8. Whatta Man
Whatta Man
Charlotte
November 9, 1996
I pull into the gravel parking lot of the old barn theater located at the edge of the Rosalind Estate, shift my blue Ford Escort into Park, and take a deep breath to calm my nerves.
I put myself into this situation, and now Arden is going to be here in person to, hopefully, deal with it.
As my legal counsel, he’ll probably ask me to go over every single detail ad nauseum. The thought of looking into the man’s eyes and explaining everything out loud makes me want to vomit. I need to focus on the demolition, not the body in the basement.
If I end up having to tell him about Polford, there’s no going back. Will he make me turn myself in, then sort it out in the courts? Somehow, I suspect that’s exactly what he’d do.
By next week, RealFreedom will have razed the building, and Bronnie will grow up without either one of her parents.
The Rosalind Theater should have stood as an untouched landmark for at least a hundred years, not been on the radar for “property development.”
Of all the things that Sheriff Marsh could use to put me back on his “list,” chaining myself to this building or putting sugar in some gas tanks has to be the least likely, and dumbest, thing I could possibly have dreamed up.
But if we don’t get this demo off the table, one way or the other, Rochelle and I are both going to end up in handcuffs.
It’s been nearly two years since I met Arden at the funeral, and the man in my memory doesn’t match the person I’ve gotten to know online. I hoped he’d help me come up with some ideas. I didn’t expect him to drive straight here.
His last email sounded like Scary Funeral Arden, not my Email Arden.
When a black Cadillac, windows tinted darker than I’ve seen on any car, pulls in beside my vehicle, I force myself to open my door and step into the blustery November wind.
A man with olive-toned skin wearing a black suit, an earpiece coiled in his ear, emerges from the driver’s side. Dark-haired, stocky but fit, he walks around the hood toward me.
I glance around in confusion. Arden’s email didn’t say anything about sending someone else.
Another Cadillac pulls into the lot, a perfect match for the first. Another driver, a Black man with sharp eyes and an earpiece emerges. He scans the lot and building, then immediately sets off in the general direction of the theater.
A different kind of nervousness twangs inside me, and I take a step backward. Who are these people?
The first man gives me a smile. “My name is Reese, Ms. Miller. I work for Mr. McRae. Nice to meet you.”
I lift my hand in a weak wave. “Hi.”
Reese raises two fingers to his earpiece, then opens the back door of the first car.
Arden unfolds from the backseat.
For long seconds, all I can do is gawk as he emerges.
I knew what he looked like. But when I met him the first time, I wasn’t looking at him the way a woman looks at a man.
It’s the difference between seeing a photo of a ripe peach . . . and holding one, still warm from the sun, in your hand, then taking a big, juicy bite.
I could take a bite out of him.
I did not just think that.
Oh, but I could. Not hard. Just a taste. Right on his full lower lip. Maybe his bicep— Good Lord, what is wrong with me?
But he’s . . . he’s . . . My brain stutters. Outrageously attractive.
Arden’s twilight-blue eyes sparkle with warmth and crinkle at the corners. His smile could grace a toothpaste commercial—his teeth perfectly straight and perfectly white.
My bottom four front teeth crowd together because we couldn’t afford braces.
His jawline looks chiseled by the gods. He’s tall and lean, but muscular. Arden probably has a six-pack. I have tiny silvery stretch marks.
His light brown hair is perfectly windswept. He has a tan in November.
Right. Because he just got back from a vacation on the Amalfi freaking Coast a week ago.
His suit looks like it’s in love with him, and a black cashmere scarf hangs loose and unknotted around his neck.
Given our first meeting and his last email, I was worried he’d be stern and frightening. At no point did I consider that I’d take one look at him and want to climb my kind, supportive online friend like a tree. I haven’t been lusting over him.
I can’t be doing this right now. I have to focus. There are things more important than attraction, like keeping RealFreedom from coming in here with a backhoe.
I smile back, careful to keep my mouth closed so my crooked bottom teeth don’t show. He’s already seen my smile in photos, but it’s not the same in person. Obviously .
Zipping up my iridescent, white puffer jacket that I got on clearance for eight dollars last spring, I lean my weight on one hip and try to look casual and unfazed. Neither of which is remotely close to how I feel. “So . . about that prison record . . .”
His lips twitch.
Sweat dots my forehead as heat shoots up my neck, through my face and out the top of my head. This situation is serious, and I just made it sound like he drove all this way for a joke.
Arden’s brow furrows, his expression transitioning to concern. Stepping closer, he puts the back of his hand on my sweaty forehead, then my cheeks. “Are you ill, Charlotte? You look feverish.”
His scent is amazing. I couldn’t smell anything until he was close enough to touch me, but now, I’m lost in it. It doesn’t scream anything. It coaxes. “Come closer. Closer.”
I haven’t had a libido to speak of in two years. And then it was only ever with my fiancé. What am I even doing right now?
I jerk away, waking from my touch and scent–induced, lust-filled daze. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I mutter, beyond mortified. “I’m not sick . I’m just a little”— inappropriately turned on—“ nervous.”
He immediately steps back. “I apologize. That was out of line. My manners are usually better than this.”
“You have him flustered, Ms. Miller,” Reese says.
Startled, I turn to the man with the earpiece.
The driver tips his head. Clear as day, his expression says I figured you forgot I was here. Sure would hate for you to do anything you ’ d regret.
Too late.
Why is he hovering around us, looking like some kind of federal agent? He’s smiling, but he’s watching me like I’m a time bomb that could go off in Arden’s face at any second. Like he sees me.
Reese shoots Arden a brief, annoyed glance, then winks at me. “He’s usually better about giving new people some space .”
I shake my head. That’s not true. The first time Arden met me, he tried to put his coat on me. “I’m not really a new person. We’ve been friends for a while.” I look back at Arden. “I’m not offended or afraid because you touched me. Truly.”
His shoulders seem to relax. “I’m glad.”
Turning his attention to the man with the earpiece, he presses his lips together and gives Reese an exasperated-looking slow blink. “If the property is secure, Charlotte and I are going to take a walk. Give us some privacy, please.”
“All clear.” Once more, Reese watches me with an intent expression, then he glances at Arden, who gives a minute shake of his head.
Reese steps away.
Arden indicates the theater ahead of us. “Would you mind walking with me?”