Chapter 3
W hen I wake up the next morning, before I even open my eyes, I’m smiling. I stretch out luxuriously in my bed and revel in this happiness that feels much too foreign.
I painted yesterday. And on top of that, I made a new friend. Maybe it’s no coincidence. Maybe this city is where I stop running. Where things finally start falling into?—
Okay, let’s not get carried away.
I should know better than to believe things happen for a reason. Best to enjoy the moment and not expect too much from it.
I have a leisurely Saturday ahead of me before Tati Marie’s birthday party tonight, and I know exactly what I want to do with it.
I throw on shorts and a t-shirt, make myself a smoothie to drink on the go, and get in my car.
Twenty minutes later, I’m walking into the largest art supply store in Chicago.
My first thought is that I want to buy everything I see.
But it turns out, I nearly have to. I’m starting from scratch, so I need paints, brushes, a palette, a palette knife, canvases, and Gesso, among many other things.
And an easel, of course. I buy so much stuff that the shop owner offers to help me carry it to my car.
I politely decline with a bright smile, even though I could use the help.
But he’s already hit on me twice, and I’m not interested.
Besides that, I’m pretty stubborn about doing things myself. I have been since high school.
When I was a junior, I qualified for an individual cheerleading competition in Columbus. As I was packing up my mom’s car, I noticed she had a flat tire. I asked my dad to help me put on the spare, but he said he had to get Christy to school on time, so she wouldn’t miss her English Lit class.
My mom was no help at all. She was sick with the flu, and didn’t know a thing about tires.
So I called Vic McCabe, a classmate I’d been on a few dates with.
He said he’d be happy to change the tire…
if I had sex with him. I was a virgin, then, and all we’d ever done was kiss.
I broke up with him on the spot, but he still tried to negotiate for a blow job.
Devastated, I sat on the hood of the car and cried.
Then our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Rosen, walked up to ask what was wrong.
I’d never spoken to her before. She told me she’d learned how to do all sorts of things since her husband had died.
But instead of changing the tire for me, she instructed me and supervised as I did it myself.
It was a lesson I never forgot.
It takes me two trips to load everything into my trunk.
But it’s such a long walk to get from where I park in my building’s garage to the elevator, I decide to see if I can carry everything at once.
I’ve got multiple bags hanging from the crook of each elbow, canvases under my arms, and a portable easel strapped over my shoulder.
It’s not easy, but it’s not impossible. Kind of like getting through grad school with dyslexia.
On the twentieth floor, I prop the elevator door open with my foot as I transfer my purchases into the hallway. I’m loading myself up like a pack mule again, when I hear my name.
“ Jenna ,” he says softly.
It’s not a question, even though we only met once, and briefly.
I’m facing away from him with my unwashed hair pulled back, but he knows it’s me—just like there’s no doubt in my mind that the man standing behind me is tall, and handsome, and sun-kissed, with a curious gleam in his eyes.
The buttery sound of his voice gives me goosebumps.
“Hi, Charlie,” I say when I turn around to meet his gaze.
Yikes. He’s even more handsome than I remember.
I lose myself in his coffee-colored eyes, and the familiar way they’re smiling at me. In the way his quiet presence eases the tension in my body, and makes my heart beat slow and steady. It’s like the world’s moving at half-speed until?—
The bottom of one of my bags rips open, and tubes of oil paint tumble down to the floor. There are paintbrushes everywhere. Startled, I look down, and another bag slides off my wrist, its contents rolling in various directions as the easel starts slipping off my shoulder.
I’m mortified. Why do I have to keep making a fool out of myself in front of this ridiculously handsome man?
But Charlie seems unfazed. “Let me help,” he says with an easy grin. Out of habit, I open my mouth to tell him I’m fine, but clearly that’s not the case. As he’s kneeling to collect my runaway supplies, I almost lose my grip on one of the canvases.
“I think I’ve got everything,” Charlie tells me as he stands up. He’s got paintbrushes in the pockets of his jeans, a palette tucked under one arm, and a very full bag he’s hugging close to his chest.
“Thank you so much,” I say, both embarrassed and relieved. “I’m sorry to keep you from wherever you were going.”
Charlie lets out a sheepish laugh as we walk down the hall to my apartment. “I actually wasn’t going anywhere. I went to get coffee this morning, and I locked myself out. I’m waiting for someone with the master key, but since it’s Saturday, they might be a while.”
“Oh,” I say after setting down my things and putting my key in the door. “Did you want to come in? While you’re waiting?”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. It’s a terrible idea. He’s my neighbor. If we get involved and things go south, I’ll have to relocate again.
And I’m so sick and tired of moving.
“Are you sure?” he asks, his dark eyebrows knitted together. “I don’t want to impose.”
Normally, when a man tells me he doesn’t want to impose, he’s simultaneously undressing me with his eyes. But not Charlie. All it takes is the earnest look on his face to strip away any doubt I had. I’m calm now, my heartbeat steadying. “Of course,” I say. “It’s the least I can do.”
He’s the first guest I’ve had since I moved in two months ago. The first person to see where I live. And his reaction is—priceless.
“Wow,” he exclaims, his eyes wide. “It’s like an art museum in here.”
We put my supplies down in the foyer, and he gravitates toward the gallery wall I’m so proud of.
I smile as he peruses his way from left to right.
“These are great,” he says, his eyes on my two favorites: Picasso-style cubist portraits I picked up at a flea market in Pittsburgh. “Are any of them yours?”
“You mean…did I paint them?” When he nods, I giggle. “Oh gosh, no. These are pieces I’ve collected over the years. I’m not much of a painter.”
It’s such a Jenna thing to say—bubbly and self-deprecating. Normally, I wouldn’t think twice about it. But the way Charlie’s looking at me, it’s like he can see right through the act.
“I think you’re being modest,” he says, confirming my suspicions.
The look in his eyes makes my knees weak, and my first instinct is to flip my hair—but I can’t, because it’s pulled back. It unnerves me.
“Either that, or I just aided and abetted an art supply heist,” he continues, nodding toward the foyer where my painting materials are lined up.
His joke disarms me, and I relax again. “You’re probably better off not knowing,” I say with a wink. His face flushes ever-so-slightly.
Oh no. I’m flirting with him.
“Well, you certainly have an artistic eye,” he goes on, stepping back to take in my gallery wall in its entirety. “What do you do for a living?”
“Interior design,” I say, biting my lip sheepishly when he turns back toward me. “And you’re right…maybe I was selling myself short before. I do paint. It’s been a while, but I’m starting to get back into it.”
When Charlie smiles, his entire face lights up and?—
I think I just swooned a little. I lean on a side table for balance.
“I’m getting back into photography, myself,” he goes on to tell me.
And he’s an artist, too?! God help me, the room is spinning. I need to sit down.
It’s strange, because I’m usually so graceful. I never lose my balance. There’s a reason I was always at the top of the pyramid—single-leg stunts were my specialty. It’s how I qualified for that individual cheer competition during my junior year of high school. And won .
“It’s just a hobby right now,” he continues with a sigh as I make my way to the couch. “I have a business degree, but it’s not my passion.”
“I know how you feel,” I tell him with a growing smile. “I have an architecture degree, and it’s not my passion either.”
“Is that right?” Charlie sits on the opposite end of the sofa from me. And this time, when he grins, I feel something I haven’t felt since the first time Hunter Reed’s lips brushed mine.
Butterflies.
Oh lord. If Charlie can make me feel like this sitting six feet away, what would it be like to kiss him? What would it be like to?—
“Where did you study architecture?” he asks, stealing me away from my fantasy.
And what a crash landing back to reality it is to hear that particular question come from Charlie’s kissable lips. My heart sinks. This is it.
This is where everything comes to a screeching halt.
Where Charlie shows me he’s no better than Greg—a guy who looks at me and only sees a blonde airhead.
Thank goodness I haven’t heard from him since our disastrous date.
Sure, Greg had already decided I was an idiot when he read my misspelled messages.
But regardless of whether I’ve texted someone first, the typical response I get when I say I went to such a highly-ranked program is wide-eyed, open-mouthed shock.
I brace myself for Charlie’s reaction. “I went to the University of Michigan,” I tell him.
But if he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. He only grins. “My college roommate was from Michigan. He always used his hand to show people where he grew up. Do you do that?”
I nod, laughing. A real laugh—not a fake giggle. “The Michigan hand map. You kinda have to do it when you Go Blue.”
“Show me,” he says, holding up his right hand. “Where’s Ann Arbor?”
I have to shift closer to him on the couch so I can reach.
Is it possible that’s why he asked? Now I notice how good he smells, like fresh laundry.
How attractive his broad shoulders are. I definitely have a thing for broad shoulders.
It’s probably a remnant from my days doing cheer stunts.
Those were the guys I wanted to spot me—strong and supportive. I always felt safe with them.
Being close to Charlie also feels safe. It feels natural, and I’m baffled by it. But instead of questioning it, I lean in. “Ann Arbor’s right here,” I say, sending my fingertips to the bottom of his hand, below his thumb. And when our hands meet, it’s?—
Electric.
I think he feels it, too. Because when I look at him, the pink hue in his cheeks is a few shades deeper than it was before we touched.
If the guy with the master key doesn’t get here soon, I’m afraid I’ll forget all about why I gave up on love in the first place. It’s so easy to get lost in his gaze. Time slows, and there’s nothing else but me and Charlie and the magnetic pull between us.
Until a sudden boom of thunder disconnects us.
Charlie’s phone . He pulls it out of his pocket and frowns at the screen.
“Is everything okay?” I ask him. I wonder if the key guy is delayed. My head and my heart are at odds about whether that would be a good thing.
“It’s my boss,” Charlie explains with a wry smile. “I don’t use that ringtone for everyone. Just him.”
“He seems pretty intense,” I say. “Does he always text late at night and on weekends?”
Charlie nods, running a hand over his hair. “Yeah. His boundaries could use some work.”
Even though I can see he isn’t happy receiving his boss’s messages, it doesn’t ruffle his feathers.
He has this even-keeled vibe about him that feels rare, to me at least—considering the family I grew up in.
My dad and Christy are wound super tight.
I guess it’s hard not to be, when you won’t accept anything less than excellence from yourself. Or others.
My mom is on the opposite end of the spectrum.
She’s a beautiful woman. Everyone says I’m the spitting image of her.
But she’s never expected much out of herself.
Of course my dad didn’t, either. It was assumed she would stay home and take care of me and Christy.
I don’t think it made her happy, though.
She often seemed like she was going through the motions—bored, and listless.
The only time her eyes lit up was when she watched me paint all those years ago.
Before my dad took that away from both of us.
Charlie’s phone chimes, but it’s a normal ding this time. He frowns again. “That’s the guy with the master key.”
“Oh.” My heart plummets twenty stories, to the ground floor. I guess I wanted the key guy to be delayed after all. But seeing the weight of disappointment on Charlie’s face lightens my heart a bit. I don’t think he wants to leave either.
“Thanks so much for taking me in, Jenna,” he tells me.
“It was my pleasure,” I say. But not in the bouncy, bubbly way I usually do. This time, I mean it.
When Charlie steps into the hallway, I fight the urge to offer him my phone number. It would be a friendly gesture, in case he ever got locked out again. If only my feelings for him were merely friendly.
But…this can’t be where it ends, can it? Will I ever speak to him again, other than a quick hi, here and there, by the elevator?
I stand in the doorframe as Charlie and the key guy exchange hellos. Then Charlie turns back to me. “Hey, let me take you to coffee,” he says with an unassuming grin. “To thank you for your hospitality.”
I have to work to keep from smiling as big as I want to. “I can’t say no to coffee.”
His eyes gleam. “You free tomorrow morning?”
“Sure am.”
“I’ll pick you up at ten,” he says, before the key guy lets him in.
I close the door and lean against it, afraid I’ll lose my balance again. Then I shut my eyes and breathe deep, trying to reconcile every emotion that’s hitting me at once. I honestly don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
What I do know is…I’m in trouble.
This feeling that Charlie stirs up in me? It isn’t just lust. It’s far worse than that.
It’s hope .
And hope is a dangerous thing.