Chapter 23 Charlie
Chapter twenty-three
Charlie
I settle into my chair at The Alpine, grateful for the restaurant's warm amber lighting and the reassuring pressure of Bash's hand on my lower back as he guided me to my seat.
After our... activities in the shower, I've been floating in a happy, satisfied haze that not even the prospect of dinner with Ethan and Olivia can pierce.
The restaurant is Aspen-chic, all reclaimed wood, stone fireplaces, and strategic lighting that makes everyone look like they've had a perfect day on the slopes.
Our large table dominates one corner, my parents and the Harpers anchoring the middle of the table with animated conversation about the latest mountain gossip.
Ethan and Olivia are stationed at the far end, as if some invisible force field separates them from our collective joy.
Olivia's face is frozen in what I can only describe as a perpetual scowl, though her forehead remains suspiciously smooth.
I take a sip of my wine to hide my smirk.
Whoever her aesthetician is deserves a raise—that Botox is holding the line against her obvious displeasure like a champion.
"You look happy," Bash murmurs, his breath tickling my ear as he leans in close.
"I am," I admit, turning to catch his eye. "Even with the ex from hell over there."
He grins, that crooked smile of his "They can't touch us."
I believe him. For the first time since Ethan blindsided me with his "I need space" speech that quickly translated to "I supposedly need space to sleep with my coworker," I truly don't care what he thinks.
Across from us, Addie slouches in her chair, her face illuminated by her phone screen.
She occasionally glances up to deliver a perfect one-liner before retreating back to whatever social media vortex has captured her attention.
She reminds me of Emily at that age. Observing everything, saying little, but missing nothing.
Emily and Sarah hit it off immediately, their conversation flowing from skiing to romance books to embarrassing stories about Bash and me when we were kids.
I catch snippets about "that time Sebastian tried to skateboard down the stairs" and wince at Emily's counter of "Charlie's disastrous attempt at blue hair dye, I'm talking Blue Man Group blue. "
Sarah leans toward Bash during a lull in their conversation, her voice lowered but still audible to me. "So what's the deal with the sourpusses at the end of the table? They look like they're attending a funeral, not a family dinner."
Bash glances at me, eyebrows raised in silent question. I nod slightly, I don't mind her knowing.
"It's a long story," Bash begins diplomatically.
"Long story short," I cut in, the wine making me bolder, "he's my ex who broke up with me to supposedly 'find himself' but was apparently finding himself inside Olivia, and now they're engaged." I take another sip of my Cabernet. "Six months after telling me he 'wasn't ready for commitment.'"
Sarah blinks, processing this information. "Well, that was actually a pretty short story."
"The cliff notes version," I agree, and we all laugh.
The waiters place our entrées before us with a flourish.
Everyone falls into that comfortable rhythm of forks clinking and approving murmurs as the first bites disappear.
Mom throws her head back laughing at something Dad says, her shoulders looser than I've seen in months.
Dad gestures wildly with his hands, recounting his first tumble down the bunny slope, his face animated with good humor.
Mr. Harper's shoulders shake as he coughs, bourbon sloshing dangerously in his glass.
I slide my fork through the perfectly blackened chicken, bringing it to my lips. The flavors burst across my tongue, and my eyelids flutter closed, a small involuntary moan escaping me.
I open my eyes to find Bash's gaze fixed on my mouth, his pupils dilated, jaw tightened.
"Good?" he asks, his voice a gravelly rumble that wasn't there seconds ago.
"Incredible," I confirm, offering him a bite from my fork. He maintains eye contact as he takes it, his lips closing around the tines in a way that instantly recalls the shower earlier. Heat blooms across my chest.
I clear my throat. "How's yours?"
"Perfect," he says, but he's not looking at his plate. His knee presses against mine under the table.
The evening progresses with the easy rhythm of good food and better company.
I'm on my second glass of wine, feeling pleasantly warm and increasingly aware of every point where Bash's body touches mine—his thigh against my leg, his arm occasionally brushing mine, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my knee under the tablecloth.
When the dessert menus arrive, Mom makes a show of deliberating between the chocolate soufflé and the crème br?lée.
"Charlie? Bash? What looks good to you?" she asks, peering over her reading glasses.
"Nothing for me, thanks," I say, suddenly finding it difficult to think about food when Bash's hand has inched slightly higher on my thigh.
"I'm good as well," Bash adds smoothly. He leans in close, his lips brushing the shell of my ear as he whispers, "I'm waiting on my dessert for later."
The low rumble of his voice sends electricity racing down my spine, and I clench involuntarily, desire pooling hot and insistent between my legs.
The memory of his fingers, his mouth, the way he said my name when he came—it all rushes back in vivid detail.
I shift in my seat, crossing my legs to ease the sudden ache.
"Are you okay, dear? You look flushed," Mom says, her brow furrowing in concern.
"Just a little warm in here," I manage, shooting a sideways glare at Bash, who sips his whiskey with feigned innocence. "And tired from earlier. The heli-skiing was amazing but exhausting."
"Heli-skiing," Ethan's voice cuts through the warm buzz of conversation. He's staring at me from across the table, his lips curled into that condescending smile I used to find charming. "I'm surprised, Charlie. Last time we were here, you wouldn't even try the black diamond runs."
I take another sip of wine, refusing to rise to his bait. "People change."
"Do they?" He raises an eyebrow, his attention shifting to Bash. "Or are you just trying to impress your new... boyfriend?"
The way he says "boyfriend" makes it sound like an insult. I feel Bash tense beside me, but his expression remains calm.
"Actually," I say, setting my glass down with precision, "I organized the heli-skiing trip. As a surprise."
Ethan's smile falters for a moment before it returns, sharper than before. "Well, well. The Charlie I knew wouldn't even leave the house without a detailed itinerary. She certainly wouldn't book a last-minute extreme sport."
"The Charlie you knew was trying to accommodate your fragile ego," I reply, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
Olivia places a manicured hand on Ethan's arm. "Honey, remember what Dr. Phillips said about managing your stress levels."
I nearly choke on air. He's seeing a therapist? That's rich, considering he always claimed therapy was "for people who can't handle their own problems."
"I'm not stressed," Ethan snaps, shaking off her hand. His focus returns to me. "I just find it interesting how people pretend to be something they're not. Charlie's always been risk-averse. Wouldn't even try surfing in Hawaii because she was afraid of sharks."
"There were sharks," I point out. "The beach was literally closed due to shark sightings."
"My point exactly," Ethan says with a dismissive wave. "Always finding an excuse to play it safe. So forgive me if I find this sudden adventurous streak... suspicious."
The table has gone quiet. I can feel everyone watching this exchange like it's a tennis match. Emily looks ready to lunge across the table, Olivia's mouth drops open and Addie doesn't even pretend not to be filming this on her phone.
"Charlie was amazing today," Bash says, his voice casual but carrying an edge. "Natural talent. She tackled terrain that would make most first-timers run for the lodge."
Ethan scoffs. "Right. I'm sure she was."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, heat rising to my face.
"It means," Ethan leans forward, "that some people will say anything to get laid."
A collective intake of breath around the table. My mother makes a small, distressed sound.
"Ethan!" Mrs. Harper scolds, but he ignores her.
"What?" Ethan's eyes narrow at Bash. "I just don't appreciate someone coming in and pretending my ex-girlfriend is suddenly Lindsey Vonn when we all know she would spend most of our ski trips reading smut books by the lodge fire."
"Maybe she just needed the right partner," Bash says, his tone light but his eyes hard. "Someone who encourages her instead of tearing her down."
Ethan's face darkens. "And I suppose you think you're that partner?"
"I know I am."
"You don't know shit about Charlie," Ethan snarls. "You've been dating what, a few months? We grew up together and we were together for four years."
"And clearly learned nothing in that time," Bash replies calmly.
Ethan stands abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "You want to say that again?"
The restaurant goes quiet, nearby tables turning to watch the scene unfolding. Bash remains seated, maddeningly composed.
"I said," Bash enunciates clearly, "that you clearly learned nothing about Charlie in four years. Which is a shame, because she's extraordinary."
"Stand up," Ethan demands, his face flushed with anger. "If you're going to talk shit, at least have the balls to say it to my face."
With deliberate slowness, Bash unfolds his tall frame from the chair. He doesn't move toward Ethan, just stands his ground, somehow managing to look both relaxed and ready. "I meant every word I said, and I'd be happy to continue this conversation wherever you'd like."
"You want to take this outside?" Ethan challenges, his voice rising. "Because I'm tired of your smug face."