The sun is beginning to grow subdued. Not quite afternoon, not quite evening, and it gives the apartment a golden vibe. When Nina and I first moved in, we hung crystals in the window and they’re showing off their effects now, painting the wall in dancing prisms. I watch Charlie out of the corner of my eye as I unpack my goodies, stowing them away in the fridge for later, save the strawberry rhubarb pie, which I leave on the counter.
I’m still coming down off our kiss in the park. I have this distinct impression Charlie has no idea that we kissed for nearly an hour. His gaze was almost startled when I finally broke away, as if we’d only just begun. I spent the quiet walk home stuck in this weird limbo between arousal and outrage. Who would let a child think his mother left because of him? Even if by some crazy long shot it were true, which it couldn’t be, wouldn’t a parent go to extra lengths to assure him otherwise?
Across the room, Charlie falls into a sitting position on the couch, hands clasped between his knees. Did I push too far when we talked about his mother? His shoulders are rigid. He wants to leave, I think. I don’t know. But something tells me if I let him walk out the door like this, I won’t see him again for a long time.
I’m pretty freaking far from okay with that. And no, I don’t want to examine why. Not when I’m more worried about his current state of mind than anything else.
“Do you want that piece of pie?”
“What?” His head comes up slowly. “Oh, sure.”
I take two plates out of the cabinet and remove a knife from the drawer. Just as I’m preparing to slice the first piece of pie, I hear a familiar ding across the room. The knife in my hand drops. The sound that is bleeping from my still-open laptop is the signal that I’ve received a message on the dating website. My pulse purrs a little louder, but I pick up the knife again, intending to continue cutting, as though nothing is amiss. And nothing is amiss, right? I mean, just because I spent an hour making out with Charlie in Union Square Park doesn’t mean he’ll be weird about matches coming in while we eat pie together.
Do I want him to be weird about it?
Charlie’s gaze is already zeroed in on the laptop . . . and he stands. The second he moves in the direction of the device, I drop the knife and jog out of the kitchen, intending to beat him there. And I lose.
He slides into the rolling chair at my Ikea desk and rubs his index finger across the control pad, bringing the screen to life. Behold, in all its glory, the match site of mundane questions and inopportune dinging.
“Charlie, that’s private.”
Yeah, he’s ignoring me. Gliding a finger along the pad and tapping over the red bubble that decrees I have fourteen new notifications. “In high demand, aren’t you?”
The hair on the back of my neck prickles at his tone. It’s half-detached, half- . . . on the verge. Of what, I’m not sure. “You don’t really want to look at this, do you?” I strive for casual, attempting to pick up the laptop. But he intercepts my wrist and pulls me down on his lap, wrapping a forearm around my waist. “It’s none of your business, Charlie.”
“Oh come on,” he says with a flat laugh. “Let me see a few of the contenders.”
I try to stand, but he tightens his hold. “No. Don’t look.”
“I want to help, Ever.” His voice is hard. Not Charlie-like at all. “I’m a guy, which gives me a first-hand perspective on the bullshit they’re spewing. I can weed out some of the bad ones for you.” He gives a rude snort. “Although, that might narrow the field down to zero.”
Oh, screw this. He isn’t going to sit here, in my apartment, and make this undertaking of mine sound stupid. I won’t let him. “Leave it alone. I don’t need any help.”
“You’re getting it anyway.” He clicks on the red bubble and I close my eyes, rage simmering like hot oil beneath my skin. I hate this. Hate it. He’s still raw from talking about his mother in the park—I see that—and if we’re really attempting friendship, I should probably be more understanding. But I’m raw, too, goddammit. My lips are still swollen from the over-the-top passionate way he’d kissed me before deflating into Phantom Charlie . . . and we are now browsing my dating matches together?
When I feel his body stiffen beneath me, my eyes fly open and I only get a glimpse of the cursor hovering over a vaguely familiar face before my hand flies up and slams the laptop shut. I’m done with this.
I shove to my feet and round on him. “Time to go, Burns.” I wedge the laptop beneath my arm, my spine vibrating with a surge of adrenaline. “I’m sorry you’re having a bad day, but it’s not exactly coming up roses for me, either. Get. Out.”
His smirk doesn’t completely disguise his surprise. “What about the pie?”
Oh, the nerve. “Take it to go, homie.”
The bravado on his face thins as he stands, eyebrows dipping. “I really did want to help, Ever.”
“No, you didn’t. You wanted to laugh at me.” My voice is just this side of hysterical, so I force my shoulders to relax. “Believe me, you’ve made it clear you find this hilarious. Me looking for the one.”
“The one,” he says tonelessly. “Is that what you’re calling him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Are you going to make fun of that, too?” I set the laptop back down harder than I should have, and give him a pointed look. “I don’t need anyone’s help weeding out bullshit. I can do that myself.”
He takes a step closer. “You have, haven’t you?”
“Haven’t I what?”
“Weeded out the bullshit.” The blue of his eyes is sharp enough to slice the atmosphere in two. “You’ve set up a date. Haven’t you?”
“Yeah. I have.” My voice is like a whip cracking in the bright room. “This Friday. He’s training to be a firefighter. Any other questions?”
“Yeah, about a million that you definitely didn’t ask him.” He’s shouting at me. Charlie? Is shouting at me? There is a restraint to his posture, almost like he can’t help but reassure me I’m safe, but that’s where his caution ends. His nostrils flare, and the muscles beneath his T-shirt are more present than before. Flexing, tightening. He’s downright furious at me. “Does he have a record? Why did he break up with his last girlfriend? Is he a safe driver?” Charlie advances and I back up, circling the couch backward to avoid him. “Does he know you move like a nervous fairy when you cook? Or that your real smiles are the ones that look kind of grudging?” He rakes a hand through his hair, leaving it looking a little wild. “I’m just trying to be a good friend, Ever, and make sure you go out with someone who deserves you.”
“I think y-you should leave,” I whisper, because I’m shaken. So shaken. When did he notice those things about me? Why do they make him angry? “Charlie—”
“You’re right. I should go.” But he’s still coming, still moving toward me. I run into a kitchen stool and send it skidding, my back coming up against the kitchen counter. When he reaches me, my pulse is rioting and it goes crazier when he closes that final gap and drops his forehead into the crook of my neck. “I’m sorry.” His breath is coming out in great, shuddering rushes. “It was a lot today . . . what we talked about. Christ, I’m being such an asshole and you don’t deserve it. You never could. I’m sorry.”
Disorderly Conduct (The Academy #1)
Tessa Bailey's books
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- Rough Rhythm: A Made in Jersey Novella (1001 Dark Nights)
- Thrown Down (Made in Jersey #2)