The Charlie Method (Campus Diaries #3)

Chapter Forty-Three Will

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

WILL

Tick-fucking-tock

I WAKE UP TO THE SOUND OF MUFFLED VOICES AND THE DISTINCT CREAK of the front door opening and then closing. It takes a moment to fully shake off the remnants of sleep. I blink, realizing the voices aren’t in my head. There are people downstairs.

I roll over, expecting to find Charlotte still asleep beside me, but the bed is empty, and I remember she slept with Beckett last night.

I wait for it. The stab of jealousy. The heat of possessiveness. Mine. She’s mine.

But it doesn’t come.

Because she’s ours.

I toss the covers aside and slip out of bed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and sliding my phone in my pocket in case I need to call the cops. Because the voices downstairs are only growing louder, and I don’t hear Charlie’s feminine pitch. It sounds like a bunch of dudes arguing with each other.

What the fuck?

I make my way downstairs, but it isn’t until I round the corner into the living room that I find the source of the commotion. Beckett stands near the window, shirtless, his arms crossed, while an older blond man paces the hardwood with a frustrated expression on his face.

Judging by the strong resemblance, I deduce this is Beck’s dad.

And the man is clearly agitated, making wild gestures as he says, “Can you believe it? Over a job offer!”

Beckett sighs and drops his arms to his sides. “Dad. Seriously. Chill, bro. Did she actually kick you out?”

I lean against the doorway, trying not to eavesdrop too obviously, but curiosity gets the better of me. Beck’s dad has the same broad shoulders and strong jawline as his son, but his hair is graying at the temples, and he’s sporting a bit of a paunch at his midsection. Australians do like to drink.

“Yes!” Mr. Dunne exclaims, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Kicked me out of my own house because I accepted a job offer! A great opportunity, mind you, but noooo, she says it’s too much of a sacrifice.”

Beckett gawks at his father. “I’m sorry—what? You accepted the Sydney job? Even after Mum said she didn’t want to move?”

His dad falters. In the face of Beckett’s disbelief, I witness Mr. Dunne realizing in real time what a stupid thing he’d done.

It’s weird to see them interact. Conversing like a normal father and son. I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation with my own father that wasn’t transactional. No way would Congressman Larsen be showing up here if he got into a fight with Kelsey.

“What, you just assumed she’d go along with it?”

“Well…yeah!” Mr. Dunne stops pacing long enough to shoot his son a pointed look. “I’m the one with the career. She should be supportive. But instead, she’s always complaining about the little things. Like moving to another continent is some huge inconvenience. Marriage is about making sacrifices, right? Isn’t that what she’s supposed to do?”

I can’t help but snort at that, and both their heads turn toward the doorway.

When Mr. Dunne raises a brow, I shrug, unable to suppress my grin. “You consider moving to another continent a ‘little thing’?” I use air quotes. “That’s, like, a colossal sacrifice.”

The older man glares at me. “And who the hell are you, mate?”

His glare is all bluster and no substance. My grin springs free.

“This is Will Larsen,” Beckett introduces. “Roommate, teammate, et cetera.”

“Nice to meet you, Will. I’m James,” Mr. Dunne says before glaring at me again. “Now mind your own business.”

I can’t help it—I start to laugh. Beck snickers too.

“Dude,” he tells his dad, “Larsen isn’t wrong. Mum told you she didn’t want to move to Sydney. So you accepted a job in Sydney. Do you see the logical inconsistency here?”

His father huffs. “You sound just like her. Both of you. You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Beckett laughs. “I’m not taking sides. I’m saying that maybe, just maybe , you fucked up. Women don’t appreciate being bulldozed.”

James grumbles something under his breath, clearly not thrilled with the idea of being wrong.

I decide to make myself useful and walk to the kitchen, firing up the coffee maker. “Coffee?” I call out.

“God, yes,” Beckett’s dad calls back, stomping after me into the kitchen. “I could use a strong cup right about now.”

Beck joins us, propping his hip against the counter as I start brewing the coffee. “I can’t believe you accepted that job. I had no idea you were suicidal.”

I snort.

“How did she do it when she kicked you out? Throw your clothes out the window? Change the locks?”

“Even worse. She tricked me, mate!”

I grin at the older man. “How does one get tricked into getting kicked out of the house?”

“So yesterday, I told her about accepting the offer, and she said we should go out for dinner later to discuss it, and I’m thinking, okay, she’s taking this really bloody well! Excellent. So I throw on some nice clothes—” He gestures to the polo shirt and khakis he has on, which appear a bit wrinkled, as if he’d slept in them. “We hop in the car, and the next thing I know, she’s dropping me off at the airport hotel and handing me a ticket for a flight that leaves this morning.”

My jaw drops. “Whoa.”

“Nice.” Beckett looks impressed. “Mum’s a stone-cold bitch.”

“Don’t call your mother a bitch,” James grumbles. “Anyway, she looks me right in the eye and says, Go see your son. Maybe he’ll talk some sense into that dumbass head of yours . And then she drove off and left me there!”

“One-way ticket?” I ask as I pour three cups of coffee.

“Yes!” he answers in outrage. “Can you believe this?”

“What is going on in here?” Charlie’s sleepy voice wafts from the doorway, and we all glance toward her.

My heart beats a little bit faster at the sight of her, my T-shirt hanging over her leggings, feet bare, long black hair rumpled from sleep. She falters when she notices Beckett’s father, her wary gaze darting between me and Beck, who gives her a rueful smile.

“This is my dad,” he says. “James Dunne, Charlotte Kingston.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and neither do me or Charlie. Instead, she walks over to shake James’s hand, then prepares herself a cup of green tea. As she’s dropping a tea bag into her mug, Beckett comes up behind her to plant a kiss on her neck.

“Sorry we woke you,” he says, then gives her ass a playful squeeze before grabbing a seat at the breakfast counter with his coffee.

“I didn’t know your dad was visiting,” she says to him.

“Neither did I,” he snorts, which prompts James to retell the entire sordid tale to Charlie, unfazed that she’s a total stranger.

Today I’m learning that Australians overshare.

I take a sip of coffee just as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, grimacing at the name flashing on the screen.

Tessa Diaz.

I haven’t heard from Tessa since she published that profile at my dad’s insistence. She emailed me a link to the article when it released back in December. The piece had painted me as the all-American son of a well-respected congressman, teeming with promise and potential, a guy with a bright and shiny future ahead of him.

In other words, total bullshit.

I duck out of the kitchen, bringing the phone to my ear. “Tessa, hey.”

“Will!” she chirps, far too enthusiastic for this early in the morning. “I’m sorry to call before nine on a Saturday, but I’m in Boston right now, and I’ll only be here until noon. I was hoping to drive out to Hastings for a quick chat. Do you have some time in the next couple hours?”

Curiosity creases my forehead. “Yes, I do. As long as it’s soon. We have a game later, so I need to be at the rink this afternoon.”

“It’ll be quick,” she assures me. “If I head out now, I can be at your place in about an hour?”

“My place? You don’t want to meet at the diner or something?”

“I’d prefer not to. Wouldn’t mind some privacy for this discussion.”

Well, color me intrigued.

After we hang up, I return to the kitchen, where Beckett’s dad is now asking Charlotte if she would divorce him for taking a job without her permission.

“Who was on the phone?” Beck catches my eye as he sips his coffee.

“Tessa Diaz, that journalist from Capitol Magazine . She wrote the profile on me in the fall.”

“Right. Your dad’s mouthpiece.”

“She’s coming by in an hour. Says she has something to discuss with me.”

Slugging back the rest of my coffee, I walk to the sink and drop my cup in it, then head for the hall.

“Gonna grab a shower before she gets here,” I say over my shoulder.

In the shower, as hot water courses down my face and chest, I wonder what the hell my dad’s cooked up this time. Because there’s no other reason Tessa would be calling me out of the blue, wanting to chat.

We already did a puff piece, though. So this follow-up, or whatever it is, must have some sort of an angle, some new way to cram me further into the mold he’s crafted for me.

An hour later, Tessa rings my doorbell, all smiles and bright eyes as I let her in. She’s dressed in dark jeans and a thick blue parka with a fur hood, and I greet her with a handshake, trying to match her enthusiasm even as every instinct tells me to be wary.

Rather than remove her winter gear, she nods at the front door. “How about we go for a walk and chat? I promise I won’t take up too much of your time.”

“Sure.”

Grabbing my own coat, I shove my feet in my boots and pull a pair of gloves on. The morning air has a bite to it as we head down the sidewalk. It’s fucking cold out, but Tessa doesn’t seem to mind it.

“So what’s on your mind?” I ask, stuffing my gloved hands into my pockets and wishing I brought a hat.

She gives me a sidelong look. “I’m going to be blunt, Will. I have a proposition for you.”

“Okay?”

“I’m leaving the magazine.”

My eyebrows soar. “Really? What happened to paying your dues?”

“It’s not necessarily a permanent leave. We’re calling it a leave of absence for now, but it depends on how the campaign pans out.” She grins at my puzzled look and continues. “I’ve been offered a position on Harper Wozniak’s staff as a campaign speechwriter.”

“Oh. Cool. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. I’m excited about it.” She smiles at me, a teasing gleam in her dark eyes. “I want you to come with me.”

I stop dead in my tracks, turning to face her. “What?”

“There’s an open position on the staff. Assistant to Pamela Kerry, Wozniak’s campaign manager. I floated your name out for it, and Pam said the job is yours if you want it. No interview necessary.”

“You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

This is the last thing I expected to hear this morning, and now my mind is racing, trying to remember what I know of Harper Wozniak. Her name sounds familiar, but I can’t figure out why.

“Is she my father’s opponent in the primary?” I ask, frowning.

Next fall will be the first time in more than a decade that someone is primarying my dad, which is another reason he’s been so up my ass about maintaining the perfect “image.” Over the holidays, he was ranting and raving like a lunatic about it. How dare someone in his own party try to push him out! The nerve ! I thought he was going to have an aneurysm.

“No,” Tessa replies. “That’s Sandra Donaldson. Harper’s running in another district. With that said, she’s not a fan of your father’s. She’s been quoted in the press criticizing your father’s policies before.”

“And you want me to, what, switch sides? Work for a lady who’s against my father?”

“I think you’d really like Harper. I sat down with her for three hours the other day talking through her positions and everything she’d like to get done. And it lined up with everything you and I talked about during our interview. In fact, she reminded me so much of you that I flew to Boston just so I could do this in person.” Tessa smiles ruefully. “I had a feeling you’d need a lot of convincing and that my sunny disposition might win you over.”

I manage a grin, but I can’t stop staring at her, my mind reeling. I don’t know a thing about Harper Wozniak, but even if everything she’s hoping to achieve lines up with my own beliefs, there’s no way I can work for my father’s rival. It’s a massive betrayal.

“I don’t think so,” I finally say, the words thick in my throat. “That’s big.”

“Huge,” she agrees. “And I don’t expect you to decide right away. All I’m asking is that you think about it.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek. “Tell me more about this position then.”

Tessa offers more details, including about her own job. She’ll be one of Wozniak’s speechwriters for the campaign, and if Wozniak wins, Tessa will be part of her staff full-time. Apparently, there could be a full-time position for me too, if not with Wozniak’s office, then with Pamela Kerry on another campaign.

“I spoke to both of them about you in length,” Tessa says. “They’re intrigued.”

“Yeah, because they’re thinking of how they can spin it. Look, voters! Representative Larsen’s own son doesn’t support him.”

“You can still support your father in his primary. Harper isn’t trying to unseat him. They’re not even in the same district. The two things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“When would I start?”

“In May, after graduation.”

We walk in silence for a few more minutes. The offer continues to run through my mind, and by the time we circle back to the townhouse, I’m a jumbled mess of conflicting emotions.

I can’t deny this sounds interesting. I had no idea what job I’d line up after graduation. To be honest, I haven’t even started looking. And now this offer just lands in my lap.

I can’t not consider it, right?

“Do you mind if I use your bathroom before I make the drive back to Boston?” Tessa asks.

“Sure. I still can’t believe you drove all the way here for a twenty-minute chat.”

“I really want you to take this job, Will.” We pause on the stoop, and she reaches for my hand. It’s not a romantic gesture but one of encouragement. “You’re one of the only people I think actually belongs in politics. You have integrity. I think you could make a real difference in this sphere.”

“I’ll think about it” is my noncommittal response. “When do I need to let them know by?”

“Ideally within the month.”

I nod, opening the front door. We step into the hall just as Charlie approaches it, slipping on her coat. A shirtless Beckett trails after her with a travel cup of what I’m assuming is green tea. He bends down to give her a kiss on the lips.

“For the drive, sugar puff,” he says, handing her the cup.

She looks touched, beaming at him. “Thanks.”

When they notice Tessa’s small frame tucked behind me, they startle.

I quickly make the introductions. “Guys, Tessa Diaz. Tessa, this is my roommate and teammate, Beckett. And, uh, Charlotte.” I stutter over this one. “His girlfriend.”

Beckett doesn’t even blink, and Tessa simply nods, uninterested in any personal details. But the introduction is now seared into my brain because I’d felt it in my chest. The lie. The omission. Whatever it was.

It felt too awkward to introduce Charlie as anything other than Beckett’s girl—we just saw him, without a shirt, kissing her. But it evokes a rush of guilt, because Charlie isn’t only his. She’s mine too.

I should be proud of that. I should want to advertise it to the entire world. This is my girl.

But deep down…I know what stopped me just now. A part of me was embarrassed. Of how Tessa might see us. How she might see me .

And as that bleak truth settles over me, I suddenly hear it. Tick-tock. Tick-fucking-tock. It drums a beat in my head. The clock. The countdown.

The realization that sooner or later, this complicated arrangement is going to come crashing down around us.