A Charm Like You

by Sharla Lovelace

  Wanted. Past tense. No more. No. More.

  He gave a little shrug, rubbing the back of his neck. “Isn’t that what you’re saying?”

  Then again, wasn’t it? I wanted it to be casual, didn’t I? Was that so different from a fluke that could be dismissed in extreme circumstances?

  “Pretty sure I didn’t say that,” I said, not listening to my internal rambling.

  He widened his eyes. “Okay, then I am,” he said. “If you don’t want Micah knowing—”

  “Oh, she knows,” I said. “That’s the problem.”

  His brows dipped. “What?”

  “We’re women. We’re friends,” I said. “We talk about this shit, and just shared an hour in a car together. She knows allllllll about last night, in details I would never have offered up about her brother.”

  Yeah, I told her I’d ride him like a stallion, and he wanted to undress me with his mouth. She’d never be able to unhear that. Shitballs.

  “Fantastic,” he muttered on a sigh.

  “Hence the ix-nay,” I said, making a little chopping motion across my neck. “But in addition to that, we have to work together, Thatcher,” I said. It was so weird to call him that. “All of us. The two of you, you and I sometimes, and Micah and I nearly every single day.”

  “I get that,” he said quietly.

  “If it—if it got personal, it would change things,” I said, feeling sweat pop out on my back at the thought of more personal with him. I looked at a blue cup on his desk so that I didn’t have to look at him. “If that went south—”

  “Business is put at risk,” he finished, clipping his words.

  I met his hard gaze.

  “Not just business. Micah isn’t just my business partner,” I said. “She’s my best friend. I can’t mess around with her brother casually—”

  “Casually,” he said, laughing shortly. “Because you think that’s all I was after? A quick fuck?” Something dawned in his eyes. “But you are. Poppy. No strings, no complications.”

  All the blood in my body rushed to my head in one giant whoosh of a pissed off rush. I grabbed the arm of the chair to steady myself.

  “You’re throwing that at me? I’m not the one who called it a fluke,” I said, feeling my lip twitch. Was I this wrong about this guy? This was why I’d written off men, because my judgment could not be trusted. “Do you mind if I finish?”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head minutely. “Please do.”

  “I can’t do casual because of her,” I said, keeping my voice low, talking slowly so the angry shakes wouldn’t take me to the high-pitched squawking phase. “I can’t do more than that because—because—well, you know why. I’m not capable of it. I don’t have to replay all of that. So, we can’t—do what we were doing before,” I stammered. “We have to just be friends.”

  A gnawing pain began behind my ribs as I recalled just an hour ago talking with Micah about this guy. She’d accused me of liking him. Why did that feel like a dull knife to the gut now?

  Thatcher pushed back in his chair and rose to his feet. “I see.”

  He saw? Because I was a big foggy mess, and honestly nothing about him showed any signs of seeing, either. Not that it mattered anymore, because clearly Hot Guy wasn’t as nice as he portrayed himself to be now that he was Thatcher Roman, and—what the hell was he doing, rounding his desk in my direction?

  I jumped to my feet in defense. “Good.”

  “Good?” he said, stopping in front of me, so close that his smell enveloped me and I was back in his truck with his hands on my body and my vision going dizzy. I could have pulled his face down to mine, if I’d wanted to. Shit.

  “Don’t you think?” I managed, lifting my chin and forcing something close to confidence to come out of my eyes.

  His brows raised. “That you were in love with a mystery guy you told my sister about—”

  My knees nearly buckled as he said the words I’d prayed he wouldn’t remember.

  “Not—not love—I didn’t—” Babbling incoherency was all my mouth could form. He was too close and too—all of it. Damn you, Micah! “Those were her words, not mine,” I finally managed.

  “I gathered,” he said with a nod.

  “I was honest with you from the get go,” I said, trying not to breathe him in. “I told you that—”

  “Sex was all you were after,” he finished. “I remember. So, your mystery guy was interesting until he became someone you can’t easily ditch afterward?” he added. “Sure thing. Sounds great. Glad you’re aware of your capabilities.”

  My eyes narrowed. The fucking nerve. “How dare you pretend to know me,” I said, attempting to step forward and move him but just meeting with wall.

  “You’re right,” he said, pulling something from his pocket and grabbing my hand. Something elongated and plastic pressed against my palm, still warm from his body heat. He leaned his face closer to mine, and for half a second I thought he might kiss me. I also thought I might pass out from not breathing. “I felt like I kind of knew you,” he said, his voice barely over a whisper as the breath from his words brushed my cheek. “But I was wrong. Friend.”

  He backed away as I looked down at my open hand, a shiny new black key fob looking back at me. I blinked. Twice.

  “What—I don’t—”

  A knock made me jump, and my fingers closed instinctively over the key as I looked up to see a striking dark-haired guy with very mischievous eyes leaning against the doorjamb like he might have been there a while. I recognized him from the photo.

  “Am I interrupting?” he said, raising eyebrows at Thatcher.

  Thatcher was back behind his desk and barely gave him a glance. “Of course not.”

  “I’m Jackson,” the guy said, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward me with an easy gait, holding out a hand. “You must be Gabi.”

  “She must be,” Thatcher said, moving a paper from one side of his desk to the other.

  I gave him a sideways glance, and then grasped Jackson’s hand, hoping I wasn’t still trembling. “I—yes, I’m Gabi. It’s so nice to meet you finally.”

  “Everything okay?” Jackson asked, turning to look back and forth between us. “It’s a little tense in here.”

  I felt the key in my fist, and just nodded. I didn’t get it. What did he do, go—

  “All good,” Thatcher said, finally sitting down. “We’re just waiting on Micah, she’s outside with Roarke.”

  Jackson pointed at him, up and down with one finger. “You left at the crack of crazy this morning, and—what happened to pressed and dressed uptight Thatcher?”

  Thatcher’s jaw twitched, contradicting the lazy expression he let come over his face. He laced his fingers together loosely and shrugged.

  “An old friend of mine had some car trouble yesterday,” he said. “And broke his electronic key. I have another buddy at a dealership who offered to help out so I went and got him a new key and—well, anyway. I didn’t have time for pressed and dressed.”

  Oh my God. That’s what he’d been out doing all morning. For me. That—wasn’t casual.

  Slap.

  I was full of rot.

  Jackson nodded. “Him, huh? Sure seems like a lot of trouble for another guy.”

  “Spoken like a man whore with no male friends,” Thatcher said.

  “Hey, if you did a little more whoring—”

  “Well, I’m back in the nick of time,” Micah said, breezing through the doorway and tackling Jackson from behind. “Here five seconds and you’re already bickering? How’s my favorite man whore today?”

  “Hungry,” he said. “Are we ready?”

  All I could do was clutch that key in my fist and hold it to my sternum like it was a talisman.

  “Gabi,” she said. “You’re all up to date on my family, now. Feel li
ke one of the siblings?”

  There were so many things wrong with that question, that sentiment, the very words entered my head, turned sour and died.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Lunch was going to be torture.

  For starters, Micah suggested we all ride in Thatcher’s truck. Yeah. Then she insisted I ride up front while she and Jackson rode in the back seat and caught up. Nothing awkward about that. Them chatting while he and I returned to the scene of the crime, watching the road in silence and replaying everything in our heads. Or that’s where I went, anyway, unable to keep my gaze from drifting to his hands and that damn steering wheel.

  Thankfully, it was a short ride to The Upstairs, a restaurant in downtown Cherrydale that was shockingly upstairs above a craft store. Not Chinese. Although at that point, I could have eaten dirt and not known the difference.

  I couldn’t get out of that truck fast enough, and all I could think of as I did was the state of our clothes the last time I got out. My jeans half zipped and my bra floating unhooked under my sweater. His fly still open.

  Stop.

  None of that was helping, and it did no good to stir the memory back up. I did need to find a tiny little second alone with him to thank him, though. A very tiny second. Standing at least three feet away, preferably with witnesses we didn’t know.

  A chilly wind whipped up around the truck, and Micah shivered as she shut her door and then opened it again.

  “Don’t you usually keep an extra jacket in here?” she asked, peering back inside.

  Shitballs.

  I walked quickly to the entrance so I wouldn’t see Thatcher’s expression as he sighed and said, “Not today.”

  Thank God, Micah hadn’t come in the house and seen that jacket this morning. Not like we’d have to throw our hands up and get arrested—in hindsight, we could have played it off as funny and just watched her get grossed out after everything I’d spilled to her on the drive over. If it had really just been a casual hookup, that should have been my first response.

  Goose bumps warmed my skin as I registered the should have been in that thought.

  Well, I had to make it be. A really fun night of flirting and messing around. One day we’d laugh about it, I thought as I watched him watch me from behind Jackson and Micah as they walked up. One day when his gaze on me didn’t wiggle my insides and the thought of sliding my hands up under that untucked shirt wasn’t on long loop.

  The stairs up to the restaurant were a narrow threesome of twists and platforms, loudly announcing our steps on the old wood. We’d clomped our way around the second bend, moving aside as departing patrons used the same space, when I realized I didn’t have my phone.

  “Crap,” I muttered, patting my pockets and stopping short.

  “What?” Micah said behind me.

  I turned against the flow. “My phone must have fallen out in the truck. Y’all go ahead and get a table, I’ll be right back.”

  Micah and Jackson stepped around me, as Thatcher stopped on the step below, looking up with a raised eyebrow.

  “Really?” he asked under his breath. “Is there anything you can hang onto?”

  We were alone on the stairs, suddenly, every other person miraculously moved up or down and on their way, leaving two very unsupervised chemistry experiments alone and entirely too close together.

  “Funny,” I said with a smirk, breathing a little easier as the sound of a family coming down the stairs around the bend behind me filled the corridor. “Just give me your key, I’ll—”

  “My key?” he said, laughing, transforming his whole face and giving my knees a run for their money. Jesus, this guy. “I’ve seen what you do with keys.”

  My face flamed, and I attempted a smile through it as the family tromping down passed us one by one. “Speaking of,” I said. “Thank you. What you did this morning for me was—nice. You didn’t have to do that.”

  He breathed out slowly, his eyes narrowing slightly as though he was considering his next words.

  “I know,” he said. “I didn’t do it out of obligation. I just wanted to—”

  A little boy at the tail end of his group came flying down the stairs—jumping, actually—to catch up with his parents, and plowed into my back.

  “Shi—” I gasped as I pitched forward into arms that caught me as our bodies collided.

  “I’ve got you—”

  Thatcher’s words clipped short by a sharp inhale when my hands landed on either side of his face. I didn’t even know they were going there, but suddenly there they were, as natural as his strong arms pinning me to his body. He didn’t let go, and I didn’t either. Solid heat and everything I remembered from the previous night assaulted my senses. Time stopped. Sound stopped.

  His breath brushed my lips, his smell enveloped me, and somewhere back where thoughts were created, I knew I was a goner. His eyes dropped to my mouth as mine dropped to his, and suddenly the centimeters were nonexistent as the force pulled us the rest of the way.

  It was soft, this kiss. Tender. Searching. Frustrating. Infuriating. Words yelled in my head to remove my mouth from his, that it was a bad idea—that it was the universal bad idea of the century—but I couldn’t do it. It was sensual, slow, and intoxicating, and I couldn’t pull away from the taste of—Thatcher Roman.

  That did it. Oh my God, what was I doing?

  I sucked in a breath and forced my lips away, as his eyes blinked open and we stared at each other as if we’d both just woken up. Noise was suddenly everywhere, above us and below. Had that been there all along?

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered on an inhale, feeling my eyes go wide. “I’m so—”

  He let me slide awkwardly down his body like he didn’t know what to do with me. I kept my gaze on his until my toes touched the steps, my hands traveling down his chest. Good God Almighty, it was sensation overload mixed with nerdy sixth grade dance horror, plus a little what the hell is wrong with us.

  “I don’t know—” I began, trailing off as the return of anger to his expression stole the words right out of my brain.

  He shook his head and pulled his keys from his pocket, pressing them into my hand.

  “Just go get your phone,” he said quietly. “I’ll be upstairs.”

  I watched him move up the steps and around the bend before I could even pick up my jaw. What on earth? He was mad at me? Did he think I planned to get slammed into his arms? Did he think I was the only one doing the kissing? Because, let me just tell you, I could attest to some very active liplocking on his part.

  Oh, sweet lollipops, the man could kiss. Like, clothes-peeling kind of kiss. I closed my eyes and laid my hot palm against the cold tile on the wall, willing it to cool my blood. Maybe I needed to press both wrists as well, maybe find a bucket of ice to toss down my shirt.

  “Come on, get it together, Gabi,” I said under my breath. “He’s just a guy. They all smell good at times. They all feel good.” My other hand came up to touch my lips. I could still feel him there. “They all know how to kiss us into oblivion.”

  “Ma’am, who are you talking to?”

  I opened my eyes with a start to see a heartstoppingly adorable little boy around ten or eleven, making a wide berth around me as he gave me a side-eye.

  “Your future,” I said, heading down the steps with a sigh. “Do all the girls your age a favor and stop bathing now so no one will think you smell good one day.”

  * * * *

  They were sitting around a table, laughing when I came back up. Well, Micah and Jackson were laughing. Thatcher sat forward with his elbows on the table, staring at a pepper shaker in his hand like it held the answers to all life’s questions. I had to resist the urge to lick my lips as I looked at his profile. Good Lord, the man was something to see.

  I set his keys in front of him, taking the empty seat across from him and willing my
insides to be still. Everything felt like it wasn’t connected anymore, floating around inside me and knocking into each other like bumper cars. I had to find my badass-ness. She’d been with me yesterday, she’d sort of been with me last night. I really needed her to stake a claim about now. I clasped my fingers together under the table so no one would see the weakness, and focused on Micah and Jackson’s conversation. I could do this. Just sit there like he was. Not speaking. Not thinking. Not wondering how we were going to pull this off if we couldn’t keep our hands and mouths to ourselves.

  Not wanting to do it again. Nope. Not ever.

  It was crazy. Not confessing what we had done last night was one thing. Not continuing it—that was obviously going to be a bigger elephant.

  “That’s back when Thatch was going to paramedic school,” Micah was saying. My curiosity overtook my vow to shut up.

  “Paramedic school?” I asked, looking at him as he looked at me. Shit. I blinked away, grabbing a water glass I hoped was mine. “You wanted to be a paramedic?”

  He put the pepper shaker down and pulled apart a piece of bread, toying with the pieces.

  “Our dad was one before Mom convinced him to start the flower farm,” he said. “I always wanted to be like him.”

  “So why didn’t you?” I asked.

  He dropped the bread, and sat back in his chair. “Because, like my dad, I realized it was a pipe dream that didn’t work when you have a family business to run and no one else takes it seriously.”

  “Here we go,” Jackson said under his breath, rubbing his eyes.

  “So, I switched to a business degree,” Thatcher finished, ignoring his brother.

  “I’m not taking any blame for that,” Micah said, slathering butter on her roll. “I’ve been elbow deep in that greenhouse since I can remember. Not everyone is cut out to take the reins, Thatch. And nothing was signed in blood that you had to keep it going. We could have sold it. Mom certainly wouldn’t have cared.”