
“That last’s getting to you, huh?”
He turned on his heel and folded his arms. “Not at all.”
With all that rippling muscle and bad-tempered scowl, she could bite him.
Charlie tried to bring the subject back, tingling at the image. “It’s not that, anyway. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly dressed to go out.” She tugged at the hem of her sleep-shirt when his eyes meandered down. “Eyes up top, buddy.”
His grin was an unrepentant curve. “The outfit works for me. Besides, the Parisians won’t care—they’ll think it’s trés chic.”
“Does that include the bed hair?”
“C’mon.” The gold flecks in his eyes shimmered as his voice went low. “Let me show you Paris.”
A rush of heat burst through her belly, sending a shiver across her skin.
God, the things he did—and could do—to her.
Charlie cleared her throat, raw. “No way, charm boy. I don’t care how many continents you skip across. I’m not going to a Parisian café dressed in flannel.”
He sighed, long suffering, rubbing the back of his neck. “You make it such hard work to spoil you.”
Alarm bells rang in her head, great, big, blaring ones that flared fire-engine red. “I thought this was business.” Had he . . . could he have brought her here for personal reasons?
There was a beat where he stared at her with enough intensity to burn kindling.
Then his mouth curved. “I’ll get us some takeout.”
Charlie blinked as Jax disappeared. Uncertain, she called out his name. When he didn’t answer, she sighed and turned back to the view. She settled onto her elbows. “I’ll just wait here, then.”
* * *
“Protest all you want, gorgeous, but you’re pleased I brought back four croissants.”
Charlie licked blackberry jam off of the tip of her thumb. “Nope,” she denied from her cross-legged position on the couch. “If I admit that, I can’t tell myself you forced me to eat that second one. As well as the French bread smothered in brie.” She put a hand to her belly. “I think I feel sick.”
“You’re hardier than that.” Jax lounged across from her in her wingback chair, one leg over the arm, his arms splayed out. He watched as Charlie licked again at the sticky patch. His gut clenched. “Besides, Parisians demand you enjoy the senses.” He swept his gaze over a sadly now-dressed Charlie. “Taste, smell, touch. It’d be a crime to ignore food.”
“Yeah, I’ll tell myself that when I can’t fit in my jeans tomorrow.” Charlie smiled, settling back. Her guard was down; she was ripe for the picking.
But . . . uncertainty clawed at him like a dog scratching at the back door. He didn’t want to start hostilities—not when peace was a possibility. It was better to lie low and then strike.
Not strike, he amended. He wasn’t her enemy. He was just going to convince her it was in her best interests to make a wish. Because, to his honest surprise, he was starting to like her. He wanted her to enjoy life, not worry about keeping her tiny, threadbare apartment or her ghost town of a store.
With that in mind, he sat forward. “All right, let’s talk business.” A notepad and pen appeared in his hand, and he flicked over the first page. “Let’s work on some ideas for your cupcakes. We can move to the remodel later.”
“You just don’t quit, do you?”
“It’s a character flaw.”
“One of many,” she teased. Her eyes gleamed in the low light available in her apartment.
“People in glass houses . . .”
Charlie’s lips gave up the struggle and curled. “Touché.”
She sighed, resting her hands on her belly. Her fingers stroked her oversized navy sweater.
Jax was becoming fixated on those sweaters. He was surrounded every day by flawless women in skimpy tops, short skirts, high heels, and sprayed-on jeans. Yet seeing Charlie in sweaters that refused to comment on the body underneath made sweat bead on the back of his neck.
It was starting to worry him. He’d never felt this . . . pull for one woman. Especially not one who thought he was some kind of uncaring, soulless worker bee.
Or one whom his company had suggested he not become attached to.
His gaze shifted to the carpet. Luka had made it reasonably obvious that WFY were interested in moving on as quickly as they could when it came to Charlie Donahue.
Jax had stopped by Luka’s office late last night, preempting any eight o’clock meeting. The Handler’s office was located one floor below the Director’s. Only eight Handlers used the floor. As a result, the offices were created to make a statement about the power a Handler controlled. It was something to aspire to, to respect, and a reminder that on the ladder of WFY, Jax was nothing but a public image with very little power.
He’d knocked on the walnut door, waited for the brusque greeting. The windows had greeted him when he was called in, forming two walls of the room to showcase a stunning vista of New York. This high, the lights sparkled like faraway lightning bugs.
Luka had been sitting on the couch against the far wall, paperwork strewn on the floor and a paperback in his hand. An art deco lamp on an end table next to the couch had been the only light. A magnificent Tudor desk planted itself in the middle of the floor with odds and ends piled high, and two bucket leather chairs sat directly in front of it. Bookcases lined the walls, personnel files in alphabetical order littering them. One sad plant that retained life by Luka’s magic and not his gardening skills drooped in the corner.
Jax had stuffed his hands into his pockets. “You wanted to talk?”
In response, Luka had lifted a finger. He’d continued to read as silence had pressed onto Jax’s head. Luka wasn’t a hard-ass, but he reacted to problems in odd ways.
He could have been about to tell Jax anything. Possibly order him to give up on Charlie.
The knots Jax’s stomach had formed would’ve made a salty sea dog dance with pride.
Luka had finally put down the novel, marking his place with what looked like a receipt. “Good book. You ever read it?”
Jax had angled his head to read the spine. “The Shining? No.”
“It’s interesting. About how isolation can make you crazy. Isol
ation’s never good.” Luka had risen, crumpling the paperwork beneath his sneakers as he strode to the wet bar that appeared on the opposite wall. Glass had clinked as he poured scotch into the bottom of a tumbler. “You want?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“It’ll put hair on your balls.”
Jax had made a droll face. “I’m hairy enough.”
Luka had shrugged. He’d replaced the stopper in the decanter. “So, how did tonight’s draw go?”
“Good.” Jax had pressed his lips into a smile, wary of where this was leading. It wasn’t often Luka stopped by Jax’s office to look for him. He usually called him on his cell. That the pattern had changed was . . . concerning. “New winners were chosen. Josh has already scheduled visits with each of them.”
“Let’s hope they’re more manageable than Charlie Donahue, eh?”
Jax had hesitated. “Sure.”
“How’s it going with her? You get anywhere yet?”
“She’s still refusing to wish.”
“Does she still think she’ll be Calamity Charlie if she does?” Silver flecks had danced in Luka’s eyes as he’d grinned.
Jax had chuckled. “Yeah. I mean, I’ve told her thousands of times she’s nutty as a Toblerone, but she won’t listen. She, ah, redefines stubborn.”
“Yeah, I saw the clip on YouTube.” Luka’s lips had twitched. “How’s your staying power—improving?”
“Funny.” Jax had sent him a sour look. “Anyway, I worked it to my advantage.”
“Mmm.” Luka had swirled the alcohol in his glass. “I talked to the Director. Well, Clare talked to me. You know that one, not exactly chatty.”
Immediately, Jax’s gut had dipped and swayed like a ship on a stormy ocean. “Yeah?”
“She agrees it’s a delicate situation. Her words. Mine were more ‘balancing shit on a pole.’”
Jax had wanted him to hurry and get to the point, but as ever his Handler was keen to ramble.
“We don’t want people to think Charlie Donahue’s got some kind of solid reason for denying a wish. We won’t be able to help people if they don’t let us.” Luka had taken a drink. “God knows, they barely let us help them now. I remember when I was a rookie, a man wished for an unlimited supply of beer.” He had raised his hands. What can you do? “But we soldier on. And mostly, people let us—hell, beg us. Not Charlie, though. We don’t want it to become the newest trend.”
Her Wish--A Playboy Genie Romance Page 9