Chapter 4 - Grant
Charlotte and I talk again the next night, and the next. Every conversation with her makes me feel like the rest of the world has stopped. She’s warm and open, genuine and real in a way I haven’t ever experienced. I don’t know if it’s because we’re talking over text and it’s easier when you’re not looking someone in the eye, or if this is just how she is.
Twice, I’ve stopped myself from asking if she’ll send me another photo of her. I like how deep she is, how honest and open, but it’s killing me not to see her in more than just that one profile photo. I find myself imagining her in different settings—how she’d look under a sunset, or laughing at something I said, or even just sitting quietly with a cup of coffee. I want to know the real her, not just the version captured in a single shot. I can’t even picture her voice, I can’t properly imagine how she looks when she talks to me about her parents, about the hobbies she really wants to start, including re-binding books with leather covers. Every passion project she wants to start makes her sexier, like she’s stripping down all her insecurities and for some reason her level of genuine thoughtfulness turns me on. Although her blue eyes and that little sundress doesn’t hurt.
Charlotte: Today sucked so much. I know I try to stay optimistic and understanding, but some days are just terrible.
Grant: I have a cure for those days.
I stop myself from immediately answering. It will sound ridiculous, but when Charlotte insists, I sigh.
Grant: I’d rather not type it.
Charlotte: You’re keeping it a secret! Strictly not allowed. I might have to keep some secrets of my own.
Grant: I was going to suggest telling you over the phone, but if you’d rather keep secrets ...
Charlotte:!!
Charlotte: Yes! Call me! If you want to, I mean.
I chuckle at her enthusiasm. I pull up her contact. I made it the night she gave me her number after hours of typing – more hours than I’ve ever spent on a computer at one time. The phone rings, rings again, and I put it on speaker and close my eyes, picturing her face.
“Hello?” God, her voice is perfect. Gentle, warm, not too high pitched, just ... perfect. “Grant, this is you right?”
My lips turn up. “It is.”
She makes a pleased sound. “I like that you take initiative.”
“And I like putting a voice to your messages,” I say.
She giggles softly, then hushes herself. I shake my head. “You shouldn’t be hiding in your own home, Charlotte. You’re an adult and if your parents don’t recognize that, it’s on them, not you. You should be able to date who you want, do what you want, and maintain your privacy.”
“The ideal,” she agrees.
“The bare minimum” I argue. “You are an adult, Charlotte. Unless you’re a shockingly gifted liar.”
“Believe me, if I was eighteen, I wouldn’t be on a dating website. I’d be ignoring frat boys while in college,” she says with a smile. “I was very good at it, but you are distracting me from your secret coping methods.”
I chuckle and hear her moan softly. Charlotte takes a slow breath. “I was hoping I could actually make you laugh.”
“You do it often. And my secret for a bad day is running off to the woods with a near stranger and letting him hunt down each of your problems while letting you explore each hobby you’re interested in.”
She pauses, not even breathing and I’m almost sure that she’s going to block me, but she sighs. “The earliest I can do that is next month, Grant. I want to, believe me. Running away and start discovering these parts of me with you is ... so, so tempting.”
“This isn’t a one time deal, sweetheart. I’m not rushing you. I want you to know it’s an option,” I say as I lean back.
“Am ... Am I on speaker?”
“You are. I’m not great with technology. This is the most I’ve used my computer since I got it,” I admit.
She giggles softly and I hear something rustling. My mind flicks to her changing clothes, wiggling out of everything until she’s naked and inviting and so ... I take a slow breath.
“You really are a mountain man,” she sighs. “Do you hear birds where you are? Cardinals? Robins?”
My lust doesn’t calm even though she’s talking about birds. I just think about waking up with her, wearing nothing and naming every bird while memorizing her with my hands. I’m so fucking hard for a girl I’ve never met and none of it makes sense.
“All of them. Humming birds in summer too,” I answer.
And then we just keep talking. She doesn’t tell me anything about what’s made her day bad, just asks me questions, listens and asks more, jumps in with her own stories and by the time she’s yawning more than she’s talking, I don’t want to go back to texting through the website. I tell her that. I’d rather call her or text her. It feels more real.
Which is how we get through the next few weeks. I call her while I’m making dinner and describe the menu. She talks to me while she goes on jogs. Three weeks from the point that we met online, I’ve already masturbated to her twice, thinking about her voice, those moans I get to hear every once in a while when I describe my meal and she just can’t settle down, or when she’s extremely frustrated.
“Grant,” she greets softly.
“Did I wake you?” I glance at the time. It’s only seven.
She makes a warm comfortable sound and sighs. “Yeah. I was supposed to wake up a while ago. A nap turned into a little more.”
“Then you needed it. We’ll talk tomorrow,” I decide.
“No, because ... I did something important today,” Charlotte answers.
I blink a few times. “What did you do?”
“Took two weeks PTO and put in my two weeks’ notice. You were right. I’m limiting myself by letting my parents pigeonhole me. So ... if you still want me there ...”
“Yes, Charlotte. I talk to you every day. I want you here,” I murmur. “I don’t want you to talk about cuddling me, I want you here showing me how you want to be cuddled and seeing if you can actually cook considering how often you like to tell me I’m not using enough flavor.”
Her giggle makes me feel lighter. I half want to thank Mike and half want to kill him for putting the temptation that is Charlotte in my lap. I clear my throat. “The age difference, the fact that Aspenbrook is a small town, my small cabin, none of that really bothers you?”
“If it did, I wouldn’t keep talking to you for hours a day. I would have found one of the part-time mountain men that have sprawling mansions that look like cabins from the outside and only get used two weeks a year,” she teases.
“So when am I picking you up?” I ask.
“I’m going to take a plane, then a bus. Tuesday ... if that works, if not-”
“I’d prefer Monday, but that’s my impatience talking. Text me an hour warning on Tuesday, the location, and a picture of you and I’ll be there.”
“That’s one hell of a list, Grant. Are you planning something?”
“Yep. To test this 70% success rate thoroughly.”
She giggles and gets off the phone while I glance around my perfectly organized home. This is the real test. It’s part of the process the website encourages. Of course, the website encourages spending at least a month together, but if two weeks is what I get, I’m going to take it happily.