by Addison Cain
Matthew stiffened.
Nathaniel sucked his teeth and glanced at Matthew’s back. “She moved on to the city.”
“Which one?” The second Charlie asked, she could have smacked herself. It was obviously a sore subject, and she had just opened her fool mouth for no reason.
“Chicago.” Matthew named the city as if it were flat and unimportant.
And that summed it up right there. Alice had left… and from the gist of the conversation, it seemed she’d left Matthew.
Charlie could have said a million things; she could’ve tried to crack a joke, but all she could manage was, “How much do I owe?”
The next visit was much the same. Charlie was leaning close to Nathaniel, their heads together as they laughed and muttered too low for anyone else to follow the conversation… until an eavesdropping Eli caught her saying, “…and so I cut off his…”
Before she could finish, Matthew reached across the counter to grip Charlie’s arm. She just about jumped out of her skin, eyes wide and jaw dropped. The look she found on Matthew’s face was practically murderous, warning the interloping female not to speak another word in front of the mostly unsullied boy he’d raised.
“How much do I owe?”
So again, Charlie paid and rushed off.
On her sixth visit, Matthew watched her in the mirror and saw that, once again, she’d not touched the mug of coffee set by her plate. It obviously bothered him. Hell, she obviously bothered him. Fixating on every movement of her mouth, he awkwardly interrupted, “You don’t like coffee?”
Startling at the gruff address, Charlie tucked her hair behind her ear and cocked her head. “No, Mr. Emerson. I don’t care for coffee.”
Her cup was snatched off the counter. “What do you like?”
It was the most words he had spoken to her since the morning he said she could stay. Surprised, Charlie stammered, “I like hot tea.”
“Don’t got that.” Matthew’s attention went back to the griddle.
“Beer’s fine too.”
He stiffened, looking up to see her smirking at him in the mirror.
“I also like liquor,” she said, though her tone was light. Teasing. “You got that?”
Matthew reached under the bar, pulling out a jar full of cloudy liquid. Unscrewing the lid, he set it before her in a challenge.
There was no hesitation; slim fingers flared around the glass. With a quick smirk, Charlie raised it to her mouth and took a big swallow. Smacking her lips, she offered an opinion. “That’s pretty good, Mr. Emerson. Best applejack I’ve had.”
Nathaniel thought it was too damn funny, and Eli gaped, surprised a lady had swallowed so much.
Then there was Matthew.
He just stared at the peacemaking smile Charlie offered as if he couldn’t quite grasp what he was looking at.
After that day, her time with the Emersons seemed to improve. She’d kept her foot out of her mouth, Matthew hadn’t glared quite so much, and there’d been no awkward need to rush off… until a few weeks later when everything went to shit.
Charlie had come to Devil’s Hollow past her usual hour, already in a mood from being cornered by her waspish landlady. The Fontannes had been more than accommodating, but each time they sat down to the nightly boarding house meal, the Missus would prod into her life. At first, polite vagueness had been simple, but as the months extended, it grew clear the proprietress was getting annoyed by the lack of information Charlie was willing to cough up.
Cornering her in a huff, Mrs. Fontanne demanded to know why she didn’t work, where the money that paid for her board came from. The old bag went so far as to suggest Charlie was on the run from her husband, and that she had some lover floating the bills.
The accusations had grown more and more outrageous until Charlie lost her temper and shouted that the old biddy would do well to leave her the hell alone.
The drive in the early autumn foliage had done little to calm Charlie’s nerves. By the time her car rolled to a stop outside the roadhouse, she’d seriously considered just putting it in reverse and getting the hell out of there.
But then Eli knocked on her window. Just like a puppy beating his tail, he held the door open for her. “We were worried about you, Miss Charlie. Where’ve you been?”
There was no getting out of it then. Grabbing her purse, she followed the kid inside, muttering, “Being interrogated by Mrs. Fontanne.”
“’Bout what?” Eli asked, pulling out her stool.
Her grumbled answer disappeared when she found food waiting for her. Drumming her fingers against the smooth grain of the polished countertop, Charlie scooped up a bite and began to eat what just might have been the world’s best coleslaw.
It was clear she was in no mood for talking, so Eli fell into conversation with Nathaniel. More specifically, Eli talked while Nathaniel ribbed him.
Relating his excitement over the run they’d made the night before, ignoring Matthew’s glare that now might not be the best time for such a tale, the boy rambled on, finishing with, “…just like goddamn Al Capone.”
Her fork went to the counter, Charlie’s voice full of venom. “Al Capone is a first-rate cocksucker.”
Had she looked up from her plate, she would have found Eli’s jaw hanging open, an instant wicked grin on Nathaniel’s face, and the temper rolling off Matthew hot enough to boil a kettle.
The spatula banged against the griddle, drawing Charlie to glance up to see Matthew growl. “If you’re gonna dress up like a lady, at least pretend to talk like one.”
The way he looked at her, the storm in his eyes—she couldn’t bear to look at it. Charlie considered Matthew’s words, and had to agree she should try harder… until she recognized exactly what he’d said. Matthew didn’t see her as a lady at all—just some faker in a dress.
Face growing red, snapping blue eyes grew big and dangerous. “Now you listen here, Matthew Emerson. That bastard shot me in the gut when I was hardly more than a child. If I want to use strong language to describe that piece of shit, I fucking will.” Charlie slammed money on the counter, barking, “Keep the goddamn change.”
* * *
When she’d stormed out, Matthew moved to follow.
Nathaniel grabbed his arm, warning, “Worked up as she is, she’ll probably take a swing at you. Leave her be.” Nathaniel dusted some crumbs off the counter and reached for the remainder of Charlie’s uneaten sandwich. After taking a huge bite, he added, “And there ain’t no point bein’ mad at her. After all, you’re the one who just insulted the girl.”
Matthew looked askance at his brother. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t you see she’s trying real hard to play the part and learn how to behave? Then your loud mouth pointed out how terrible she is at it. I would be mighty surprised if she ever came back, you jackass.”
This was not his fault; it was Nathaniel and his mouth. “You’re a bad influence on her.”
His brother grabbed his jar and walked away, grumbling, “Pull your head out of your ass. Charlie just wants to be herself for a few hours now and then.”
Eli stepped forward. “What’s she talkin’ about Al Capone?”
Both brothers snapped in unison, “Shut up, Eli.”
He didn’t speak more than two words the rest of the night, relieved when the roadhouse shut down and his kin left for their home.
Lying back in bed, Matthew contemplated the cracks in the plaster ceiling over his bed. All day long, he’d felt the unwelcome impulse that came whenever Charlie was near, but worse. She sure had looked upset when she’d left—not the tears and trembling lips women usually sported when angry—no, she looked just about ready to castrate him.
Sauntering into the grill, filling the room up with the smell of female things and infectious laughter—it had been driving him crazy nigh on nine weeks. She ignored him; he’d recognized that from the beginning, Charlie preferring the coarse language and improper jokes of his older brother. And that bastard ju
st egged her on. On Saturdays, Matthew’s attention would continuously dart to the clock to see if it was noontime yet. He’d set a routine so something hot was ready for her just as she arrived. That way, the distraction was handled and he could get back to work.
Then she had to go and be late. Not only late, but sullen, completely lacking enthusiasm as she picked at her food. He’d spent two hours making that damn chicken salad the night before, had to hide it from his jackass brother and Eli so they wouldn’t eat his mother’s famous recipe before she got to try it.
Then there was the strange obsession he had with watching her mouth as she ate, looking for the scar he knew she had hidden under the red paint on her bottom lip. The way sometimes just a hint of her smile would appear as some random thought passed through her head. Her talk of the county, of all the things she spent her days discovering—it fascinated him. Charlie made his hometown sound like a foreign kingdom. He’d heard her describe three different creeks as if they were all completely unique, was certain from the way her eyes grew languid that she’d stood in them barefoot—maybe even bathed when no one was looking.
Matthew clutched at the quilt and remembered again how soft her hand had been when he foolishly brushed her knuckles and made her uncomfortable all those months ago, the blue dress he’d seen her wear a couple times that showed just a hint of the top of her bosom. She’d been wearing the same dress again that afternoon, its pop of color catching his eye when she unbuttoned her stylish coat and hung it by the door—the same coat Charlie had left behind when she’d stormed out.
Grumbling to himself, Matthew nodded. In a few days if she hadn’t come back to retrieve it, he would take it to town and return it to her. She’d come get it though; it was starting to get cold. With that final thought, Matthew closed his eyes and sleep found him easy.
Chapter 4
Charlie never came for the coat.
When Wednesday arrived, Matthew called for Eli to watch the customers, grabbed the green velvet reminder he’d hurt her feelings, and hopped in his truck. When he reached the boarding house, Matthew was glad to see the girl’s car gone, relieved he could just dip inside and leave her coat with Mrs. Fontanne.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Emerson.” Mrs. Fontanne’s hook-nosed profile turned, the woman glancing up from her sewing. “What can I do for you today?”
Quickly clearing his throat, he grumbled, “Miss Elliot left this at the grill a few days back.”
The offensive softness was held out for the woman to take.
“Well, she ain’t here.” Chubby fingers waved to the nearby hooks on the wall so the man might hang it up himself. “Ain’t seen hide nor hair of that girl since she up and yelled in my face. Rude woman has been gone for days.”
His brows drew down further. “She check out?”
“Hardly. All her stuff’s still upstairs. Who knows where she went. She never tells me squat. Just comes and goes as she pleases.”
The little connections were starting to line up. Matthew’s tone grew cool. “You been prying into Charlotte’s life, Mrs. Fontanne?”
The old biddy’s eyes darted up from her sewing. “There’s got to be a reason she turns her nose up at the young men in town. Why she don’t work.”
“What young men?” The question passed his lips before he could bite down on the toothpick between his teeth and keep his yap shut.
“For your information, Matthew Emerson, I’ve had three of Monroe’s finest bachelors at our table trying to help that poor woman out. And she’s hardly paid them any mind. Miss Elliot must be over twenty-five—if she ain’t married or looking to marry, then something’s just plain wrong with her.”
Without a word, Matthew fisted his hand in Charlie’s coat, turned, and left.
Pausing at the porch, he looked up to the greying sky and smelled an oncoming storm. Not two seconds later, the fully loaded trucks of the Grimes boys rushed past, the bootleggers trying to make a run before the coming rain made roads muddy and business perilous.
“Damn fools,” Matthew grumbled, opening his truck door and tossing her coat on the passenger seat. Driving like that in the middle of the day round Gap Mills was bound to get someone hurt.
* * *
“Damn fools!” Charlie shouted against the wind for what must have been the twentieth time. She was soaked to the bone, coatless, and struggling to move down the muddy Devil’s Hollow Road.
The twisting motorway had it out for her, she was certain. Just before rain started to dump from the sky, some speeding hooligans ran her off the road. With her wheel caught in a flooding ditch, she had struggled for nigh on an hour to get the car moving, only to slip and sprain her ankle.
Shivering from the chill, arms hugged to her chest, Charlie once again second-guessed her decision to walk back to town. She’d been limping along for so long the sky had grown dark. Between the storm and the lack of moonlight, she wasn’t sure she would be able to find her car even if she went back for it.
Gritting her teeth, she pressed through driving rain and heard the metallic creak of a sign swinging in the gusts. Across a nearby field, a flash of lightning struck a tree, illuminating the pitch black long enough for Charlie to see a building on her left. Limping forward, Charlie cursed again when she found herself staring at the dark windows of none other than Devil’s Hollow Roadhouse.
A boom of thunder hurried her up the steps, where she had no choice but to beg help from the insufferable man who lived inside.
The worn wood of the door needed a fresh coat of paint, rough under her knuckles when she knocked hard enough, she hoped, to be heard over the storm.
“Matthew!” Her call was loud, desperate. “Matthew Emerson!”
About to resign herself to a night sleeping on his porch, Charlie hung her head and vigorously rubbed her freezing arms, cursing herself again for leaving her coat. When the door swung inward and bare toes filled her vision, Charlie slowly raised her dripping head.
He was glaring at her by the light of a lantern. “Where the hell have you been, woman?”
She knew she looked a mess, felt her hair plastered to her skull, probably pale as a ghost. Teeth chattering, she chose to be saucy. “I went for a drive. A rather long—”
Before she could finish, he pushed open the screen and yanked her out of the dark. Once the door banged shut, the silence was awkward. Smoothing her hand over dripping hair, wiping her face as best she could, Charlie mumbled, “My car was run off the road a few miles back. I’ve been walking in that storm for…” She trailed off, realizing she was wasting her breath trying to engage Matthew Emerson in conversation.
Graceless and without invitation, Charlie kicked off muddy shoes and hobbled towards the stove. Matthew followed, kneeling down to build up the blaze.
* * *
With the light of the fire, he turned his face up, watching her shiver in her soaked cotton dress—a dress that clung to her body to the point of indecency—every curve, every secret place outlined.
Glancing to her face, he found what he’d spent weeks secretly searching for.
There it was—the hidden scar on display, the rain having washed Charlie’s lipstick away. Swallowing thickly, seeing her for what she was, Matthew couldn’t understand how she had ever managed to pass for a man.
Realizing he’d been openly staring, he took a step back.
Towels, that’s what she needed.
One was found and offered up. “You best be getting out of that dress or—”
He watched her hands mechanically go to the buttons at her breast. When the top of a lacy slip was exposed, Matthew realized he’d been staring again, and quickly turned to give her his back. Listening to every move she made, hearing each sodden garment land with a wet plop on the floor, he couldn’t help but imagine what was slowly revealed.
There was a feminine sigh—the same noise she made when she ate his cooking. All it took was that one contented noise and it was impossible to miss the growing tent in Matthew’s pajamas, th
e man unsure how he was going to escape before she noticed it.
“Could I borrow something to wear?” Charlie’s voice came small, exhausted.
He shouldn’t have glanced over his shoulder but he did. She stood wrapped in his towel and nothing else, staring up at him with huge, expectant sapphire eyes. His groin tightened.
Stupidly, Matthew pulled off his nightshirt, thrusting it towards her, knowing that if the girl didn’t get clothes on right quick, he was going to lose it.
Pale fingers took the threadbare fabric, Charlie pulling it over her head. By the time her vision cleared the neckline, Matthew had marched to the stairs. Despite the one man audience, Charlie crouched down, a length of cream thigh revealed when she toweled up the mess she’d left on the floor. Watermark gone, she hobbled towards the kitchen to wring out her dress in the sink.
“Why you limpin’?”
She gave a start, squinting toward the dark stairs that hid him and his ungodly erection. “I sprained my ankle trying to push my car out of a ditch.”
“You’re cold. Get back to the fire.”
Watching her struggle sobered his foolish lust. And once again he had control… so long as he didn’t appreciate at how tempting her body looked in his shirt… or think about it. Gritting his teeth, Matthew moved from the stairs and pulled a chair near the stove’s heat.
Charlie nodded gratefully, easing down but keeping her eyes anywhere but on him. Thank God, because she smelled too grand, his prick twitching back to life again. Surprising the hell out of her, he kneeled and took her damaged ankle in his hands. His inspection was thorough, lightly fingering the swelling and rolling the joint until she gave a hiss of pain.
The instant the sound left her lips, he glanced up and met her eyes, swearing, “I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
“Of course you won’t,” she grumbled, that pretty flush on her face growing. “I never thought you would.”