She was as professional as she was going to get.
Choosing a seat toward the back, Char settled in. Most of the women were seated up front, clustered together in groups. They could have their groups, Char mused, as long as they left her alone.
“Is someone sitting here?” a familiar voice with an English accent asked.
Char glanced up. She had to do a double take. Della—the leader of the panel from the day before—stood next to her expectantly. That didn’t surprise her. Panel leaders were professionals just like everyone else. It made sense that they would attend workshops when they weren’t teaching.
What surprised her were the tattoos that ran up and down Della’s arms—and the rose gold tint to her hair. The person standing in front of her was obviously the same woman, but she looked normal.
Not normal, Char amended. Della looked like someone that Char would hang out with.
“No,” Char said finally, grabbing her clutch from the seat. “All yours.”
“Thank you.” Della sat down and stretched her legs out in front of her. She wore plain old Chucks with her skinny, ripped jeans and white tee. “I’m used to walking everywhere, but damned if I haven’t been on my feet all day.”
Char nodded. “Plus, to be honest, Chucks are the worst.”
“They really are.” Della laughed, a throaty sound. She held out her hand. “I’m Della Marriott.”
“I know,” Char blurted. She shook Della’s hand. “I was at your panel yesterday. I’m Charlotte Butler.”
“Ah. I hope it wasn’t horrible.” Della tucked a strand of rose gold hair behind her ear. “I was asked pretty last minute. The original presenter got sick.”
Char grimaced. “I don’t know what I would’ve done. You did great, though.”
With a shrug, Della crossed her legs. One foot bounced a little as she spoke. “That’s kind of you. I was sweating my ass up there in that suit. And my hair was blue, but I had to go to an actual hairdresser and have her dye it a demure blonde. Couldn’t stand it.” She squinted at Char. “Didn’t you have pale purple hair yesterday?”
“I did, but everyone stared at me all day.” Char studied her. “This might sound weird, but I’m really glad you’re actually all tatted out. I feel a bit less like an outsider.”
Della smiled. “Yes, these things tend to get more catty than educational.” She waved a hand toward the front of the room. “But enough about them. Tell me about you. Where’s your place?”
“My place?” Charlotte’s eyebrows knit together.
“Your restaurant.”
“Oh.” She looked down at the notebook in her lap. “I don’t . . . I just work at a lounge.”
Della put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “That’s all right, love. Everyone has to start somewhere, yeah? I mean, you’re what, eighteen?”
“Twenty-one.” Charlotte sighed.
“Ah, so you’re also cursed with a baby face.” Della patted her shoulder. “I apologize. I should know better than to guess.”
“It’s okay.”
The panelist strode into the room, a stack of laminated menus under his arm. He set them down by the podium. “Good morning, everyone. I’m going to get started here now, but please make sure you grab my card on your way out. I’m local but I can telecommute, send you designs over Dropbox.” He chuckled. No one else laughed.
Charlotte frowned. She glanced at Della. “I thought this was menu planning?”
“I thought so too.” Della eyed the box of business cards and pile of menus. “I suppose he’s a graphic designer here to tell us about branding.” She rolled her eyes. “Want to grab a coffee?” She stood.
With a nod, Char followed her out of the room. She would have to pay Rowan back as soon as possible. It was going to break her heart to tell her best friend that the convention had been a total bust.
Della led her to a Starbucks kiosk on the concourse. “What’ll you have, love?”
“Um.” Charlotte glanced from the menu to the barista. “I’ve got it.”
Della waved a hand at her. “Nonsense. ‘What’s your poison?,’ as you Americans say.”
“Well, right now my best friend and I are obsessed with the S’mores Frappuccino.”
“A venti of that, then,” Della told the barista. “And for myself, a venti white tea.”
When the barista called them, Della handed the frap to Char. She left her tea bag in, adding a bit of sugar and a splash of cream. Char’s eyes tracked her movements, feeling a bit like a little girl watching a grown woman put on makeup. Della was exactly the kind of business owner she hadn’t even realized she wanted to be—tattoos and all.
They carried their drinks to one of the tables in front of the kiosk, Della leaving her lid off to cool her tea.
Char sat back in her seat, thinking. Right in front of her was the perfect opportunity to pick a female entrepreneur’s brain. No panel. No competing for questions with a room full of women. She tapped her fingernails on the table. She didn’t want to be a pain in the ass, though. Della was the epitome of cool, with her smart light pink bob and the plain white tee she wore. Char should probably play it cool too.
“So,” Della said suddenly. She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Aside from Mr. Graphic Designer, how are you liking the con?”
Char snorted. “Not a whole lot, to be honest.” She took a sip of her frap, enjoying the creamy combination of chocolate, coffee, and marshmallow. “Your panel was helpful, though.”
“Thank you. All of those late nights finally came in handy. I used to do a lot of grant writing when I first got started,” Della explained.
“What kind of restaurant do you own?” Char opened her notebook again and poised her pen above the page.
With a laugh, Della scooted her chair in closer to the table. “Is this an interview, then?” Her baby blues sparkled.
“Think of it as desperate wannabe questions experienced badass.”
“So a private panel.” Della took a sip of her tea. “Right, then. I have a little café in SoHo. It’s part coffee shop, gallery, and smoothie bar. See, I had my stuff in this quite popular gallery, but their lease ended and they moved to Chelsea. I had a choice: either find something else, or give up the ghost.”
“What do you mean? You’re an artist, too?”
“Yes. This was in the ‘90s, and suddenly the galleries in SoHo were dying off, thanks to the damned Loft Law.”
Charlotte nodded as if she knew what Della was talking about. Maybe Amarie did, since she had family in SoHo. She froze. Amarie. She didn’t think Amarie would be comfortable with her having coffee with another woman when they were . . . Her lips twisted to the side and her eyebrows scrunched together. She had no idea what they were.
“Myself and two other women artists founded Gravity. Both of them already had businesses. It’s a place for the three of us to convene, a place for the community to experience art they wouldn’t otherwise, and it also serves as my studio,” Della said.
“That’s actually pretty cool.” Char didn’t know of anything like that in Watertown. She tapped her chin. Maybe she could do the same. There had to be plenty of artists looking for space to hang their work. After all, Watertown was pretty artsy. And, absurdly, conservative. But still. There was definitely a market—and she wouldn’t have to choose. “How did you do it?” she asked Della.
“Oh, love. It’s not difficult. You need retail space, of course, but with a kitchen. Preferably something that was already a café. A little diner would work. Is there anything like that in your town?”
She shook her head. There wasn’t. Main Street had entirely filled up again. At least, it looked that way the last time she’d driven down it. Despite the economic decline in Greater Waterbury and the Naugatuck Valley, Watertown was booming. “So what do I do?”
“Well,” Della said, eyeing her, “you could always come to SoHo and work with me. We’re actually looking to bring in a fourth partner. The other ladies have their shops almos
t full-time, so it’s usually just me there. This weekend I have someone covering.”
“Me?” Char laughed. “I’m a line cook. I have zero experience.”
Della tilted her head and fixed Char with a stern gaze. “Everyone has to start somewhere, yes?”
“Well, yeah, but still. I know nothing about smoothies and coffee. Although I do like to drink them.” She took a sip of her frap in demonstration.
Della sighed. “You need more confidence, love. First of all, we could definitely use someone with your expertise. We’ve been talking about expanding our menu. Would you at least be interested?”
Charlotte sat back in her seat, stunned. The whole thing felt surreal. There she sat, with the most sophisticated woman she’d ever met sitting across from her and offering her almost everything she wanted. “What’s the catch?”
“The catch?” Della frowned. “There’s no catch. You Americans are so bloody suspicious.”
“Well, we do a lot of cutthroat shit. Watching our backs is ingrained in us.”
Della laughed, that same throaty laugh that wrapped around Char like a warm blanket. “We Brits have been known to be pretty cutthroat, too.” She winked.
She shifted uncomfortably. Amarie was waiting for her in their hotel room, and there she was, sitting with some other woman and letting her flirt. It didn’t feel right. She pushed her chair back and stood. “Della, I appreciate your offer, but I can’t accept it,” she said.
“Hmn.” Della tapped her fingernails along the side of her paper cup of tea. “How can I convince you that I just want to help? Won’t you have dinner with me tonight, and I can give you more details?”
Shit. She definitely couldn’t do that, even though the offer itself was so exactly what she needed. Though she could see herself running a place like Della’s in Watertown, she still wanted to get out of the small town. The vision of herself pulsing within the heartbeat of the city, thriving alongside likeminded people was much more vivid.
Except she’d never find another Amarie.
She took a deep breath. “It’s really nice of you, but I definitely can’t. I’m sorry.” She lifted the frap in a salute. “Thank you for the coffee.”
“Wait.” Della stood and jogged over to her. She held out a business card made with thick card stock. “Should you change your mind, or want to come around and see what we’re all about, that’s my cell. There’s also the store line. Please do hang on to it.” She smiled, then took a step back.
Pocketing the card, Char headed toward the exit. She’d spent entirely too much time indoors for the day. She needed fresh air, immediately.
Not that New York City’s air was fresh.
Still, as she emerged from the Javits Center, she felt lighter. She pulled her phone from her pocket and called Rowan.
“I was just texting you,” Rowan said with a laugh. “What’s up?”
“No, you first.” She’d left the Sunfire with the hotel valet after dropping Amarie off, so she headed back in that direction on foot.
“I was actually texting to see if now was a good time to call you. I have to ask you something.”
“Sure.” Char veered around a pair of women walking with linked arms and bright eyes that were so locked on each other, they didn’t notice anyone else in the vicinity. She needed to get back to Amarie, stat. Being in that oblivious bliss was even better than owning any restaurant.
“Okay.” Rowan took a deep breath. “So you know Lucas broke up with Amarie.”
“Obviously.” She frowned. “Should I be worried?”
“No, no. Sorry,” Rowan said.
Still, Char moved to the inside of the sidewalk and leaned against the warm facade of a building, her body tight with concern. “What’s going on, Ro?”
“Well, Lucas decided to move into the dorms at Southern. Which left Matt without a roommate. We were wondering if it would be okay with you if he moved in with us?”
She exhaled. “Oh.” Her muscles uncoiled. “I mean, sure. I don’t see a problem with it. Besides, it’s your house. And it’s about time.” She grinned. Still, a tiny twinge of jealousy pinched her. She’d only just moved in, and it’d been kind of nice, just the two of them. Still, she could hardly expect Rowan to be her roommate forever.
“Are you sure?” Rowan asked.
“Yes, I’m sure, silly. I’m so happy for you guys.” And she meant it. She was positive that, in a few more months, those two would be planning their wedding. “I just hope I don’t, like, cockblock you guys or anything.”
“Oh, you won’t.” Rowan giggled. “Speaking of, though, I have something else I wanted to run by you.”
“You need me to wear earplugs. Done.”
“No.” Rowan snickered. “We’re not worried about you hearing us. It makes it more fun.”
“Um, I don’t know that I needed to know that.”
“I’m kidding. Seriously, though . . . Matt and Lucas’s apartment will be empty now that he’s moving in with me. I was thinking . . .”
“Way to be subtle, Ro.” Charlotte’s eyebrows furrowed. “You know I can’t afford my own place, though.”
“Wait! That’s not what I’m getting at. It might sound a little hasty, but I was thinking you and Amarie could take it.”
Char snorted. “Okay, Ro. Quit yanking my chain.”
“No, really. Neve had said that she and Amarie were planning on getting their own place, but Neve is going into her residency. It probably won’t work out. I know it’s a little early in the relationship, but I think that place would be so cute for you two.”
“Rowan,” she groaned. “Slow it down. There’s no way Amarie is going to want to move in with me right now. Besides, I don’t even know if we’re a ‘we’ yet.”
“No? I kind of thought you guys would be engaged by now, judging by the way you two look at each other.”
Apparently Rowan wasn’t just planning her own wedding, Charlotte surmised. She sighed. “It’s a nice thought, but it’s more than hasty. Who the hell moves in together when they’re not exactly together?”
“Well, just keep it in mind,” Rowan said, as if she knew something that Charlotte didn’t.
“Just drop it. Tell Matt he can move in. He just better keep his paws off my taquitos in the freezer.”
Rowan squealed with laughter. “Too late. I’ll buy you another box.”
“I hate you both.”
“I love you more.”
Char hung up on Rowan even as she laughed harder. She smiled, rolling her eyes. She wasn’t particularly looking forward to having Matt as her roommate, but it could be worse. Rowan adored him, and he always treated Char like family. It wouldn’t be long at all before they were married with kids. They had the perfect life: a little bakery that they co-owned, and a steamy hot relationship.
She wanted those things, too, but she couldn’t rush it. When it came to Amarie, she was going to have to take things one step at a time—and stay far away from beautiful restauranteurs offering her dreams to her on a silver platter.
Maybe she didn’t need New York. Maybe she could have both, if she stayed in Watertown. She tapped her lip. There was no rule that said she could only have one dream.
She couldn’t wait to get back to the hotel room. It was time to start making her own rules.
Chapter 15
There was something incredibly luxurious about having a bed all to herself in a hotel room, Amarie mused. She lay supine, only half watching the movie she’d chosen. Instead of paying attention, her mind kept drifting to Char.
She would be home soon.
Or, back, she corrected herself.
From the second Amarie returned to their room, she’d been waiting for Char. It would probably be around dinner time by the time she got back—just like the night before—but she couldn’t wait. She was exactly one finger slip away from sending Char a naked selfie.
It was as if a string had wound itself around her and was pulling her toward Char. She should be terrifie
d of how strong her feelings were already, but instead she only felt deep solace, as if Char was a warm blanket cocooning her on a winter evening. From the moment that Dr. Warren had told her she could potentially have Lupus, all she’d wanted to do was get back to Char.
It wasn’t just the worrisome news, though.
They’d had too many interrupted moments. She was drawing the line. Actually, she was thinking about crossing it and lying naked in bed until Char let herself in. She tapped her lower lip. That didn’t sound like a bad idea.
She wriggled out of her joggers, tossing them onto the floor. Her legs swished back and forth across cool, smooth sheets. Nothing was more satisfying than clean sheets against her skin—well, almost.
Sitting up, abdominal muscles contracting, she took her shirt off. It fell to the floor. Amarie lay back in just her lacy bra and panties. She surveyed her body, admiring the way her legs looked in the low light. It was a damned good thing she’d shaved that morning.
She’d never done anything so bold. Not because she hadn’t wanted to, but because there’d never been an opportunity. Living with her parents had kind of dampened any sexually adventurous spirit. But in the hotel there were no parents, no annoyed exes. Just her and Char.
Sitting up on her elbows, she unhooked her bra. As the lace brushed her skin, muscles tightened deep inside her. She smirked. Leave it to her body to become aroused just by her undressing it. Not that she was at all ashamed.
Masturbation was her oldest friend.
No matter how sad she felt or how much pain she was in, a good orgasm could always realign her. It could also get her ready for more—with Char.
She slid out of her panties. She did not need to touch herself to know that she was already hot and wet. A hand cupped one of her breasts, palm rolling back and forth over her nipple. It perked to attention. She imagined Char’s mouth on her breast, sucking her nipple into her mouth, flicking it with her tongue.
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