But now it felt like an opportunity, I thought as I chugged milk like a frat boy with a can of beer during rush.
I was too much of a simp to actually tell Bec to stop texting me unless she wanted to get back together, but it was how I felt. I was glad she was happy (sort of), but I had zero interest in becoming her fucking bestie.
So maybe if I did something like this, it might send the same message: Charlie is available for boyfriending if you realize you miss FaceTiming him in the dark at 3 a.m., but he’s got other options if you’re only interested in platonic messaging.
I wasn’t planning on lying and telling people that Bailey and I were a thing, but if Bec wanted to make her own assumptions and respond accordingly, well, I couldn’t do a damn thing to stop her, right?
I poured another glass of milk and set down the gallon.
But I also couldn’t ignore the part of me that was the tiniest bit excited to seeing Bailey outside of work and our partnership to destroy her mom’s relationship. What was social, let’s-go-hit-the-town Bailey like?
Who was Bailey, aside from Glasses? And why was I so fucking curious to find out?
Something about her had drawn me in the very first time we’d met, and God help me, there was something I liked about interacting with her.
We had nothing in common. NOTHING.
Still, I’d never forget the nerd in glasses at the airport, clearing her throat and repeatedly saying Excuse me. There was something ballsy in her rule-following repression that I found entertaining, something sweet in the way she wouldn’t let me cut but felt bad about it.
Bailey wasn’t like other people.
So even though I knew she’d likely drive me fucking nuts at the party, why was I looking forward to it?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN Bailey
When Charlie texted me Friday night to let me know he was at my house, I messaged my mom, Hanging out with Charlie at his friend’s house, and walked outside. I didn’t even have to wonder where Charlie was parked because he started honking.
Loudly.
Incessantly.
I rolled my eyes and ran over to his black Honda something, pulled open the door, and climbed inside. “You are a jackass.”
Sitting relaxed behind the wheel, Charlie grinned wildly, like he was having the best time messing with me. His eyes were warm and all over me—my face, my outfit, my legs, and back up again—and the appreciative gaze brought out the butterflies in my stomach.
Then he said, “Holy shit, you wore exactly what I told you to wear. You are such a good girl.”
I reached for the seat belt after I slammed my door, the butterflies calming as he looked away from me and into his rearview mirror. “Do you really want to cause me to go back inside and change?”
“I’ll shut up,” he said, putting the car in reverse and backing out of the spot. “But it looks good. You look really nice.”
“Did you just compliment me?” I asked, buckling up.
“Weird, right?”
“I don’t know how to deal with it, honestly.” And I also didn’t know how to deal with him looking like that. I’d known T-shirt Charlie, hoodie Charlie, and flight suit Charlie, but this Charlie…
Whoa. He was wearing a plaid button-down—was that Ralph Lauren?—a nice watch, jeans, and really good shoes.
But that wasn’t the whoa.
The whoa was the combination of the smell of his soap and the way his thick hair looked like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. The close proximity of Charlie trying put him on another level I wasn’t used to dealing with.
Like, Charlie Sampson was cute, but Party Charlie was hot.
He glanced at me, and the corner of his mouth tilted up. “Well, don’t get weird on me. The outfit looks good, but the fact that you probably have everything in your purse lined up by shape takes away a lot of the attractiveness.”
“There it is.” I pulled down the visor and looked in the mirror. “So what’s your ex’s name again?”
“Huh?” He glanced over again, then returned his gaze to the road. “Oh. Becca.”
“Becca.” I reached into the pocket of my jeans and pulled out my lipstick. “Are you guys civil to each other?”
He made a scoffing sound and switched lanes. “For God’s sake, I’m not some melodramatic puffball. Of course we’re civil.”
I looked at his face, which was all seriousness as he drove down Maple Street. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Really.”
“Yes.” He shook his head like I was a moron. “Knock off your bullshit. I treat her exactly the same as I treat you.”
“Oh, so you’re kind of a sarcastic prick, but funny enough to make it acceptable.”
He raised his eyebrows and nodded. “Pretty much.”
“Got it.” I put on lipstick, flipped the visor back up, and turned toward Charlie. “And what are your friends like? Loud? Quiet? Funny? Snobby?”
“My friends are pretty chill. And funny.”
I don’t know why, but I nervously asked him, “Do you think they’ll like me?”
He gave me a quick glance and looked like he wanted to laugh; it was in the squint of his eyes when he said, “You might’ve changed on the outside, but you’re kind of still the brace face from the airport, aren’t you?”
“No, I most definitely am not,” I said defensively, irritated that he was mocking my moment of insecurity. “But you, Charlie—you are absolutely still the know-it-all jackass that I met in Fairbanks.”
“Whoa,” he said, and now he did cough out a little laugh as he slowed for a stoplight. “Calm down. I liked the brace face.”
“And now you’re lying,” I said, turning in my seat to face him better. “Because we’ve already established that we hated each other.”
His eyes moved from my face to my hair and back to my face again before he said, “How could I forget?”
“I mean,” I said, tucking my hair behind my ears and thinking back to that day, “I was just a nice girl, trying to safely maneuver my first solo flight, and there you were, being a jerk and macking on a girl in the security line like a mini–Hugh Hefner.”
“First of all, ‘macking’?” he said, hitting the gas after the light turned green. “Do better, Glasses.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I don’t know where that came from.”
“Second of all, Hugh Hefner was an asshole. Young Charlie, on the other hand, had enough game for Grace Bassett to make the first move with that airport kiss.”
“Really?” I didn’t hide the sarcasm in my voice. “I don’t believe it.”
“Trust me, she begged for that kiss.”
“That’s what you want me to think.”
“Touché.”
When Charlie pulled to a stop in front of a nice-looking cookie-cutter split-entry house at the top of a cul-de-sac, I got a few butterflies. There were three cars in the driveway and a few on the street, so though it didn’t appear to be a huge party, it was bigger than my usual four-friend get-togethers.
It was like Charlie knew I was nervous, though, because as he pulled a little roll of TUMS out of his pocket and popped two into his mouth, he said reassuringly, “I’ll make it fun—I promise.”