CHAPTER 22 Charlie
CHAPTER 22
Charlie
I wake in the middle of the night spooning Rowan, his bare, warm body nestled securely against mine. I’ve never been good at sleeping—literally sleeping—with anyone before, but with Rowan, it’s easy. Rowan makes me want to both protect him and watch him in awe.
It’s dark, but I can make out a few of the inked designs on his skin.
Rowan’s tattoos cover scars.
He has so many tattoos—lots of little ones everywhere. But when he showed me in the bath … yep. If I look hard, I can see scars in the middle of some of them.
Fucking hell. How did someone get away with that? I clench my teeth, grinding them so hard my jaw hurts. I want to call CPS, but it was a decade ago, it sounds like.
My movements must wake him up. “Wha?” Rowan mutters.
“Go back to sleep, baby,” I say.
“’Kay.” He kisses me.
“Sorry to wake you. Night.”
“Good night.”
Soon, his breathing evens out, but I stay awake for a long time, processing what he told me earlier. I wasn’t kidding when I said I envisioned blood pouring down the street. I’m twitchy, edgy, and my throat is dry. I want to hurt every single person who ever hurt him. I don’t know if that’s the best way to help him, but I will help him however he wants.
Sad sack me at the bonfire wanted someone to be with. Now I’ve got a man in my arms who excites me and terrifies me. I’m pretty sure that if I’m not all in this relationship with him, I need to tell him now. Before our fifth date that he’s insisting on. Or is it our third?
Problem is, I’m already in too deep.
I’ve already decided that he’s mine.
So. Okay. Decision made, then. This prickly pear of a human called Rowan Jones can hang out with my saguaro cactus, and we can poke each other.
I should tell him about my history. But he knows I hate bullies. I’ll tell him at some point—just not when it would pivot a conversation about him to my own shit.
I can trust him with my secrets, because he’s trusted me with his. With that all set, I sigh, tug him closer, and fall asleep again.
The next morning, Rowan’s still in my arms. He wiggles, and I shove my nose into his pink fluff of hair. First thing in the morning, it looks like a dandelion or something.
“Hey,” I say, my voice thick with sleep. And then I remember what he told me, and I remind myself not to treat him differently. I don’t want to be funny around each other now that he’s shared a lot.
“Morning, Daddy,” he slurs, and I sigh. Then I grin into his neck and kiss that “baby boy” tattoo.
“I hate you,” I say.
“No, you don’t. You’re just too stubborn to admit it.”
“Coffee?” I ask, knowing I won’t win this argument.
“Yeah. In a minute, though.” And he proceeds to thoroughly wish me a good morning .
Cam shows up at the office and proposes to Shelby all over again. Which confuses half the people in the firm who thought (correctly) that they were already married. After he takes Shelby out and does whatever—I don’t want the details—he texts me.
Cam
What do you think about waiting until after the holidays to do more renovations on my house? Is that okay?
Charlie
It’s fine.
Cam
Do we need content sooner than that?
Charlie
I can edit old footage and post compilations. No problem.
How eager I am to tackle another project with Cam makes me think I really should take steps toward being able to quit my job. For now, I just go back to drafting interrogatories.
Oh, and I think about Rowan constantly.
The next afternoon, Saturday, I’m at my parents’ house helping them string lights and put ornaments on the Christmas tree. Cam and Shelby are there, too, along with Reyna. This counts as my weekly call. Rowan begged off to go drive rideshare customers, though I don’t think I was imagining that he wanted to come along.
But it’s too early to let him meet my mom—she’ll start planning the honeymoon.
“CharlieBoo,” my sister says, “what’s that on your face?”
I frown and wipe my cheeks. “I don’t know. ”
“It was a smile.”
Cam gives me an assessing look. “You’re trying to remember that you’re the cranky grump of the family, aren’t you?”
“Whatever,” I mutter.
“What’s going on?” Mom asks, coming into the room with a tray of cookies and hot cocoa. It’s not cold enough outside for cocoa—it’s a clear 75-degree day—but it all tastes good and feels seasonal.
“Nothing.”
She gives me that mom look, and I relent. “There’s a guy I like, but it’s complicated.”
Mom schools her face into not being too excited, and I love her for it. “What’s so complicated about it?”
“I guess I’m nervous to bring him around and have you get attached to him. What if things don’t work out?” The words taste like those wooden sticks you get with an ice cream. Like nothing, but I might get splinters if I bite too hard.
“I’d love to meet him. But only when you’re comfortable.”
“He’s not what you would picture for me,” I admit, thinking of Rowan’s criminal activities, lack of background, and completely irreverent looks and way of talking.
She puts a hand on her hip. “Stop thinking about what we want. Think about what you want.”
What would happen if I did just that?