We got quiet then, but it was comfortable.
I lay there, sad and relaxed in his arms, and I didn’t want to speak or move or do anything to change the moment. My heart was racing because he was holding me, and that response seemed to be my new normal, but better than electricity was the way I felt insulated in Charlie’s concern, blanketed in his warm support.
I almost thought he was asleep until Charlie said, “I’m sorry your dad’s a selfish asshole.”
“He’s not, though,” I said, letting my eyes close, suddenly exhausted. “He’s just really busy.”
“You deserve better,” he said, sounding offended on my behalf.
“So do you,” I said, meaning it. I turned over, so I could see his face, and I almost wished I hadn’t, because his smart-ass mask was nowhere to be found. He looked sweet—vulnerable—and a rush of fondness went through me. “You’re not nearly the jerk you purport yourself to be.”
I saw his throat move around a swallow before he said in a gravelly voice, “Trust me, I am.”
“Charlie,” I said, smiling as I looked at his face. Those dark eyes, slashing brows, that prominent nose—I loved his face. I mean, I liked his face. My heart was in my throat as my gaze moved all over him, traveling everywhere. I didn’t dare bring my eyes back to his, yet I couldn’t keep them away.
He was looking at me, his gaze intense as if he’d been waiting for me to see him. I felt like I couldn’t breathe as those dark-as-night eyes dipped to my lips, and then his face was moving closer to mine.
I felt light-headed as I watched him because I knew—I just knew—that this was no longer a game of pretend.
And it didn’t make sense, but I didn’t want it to.
This was Charlie’s mouth coming down on mine. This was my lips, opening for him in the yawning darkness of the living room. My shaking hands moved up to his shoulders as I felt his big, warm hands on my hips, and my breathing went choppy as his went deep.
My mind went wild as he kissed me, playing a montage of Colorado Charlie memories that made me feel things for him. The way he’d grinned when we sprinted through multiple gas stations. The vulnerability he’d shown about whatever anxiety issues he was dealing with.
His calm Is that a goose question while Scott wielded footwear.
And the way he’d pulled me into his arms when I was sad—oh God.
He lifted his mouth for a second—only a breath away—and said, “Bay.”
But he didn’t just say it. His voice was deep and hot, and he spoke my name as if it were a curse or an exaltation, something that moved him, for better or worse.
He angled his head, his fingers clenching against me in a way that made me feel the heat of his hands through my flannel pants, and then he sent full-sex kisses into my mouth. I felt like my heart was going to explode as he fed me long, hot, deep tastes that made my toes curl under my blanket.
I gripped his shoulders harder, needing, which made him lift his head again. He didn’t say anything this time as he looked down at me, and it didn’t feel like he needed to. The eye contact was somehow sweet, questioning, and hot, all at once.
His mouth lowered, but before our lips touched, Charlie’s head jerked up. “Did you hear that?”
“What?” I hadn’t heard anything, but I was also wildly disoriented, as if just regaining consciousness after a year in a coma, so I probably wouldn’t have heard a freight train.
His eyes met mine, and I wished I could see what he was feeling, what he was thinking.
“Shit!” Charlie leaped off the pullout and fell to the floor, then scrambled over to the floor bed and covered himself with the blanket.
Then I heard it.
Footsteps on the stairs.
I lay there, my eyes squeezed shut as I pretended to be asleep, and Scott came down the stairs. I listened as he lumbered into the kitchen, and I heard him open a cupboard and turn on the sink. It felt like an eternity as he shuffled around in there.
Hurry the hell up!
Meanwhile, my brain was starting to chant on an endless loop, What the hell just happened what the hell just happened WHAT IN THE LITERAL HELL JUST HAPPENED ON THE PULLOUT?
Scott came out of the kitchen, and my heart actually started pounding harder when I heard him go up the stairs and close the door.
I held my breath and waited.
Was Charlie going to come back?
“Holy shit, that was close,” Charlie said from the floor on the other side of the room. “He would’ve flipped if he’d come down a minute earlier.”
“Yeah,” I said, unsure of what I should say. He sounded… normal, which was good, because I could easily picture him freaking out about this, and that was the last thing I wanted.
However, did I want him to be unaffected after what’d just happened?
I didn’t think so, because I was unbelievably affected.
“I’m turning on the TV,” he said, and I could hear the covers rustling. “If that’s okay.”
“Um. Yeah,” I said, pulling the covers up to my chin. Is he not going to say anything at all? That was strange, right? It was bizarre to behave as if that didn’t just happen, right?
Of course, there was no way I was going to bring it up.
No, it was much better to just lie there, wondering. Was he unaffected, or was he affected and unhappy about it? Was he regretting it? Was he chocking it up to additional practice time?
I rolled onto my side, so I was facing away from Charlie’s floor bed, and clenched my teeth to stop myself from sighing.
Because I knew without a doubt that I was going to be awake all night, neurotically wondering what the hell had just happened.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE Charlie
Generally speaking, I considered myself to be a smart dipshit.
I could ace a calculus test (when I wanted to) and get every answer right on Jeopardy!, but I wasn’t always good at making mature decisions.
See: Bailey Mitchell.
I stared at the TV, but I wasn’t even listening to the episode of Seinfeld that was playing because my brain wouldn’t stop screaming, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?
The volume was so loud that I could hear nothing else.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Kissing Bailey under the guise of fake dating—that was fine. Fucking funny, actually, that she and I were able to derive a little salacious pleasure from our plan to sabotage Scott. That, my friend, was what you called bonus material.
But kissing her because I looked into her eyes and just wanted to?
Such total dipshittery.
Because nothing good could come of it. I was certain Bailey was lying on the pullout, losing her shit this very second. She would freak out, things would get awkward, and everything would change.
It was asinine that I’d been careful enough to label her “coworker” instead of friend, just to ensure there was a mutual understanding between us, yet stupid enough to try to absorb her sadness into my body through osmosis because I didn’t like hearing her sound unhappy.