A Charm Like You

by Sharla Lovelace

  She blinked and put on an innocent expression, placing her hand on her chest. “When the heart knows, it knows.”

  I scoffed. “Don’t make me hurt you. I don’t use the H word.”

  “I thought it was the L word,” she said.

  “The L word, H word, R word,” I listed.

  “What’s the R—”

  “Relationships,” I said. “The only words we use are the S one and all things related to it by blood.”

  “Do you think maybe you’ve graduated to knowing each other’s names now?” she asked. “I mean, almost-sex in a truck and making plans for more—I’d say that qualifies for real names.”

  I blew out a breath. “Yeah. Maybe. But there’s something kinda sexy about the mystery.”

  “Lord,” she said under her breath. “Is there a plan for this undressing you with his mouth thing? Or is this just going to be an after-the-meeting interlude every Thursday night?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, shutting my eyes shut tight again. “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

  “What do you know?” she asked.

  “That I need some new batteries for my little gadget,” I said, making Micah snort with laughter as I slapped a hand over my mouth. “Because after last night’s activities, I can’t wait another night, much less a whole week.”

  * * * *

  I’d only been to Cherrydale Flower Farm one other time, officially, not counting the time that Micah drove me and Leo by it on the way to deal with her ex-fiancé. The official visit had brought me through the greenhouses and fields to see where Micah worked. I’d met Roarke, the big bodied, gruff helper who clearly had as big a soft spot for Micah as she had for him, but I’d never personally met her brother, Thatcher, who ran the business.

  Since we’d started the partnership between the farm and Wild Things, there’d been a million emails back and forth, but the elusive Thatcher Roman was a hard man to catch in person. Micah sighed when we pulled up to the office and parked, gesturing toward an empty parking spot closest to the door.

  “Of course, his truck isn’t here,” she said. “Damn it, Thatch, you knew I was coming.”

  “Maybe he slept in,” I said.

  “Thatcher doesn’t sleep in,” Micah said. “He’s the most annoyingly punctual, put together person I know. I swear he wakes up perfect.”

  I pulled down the visor mirror and swiped under my eyes. I did not wake up perfect, and my attempts to remedy the tired-looking me hadn’t been too successful.

  “That’s just wrong,” I said, slapping the visor back up.

  “His ex-wife thought so, too,” she said.

  We got out and walked across the crunchy gravel to the door.

  “His wife left because he’s perfect?” I asked. “That’s kind of harsh even to me.”

  “No, but it did drive both of them crazy,” Micah said. “They were so different. Think about if Hot Guy turned out to be a clean freak and obsessed with structure like Thatcher. You’d lose your damn mind.”

  “Very true,” I said. “And kind of possible,” I added, remembering how perfect he’d looked the first time. “It would be disastrous.”

  “It’s why I’ve never tried to hook the two of you up,” Micah said, opening the door. “You’d kill each other, and then where would Wild Things be? Where would I be?”

  I laughed as we entered a woodsy-smelling lobby where an older lady with unnaturally jet-black hair and tiny red cheaters looked up from a paperback and smiled.

  “Morning, Miss Roman,” she said.

  “Good morning, Estelle,” Micah said. “Did my brother forget we had a meeting, or did he just run out of my favorite coffee and make a mad dash out for more?”

  Estelle made a scoffing sound and both women chuckled as if that were the most ludicrous thing ever.

  “When have you known him to run out of anything?” she said, one drawn-in eyebrow quirked. “Or forget a meeting, for that matter? But he does have me a bit flummoxed today. He’s not in, yet.”

  While Micah frowned, I made a mental note to work the word flummoxed into a conversation sometime in the next seven days.

  “Is he sick?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Estelle said. “He left me a message saying he was taking care of some out of town business and would be here in time for your ten o’clock.”

  “What out of town business?” Micah asked. “With Jackson?”

  Estelle shrugged. “I don’t know. But I will say he sounded weird.”

  “Weird?” Micah asked, a concerned line pulling her brows together. “Weird how?”

  “Just different,” Estelle said, looking around as if the nearby pot plant would hand her the correct word. “Chirpy, maybe?”

  Micah laughed. “My brother is many things, but chirpy has never been one of them.”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Estelle said, palms up. “His voice was so—happy. Energetic.” She widened her eyes. “Weird.”

  “Maybe he got laid,” I whispered to Micah.

  “That was my first thought,” Estelle said, pointing a pen at me.

  “Jesus, she has good hearing,” I said even softer and from behind my hand as I relegated myself to looking at framed photos of wildflowers, flowering trees, and rosebushes. I was always better with those things, anyway.

  “Believe me,” Micah said. “Even Wonder Woman herself couldn’t made Thatcher late for work.” She pointed at a door. “I’ll text him we’re here. Okay if we just wait in his office?”

  Wonder Woman. My inner slut snickered.

  Wow, were all roads going to lead to him, today?

  “Sure thing,” Estelle said, adjusting her little red glasses back onto her nose.

  We entered a very basic office with a no-nonsense desk, a guest chair, a couch, one framed degree on the wall, and many labeled folder slots with color coded files. There were two photographs behind his desk. One looked older, slightly faded, both were an image of three people, and I assumed it was probably the three siblings at different points in time.

  “I forgot to tell you that Jackson texted me this morning,” Micah said, sinking onto the couch. “He wants to take us to lunch later.”

  “That’s cool,” I said, heading toward the photos. I wanted to see Micah as a crazy kid.

  “We’ll see how cool it is when Thatch gets here,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll have something to say about it. You don’t like Chinese, do you?”

  “Not my favorite,” I said. “But if we must, I can find something, why?”

  “Because it’ll cheer Thatcher up if he’s grumpy,” she said. “Then again, Estelle said he’s all happy, so I’d love to know what that’s all about.”

  I turned to her with a chuckle. “You say that like he’s a perpetual cloud of doom.”

  She gave a little head shrug. “No, just—he tends to take everything so seriously, and gets exasperated with things, and people, that don’t make sense to him.”

  “Like Jackson,” I said, picking up the photo of them as children.

  The three of them were on a park merry-go-round, making faces for the camera. They were dirty with Kool-Aid smiles, and Micah was missing her front teeth. The younger boy had dark eyes and hair like Micah, and a short buzz cut. Micah had what looked like a rope tied around her head like a headband, the ends hanging down like a gypsy or a pirate. The older boy, Thatcher, had lighter hair and eyes, but the same facial features and grin. There was a familiarity about him that I couldn’t place, but they all had the same cocky expression. None of them could deny each other, that was for sure.

  “Exactly,” Micah said. “My dad took that picture of us on a picnic. It was the weekend before he died.”

  I let the photo land at my side, still in my hand. “I’m so sorry, Micah.”

  She shook her head and ros
e to her feet.

  “Don’t be,” she said, reaching out for the photo. “No need. It’s a nice memory. I’ve got it too, somewhere.” She smiled down at it, her expression going a little drifty. “My mom wasn’t there that day, so there was no making everything about her. It was just us, being goofy, and my dad having fun with it. Probably the last time Thatcher was ever this relaxed.”

  I picked up the other photo, just as the door opened behind us. Micah set the first one back and turned around.

  “Hey, big brother,” she said. “Whoa, what happened to you?”

  A question like that would normally cause me to spin around in wonder to see what was up, but I was frozen in place as I gazed upon the photo in my hand. Three adults, apparently at a beach bar somewhere, holding up drinks and smiling. Sort of. Micah and a man I imagined to be her little brother smiled, head to head. The other one grinned like he was tolerantly waiting for the moment to end. A grin I’d seen before. Eyes I’d seen before. Lips I’d just—

  I couldn’t breathe.

  It couldn’t possibly be.

  “What do you mean?” a man’s voice said behind me, followed by a breathy chuckle.

  A voice I’d been replaying in my head all night. It couldn’t be. My feet might as well have sprouted roots into the floor, I couldn’t turn around, but seriously—it fucking couldn’t be.

  “Uh, this laid-back five-o’clock-somewhere look you’ve got going on?” she said. “Who are you?”

  He laughed again, sending goose bumps down my back and arms.

  Mmm, goose bumps. You like that.

  Yes, I do.

  I swallowed hard against the memory, almost wanting to prolong the moment. That last few seconds of mystery before real life had to crash and burn my fantasy. I was still kind of hidden and to the side as long as I stayed really still. Maybe I could duck under his desk and Micah would just forget she’d brought me. He’d sit down, and—oh God, he’d sit down. With me under his desk. My face lit on fire. Okay, there was a window in the corner, maybe I could crawl to it and escape, and—

  “Just feeling good today, baby girl,” he said. “Even Jackson couldn’t piss me off this morning.”

  Micah snorted. “That’s a sure sign that something’s up. Estelle thinks you got laid.”

  Oh my God, I’d—shit. Damn, hell, shit, this was so many kinds of fucked up, and no one knew it yet but me.

  He laughed, and I realized I was still thinking of him as He. He was real, now. He had a life and a world and a family and a name outside of divorce group and the cab of his truck. He was—

  “Speaking of,” Micah said, and I shut my eyes. No, not speaking of. “Gabi suggested the same thing, and she hasn’t even met you yet.”

  It was over. The fantasy was over. Suck it up, Gabi, time to adult.

  I turned around slowly, my mouth going dry and my heart making a last ditch slam against my chest. He still hadn’t turned my way, and those two seconds seemed to stop just for me. Good God, he was nearly edible in a gray button-down with the sleeves rolled up, untucked over jeans. Work boots. Last night’s scruff was gone, as if he had to draw the line somewhere, but holy fuckballs. The easy smile on his face was the same one I’d seen under the dome light last night when I’d opened the truck door.

  “So, spill it, big guy,” Micah said, throwing her arms around him. “Who’s the woman?”

  His head cocked my direction as he chuckled and gave his sister a hug, and everything about him stilled. His expression went through all the steps mine probably had when no one was looking. Shock, surprise, pleasure, and that thing your eyes do when you unexpectedly see someone you have a thing for. Right before wait a minute and confusion and shit, followed by another shit and a few what the fucks if my brain was any indication.

  He blinked twice and frowned as if that might change things. Oh, if only.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Gabi?” he said slowly, questioning, almost accusatory as he rolled the name around in his mouth and in his head.

  It sounded foreign and odd on his lips, like it was breaking some sort of rule. I half expected Adelaide/Cher/Belle to come in, shaking a finger.

  The rule was broken, along with whatever spell had enchanted us. The way he looked at me now, the lazy happiness gone, replaced by wariness and maybe a little irritation as he raked his fingers through his hair. I couldn’t help but follow the movement. I’d had my fingers in that hair last night.

  Micah laughed from somewhere in outer space. “Gabi’s the woman? I doubt that. She’s taken right now. In love with some mystery man.”

  In love? Oh my God she didn’t…

  He tore his eyes from me to stare at his sister, and the oh-fuckedness of her words and the moment spurred my feet into action.

  I held out a hand as I walked forward, my face on fire, my head pinging in fifty-seven different directions. Last night. This morning with Micah and what she’d said. Oh, hell with this morning, it was only like fifteen minutes ago.

  What if Hot Guy turned out to be like Thatcher? You’d lose your damn mind.

  I’d set you up but you’d kill each other, and then where would Wild Things be? Where would I be?

  A shaky breath escaped my throat as his hand closed over mine. Heat shot through every part of my body, and the goose bumps had friggin’ goose bumps. He blinked rapidly in response. That’s all he gave me. Blinks. I knew I’d analyze those for days.

  But that’s all we’d have, because we couldn’t do this. We couldn’t risk our business, our individual relationships with Micah over this—over this casual sexual romp we were going to have. This likely-to-be-doomed thing between us that was probably just lust and chemistry. She didn’t even need to know. We didn’t need to make it weirder than it already was. I shook my head minutely, hoping he’d catch it.

  “Gabi Graham,” I said, swallowing hard afterward and smiling up at him. Come on dude, buy in.

  He looked at me like I’d gone certifiable, and nodded.

  “Thatcher Roman,” he said finally in a low voice. “Good to put a face with the name.”

  * * * *

  I heard nothing for the next, god-awful, interminably long forty-five minutes. Or I heard voices and words float by, captured by the air, but none of them formed logical connections in my brain. Micah had to nudge me and repeat my name a few times, then repeat whatever it was I was supposed to offer brilliance about, to which I’d babble something and nod and use a lot of hand gestures and do everything in my power not to make eye contact for more than three seconds at a time.

  Do you know how long three seconds is?

  When she stood up, leaving a binder on his desk, I jumped to my feet like I was a child going to the candy store after behaving well.

  “I’m going to go talk with Roarke for a bit,” she said.

  “Great!” I said, anxious to get out of that office so that I could beat my head against a doorjamb or my steering wheel or something. “I’ll come with you.”

  “Um, remember? Roarke is kind of weird about outsiders in his greenhouse,” she said. “Remember last time?”

  “Yeah, he gave me a Coke and told me to wait in his office,” I said. “Which was essentially a bench. But I’m not an outsider anymore.”

  “Yeah, you kind of are,” Thatcher said, bringing my eyes slamming into his. Damn it. And there was nothing there that I could read. Nothing flirty or sexy. “If you aren’t me or Micah, you don’t rank going into his domain.”

  “I don’t rank?”

  Thatcher crossed his arms over his chest. The really good arms that I’d—

  No. It didn’t matter what I’d done before today. All that mattered was the here and now and Gabi and Thatcher. The nobodies we used to be were gone with the wind.

  “Nope.”

  “So, I just go wait in the car?” I asked.

 
“Of course not,” Micah said, elbowing me. “Just hang out here with Thatcher for a few minutes till Jackson comes, and then when I’m done, we’ll go eat.”

  Oh, fuckety fuck fuck. In all the stress, I’d forgotten about lunch. Another hour at a table talking about personal things. What’s new with you? Well, I made out with your brother last night and he got to second base twice and almost stole third. How would that be for a great meal conversation?

  “Actually,” Thatcher began, unfolding his arms.

  “Um—” I said at the same time, as we watched Micah disappear through the doorway.

  Leaving us alone.

  The silence was staggering.

  It was do or die time. I took a deep, nervous breath and held up my chin as I forced my eyes back to Thatcher. Who was already staring me down.

  “So, you’re the famous Thatcher,” I said, forcing the words over the rock in my throat, trying to sound cute and chagrined. I slowly sat back down.

  “Did you know?” he said.

  There was accusation in his tone in contrast to my nervous ramble. Taking me more off guard than I already was.

  “What?” I said. “No!” And I wasn’t going to be put on the defense, either. I folded my arms over my chest and crossed my legs. “I could ask you the same question, Mr. Roman.”

  He held his palms out. “What would I possibly have to gain?”

  “Right back at you,” I countered. “I mean, I’m sorry to burst some sort of bubble, but the famous comment was a joke. You’re not some celebrity to stalk, I was just as floored as you were.”

  The irritation in his expression deflated a little. He leaned forward, elbows on his desk, and exhaled at the large calendar there like it would impart advice in return.

  “Well, your instincts are probably right,” he said to the calendar. “That was—last night was just—a fluke. Micah doesn’t need to know about it.”

  “A fluke.”

  That wasn’t meant to be aloud, it was part of the what the hell did you just say in my head, but out it came anyway. A fluke? The one and only time I’d given myself to a man since Bart—that I’d even wanted to? A fluke? Okay, so I hadn’t given myself to Thatcher, but that was just because of technical issues and geography. Had we not been in a truck, I knew the score. I wanted everything about him.