Chapter 4
We’re seated inside, where the tables are draped in white, crisp linen, and soft music soothes the weary traveler while candles on each table flicker and gutter with the breeze coming in from outside. Charlie orders a bottle of wine and pours our glasses, and when he asks me questions his gaze penetrates mine with the sort of attention he applied to his work on the plane.
“So, your mom’s wedding,” he says, and I swallow. “Tell me the story.”
I fidget with the handle of my knife, pushing it back and forth so that it pivots from side to side. “It’s not much of a story,” I lie smoothly. “Mom met a guy she liked, and he asked her to marry him, and now they’re getting married.”
“Uh-oh.” He leans back in his chair. “You don’t like him.”
I take a drink. “I like him just fine. He’s actually great. Super friendly, warm, generous. I get what my mom saw in him.”
That’s it. That’s all he’s getting out of me. Charlie is charming, but he’s not that charming, and I’ve been a steel trap about this for a year.
He nods as though he hears my thoughts, and we order dinner. Steak for him, pasta for me.
The food arrives, and I allow myself to sink into my plate of pasta like it’s a warm bed. Reveling in it, twirling noodles on my fork and slurping up the sauce. Charlie watches me over his wineglass as he takes a bite of steak.
“Barbarian,” I say. I can’t help it. The animosity between us has vanished, but I need to tease him, or I’ll start thinking about how his hazel eyes are greener in this light. The way he’s looking at me is making me nervous and warm in places that I can’t think about in public, and my thighs squeeze together of their own volition.
“Vegetarian,” he replies lightly, like he’s not refuting me, just exchanging facts.
“Technically, pescatarian,” I answer. “I do eat fish.”
“Hmmm, so not all creatures are off the menu,” he says. “Fish don’t deserve your mercy?”
I laugh. “I don’t have the self-discipline.” I take another drink. I’m pleasantly tipsy now, warm and relaxed.
“So, Denver,” I say.
“Denver.” He nods.
“Have you always lived there?” I ask.
“Yep, born and bred. A mountain kid.”
“So, you must, like, hike and ski and everything. All the Colorado activities.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” he asks over a bite of potato.
I shake my head. “Not me.”
His eyes widen and he sets down his fork. “You don’t hike?”
“I mean, it’s not like I’ve never done it,” I say, somewhat defensively. “It’s just never been my thing.”
“But you love bears,” he says in disbelief.
I laugh. “The one thing is not a prerequisite for the other, Beamer. I do love bears, but I don’t necessarily want to meet a bear.”
“How do you even have friends in Colorado if you don’t hike?”
“I manage. But you like to hike.” I circle my fork in the air for him to continue.
“My dad and I used to go camping all the time,” he says by way of answer. “He’s got a place up near Vail, and we still go every chance we get, although it’s not as easy now. My work keeps me busy, and he’s slowed down recently.”
There’s a story there that I don’t ask about. It’s like we’re skating across a frozen lake, moving in careful, slow circles over the fragile surface, avoiding anything that might risk a crack. But I’m curious. I haven’t truly felt curious about another person in a long time. I can hear Cara’s voice in my head right now, telling me to dig for his whole past.
But rather than push, I take the easy route. “Vail is unsurprising.”
“Because it’s the town where the stars go?”
“That, and wealthy lawyers.”
He grins again. “What can I say? It’s important to keep up appearances, Mini. What about you? Are you from Denver originally?”
“Nope.”
“Where then?”
Asking me where I’m from is like asking a sea turtle where it’s from. I lift my shoulders. “I’m from everywhere, I guess. My dad’s been out of the picture since I was an infant, and my mom took us from city to city.”
I was born in New York, but we moved to Los Angeles when I was a baby, and then we returned. We spent time in a bright and spacious apartment in Manhattan, and then later moved to Seattle where I wore wellies and raincoats to the playground. For a while we lived in Miami and went to the beach each weekend, and my mother got so suntanned that my own skin looked like porcelain next to hers.
But while every city opened new adventures for my mother, it always meant that I had to start over. I had to make new friends, adjust to new schools, get to know a new nanny, and discover a new neighborhood. It didn’t feel like an adventure to me, and with each move I wondered how long I had in this new place. When the carpet would be pulled up from beneath me.
I slip up with a moment of honesty. “It was like putting down roots scared her.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Did it? She’s about to get married.”
“Yeah, I don’t know. She has family money and maybe it just felt unnecessary. She wanted to see new things all the time. Like she was looking for the right life to fit her, but she couldn’t quite find it.”
“Well, well, well, look who the privileged one is now, Mini.” He gives me a cheeky grin.
I flush. “I’m not a trust-fund baby. My mom’s money isn’t mine.”
This isn’t strictly true. I do have a trust fund out there. But I’ve never touched it. It’s become a matter of principle.
“Mm-hmm.” He raises a brow. “I definitely believe you.”
I let my head fall into my hands, laughing. “I swear it’s true!”
“Sounds really true, Mini.” He then changes the subject. “Should we have dessert?”
I’m stuffed, but I’m not ready to stop talking to this man whom I barely know, so I nod. “Definitely.”
After dinner, and an extremely decadent slice of custard cake, Charlie insists on taking the bill, and then we get up and cross the lobby. He’s taller than me, but not overly tall. Rob was well over six feet, and he always joked that kissing me was giving him a neck problem.
As we walk, I feel Charlie’s hand graze my lower back. Light, gentle pressure, leading me to the elevators. My stomach clenches; my pulse quickens. His hand is broad and warm through the thin fabric of my dress. He’s close enough for me to catch his scent, warm spices and clean soap. When he hits the elevator button my heart jumps. We look at each other, a question in both of our eyes. His tongue darts from his mouth, wetting his very nice lips. The doors open and we walk in.
“Floor?” he asks.
“Four.”
He hits the button. Just the one.
We rise, and anticipation builds in me with the tick of each floor we pass.
The doors slide open again, and I proceed down the hallway, hyper aware of his presence right behind me. He might be following me to my room, and if he is, it’s rather forward of him. But I don’t care. He should kiss me. He should ask if he can come in. He has done neither.
We get closer to my room, and my pulse increases, thrumming in my throat like a hummingbird.
Then, “This is me,” he says. We’re standing outside of his door. The door next to mine.
“I’m here.” I gesture towards my room.
He looks at the door, and then his own.
“Well, isn’t life just a strange series of coincidences? Seat mates, and now roommates, of a sort.” His eyes are warm, and glimmer at me.
He smiles, and now, I think, is when he’ll lean in. When he’ll tuck my hair behind my ear and brush his lips against mine. I’m tilting up, nearly lifting my heels off the floor, waiting for him, every nerve ending in my body ready for him.
“Goodnight, Mini,” he says, and my stomach plunges into ice water.
I’ve misread this thing entirely. I swallow, hiding my disappointment, and then smile back at him. “Goodnight, Beamer.”
He swipes his keycard and then he’s gone, behind the dark wood door of his room, and I’m left standing in the hall, wondering how I could have misread his signals so grossly.
Maybe he has a girlfriend back in Denver. Maybe he’s gay. Or, maybe, Daisy, he’s just not interested and you’re acting crazy .
Regardless, I feel an urgent need to get to the bottom of Charlie Bond. So, naturally, when I’m inside my room, I get to work and start googling to find out what the deal is. Internet sleuthing is not the same as snooping, I reason with myself. People put this information out there, for the whole world to see. It’s completely fair game.
Charles Bond
The search results populate. There are a surprising number of Charles Bonds in this world. A Charles Bond in New England runs a boat repair company. There’s a Charles Bond in Mississippi who won a skeet shooting contest. In Portland, Charles Bond is the owner of Bond Bakery and Books.
I scroll and huff impatiently.
New search.
Charles Bond Denver Colorado
This narrows things down quite a bit. My Charlie’s work profile is the first search result. I click on the link, leaning into my phone screen like a detective on the cusp of solving a case.
A picture of Charlie in a dark suit and a dignified, dark red tie, hair parted on the side, pops up. He’s wearing a benign smile—not so big as to be considered bright, but enough of one that he doesn’t look off-putting. It’s a smile that says, “I’m competent, I’ll solve your legal problems, and I promise not to rip you off while I’m doing it.”
There’s a brief bio underneath the photo—law school details, his work on the law journal, a few published papers, and the areas in which he specializes.
I hit the back button and scroll down. There are links to a few blog posts, also on his law firm’s website, written by Charlie on behalf of the firm. And then the links deteriorate back to the other Charles Bonds, who, I must admit, seem to have far more interesting lives than Charlie’s.
I, for one, wouldn’t mind dating a bookstore slash bakery owner. Unfortunately, that particular Charles Bond appears to be in his early seventies. Still, it might be worth it for the fresh bread and unlimited access to hardbacks.
I adjust myself where I’m sitting, cross-legged on the enormous bed and try again. Maybe he uses an alias. I should definitely try Charlie, and maybe… Chuck?
I type both in, and still, nothing.
This guy either doesn’t use social media at all, or he’s got his social media locked down so tight I’d need to hire a hacker to unearth it.
Through the wall behind me, I hear his television flip on. I tiptoe closer to the source of the sound for no reason. I’m alone. But eavesdropping seems to call for tiptoes. I press my ear against the grasscloth wallpaper. It sounds like he’s watching… Shark Week ? A narrator seems to be talking about great whites as dramatic music plays.
It doesn’t tell me much, but at least he’s not watching cable news pundits.
I decide that that’s enough for tonight. Perhaps the mystery of Charlie Bond is simply one that will remain unsolved.