Chapter 21
CHAPTER 21
E MILY
It’s the morning after Annie and Jack’s get together and Charlie and I plan to tackle the painting at my townhouse. He said he’d be here early, but I didn’t realize that meant before nine a.m.—it is a Saturday, after all. But, at seven a.m., my doorbell rings. I’m awake—barely—but I’m still in bed.
Shit, he can’t really be here already, right?
I jump out of bed and look down at my attire—an old T-shirt and sleep shorts. Still, I don’t want to keep him waiting, so I grab my short fleece robe off the hook on the back of the bathroom door, throw it on, and race down the stairs.
“Coming,” I yell when I hit the bottom step.
When I get to the door, I flip the deadbolt and grasp the handle, swinging the door open.
“Hi Charlie,” I say, breathless. I lean against the edge of the door trying to look casual. I step back, and he enters then sets down two large bags and removes his coat before turning to face me.
“Hi.” He looks me up and down then lifts a questioning eyebrow and tries to hold back a grin. “Did I wake you?”
I can sense heat filling my cheeks. “What? No, of course not. I’ve been up for… for a bit. I just have to toss on my painting clothes.” I’m careful to keep my distance so he doesn’t smell my morning breath.
“Okay. Whatever you say. How about you go do whatever it is you need to do, and I’ll make a pot of coffee? I could use another cup.” Charlie is openly smiling now. Geez, how does he look so damn handsome at this ungodly hour, in ratty paint spotted sweatpants and an old Elladine Fire Department T-shirt with a tear in just the perfect spot to give me a view of his defined abs?
“Oh, that would be amazing.” I shut the door and turn the lock. “I’ll be down in just a few minutes.”
Charlie only chuckles and says, “Take your time.” Then I watch as he heads toward my kitchen, before I make my way back upstairs.
The first thing I do when I get back to my bedroom is rush to the ensuite bathroom. I was in such a hurry to answer the door that I didn’t stop to pee first, and my bladder is screaming. After I’ve peed, I sigh and walk to the sink to wash my hands. As I’m scrubbing my fingers together—because every kindergarten teacher knows the importance of getting the germs between the fingers—I glance up at the mirror and my shoulders sag. I close my eyes and toss my head back.
“Oh my God,” I mutter to myself. “Really, Universe? Really? Can you not cut me any slack after the year I’ve had?”
I open my eyes, straighten my head, and rinse then dry my hands before facing the disaster I just saw in the mirror.
No matter how well I think I’ve taken off my makeup each night, I still end up with black smudges under my eyes every morning. Today, they’re so bad it looks like I didn’t even bother trying to remove my mascara before I went to bed. And my hair lies flattened to my head in a knotty mess on the left and sticks up wildly on the right. The icing on the cake, though, is the two-inch line of dried drool trailing from the left side of my mouth to my chin.
I sigh, grab my toothbrush and slide some toothpaste on it, then begin the process of making myself feel—and look—like a human being again. Impressively, it only takes me about ten minutes to brush my teeth, wash my face, tame my hair, and dress in some old clothes I won’t mind if I get a little paint on.
When I get downstairs, I find Charlie about to pour half-and-half into one of the coffee mugs. He notices me and smiles.
“Do you still take your coffee with no sugar but heavy on the half-and-half?” he asks.
“Yes, please and thank you. God, it smells delicious.”
“It sure does. Do you want to have it in the dining room?” When I nod, he picks up both mugs and I expect him to hand one to me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he carries both to the dining room table and sets them down.
“Wow, I could get used to this treatment,” I tease.
“Well, you should. You deserve it. Don’t settle for anything less than what you deserve, Em.”
Perhaps realizing that the vibe feels more serious than he intended, Charlie clears his throat.
“So, let’s make a game plan, shall we? You said you want to replace the carpet in the living room with luxury vinyl but keep the carpet in the bedrooms, right?”
“Right.” I wrap both hands around my warm mug and lift it to my mouth taking a huge, satisfying drink.
“Then I think you should start taping off the living room, and I’ll go do a first coat on the two bedrooms we’re painting. When we’re done, we’ll do a coat in the living room together.”
I furrow my brow and give him the side eye. “Just to be clear, you think that you’ll be able to tape and paint both bedrooms in the time it takes me to only tape the living room?”
“No.”
I smile. “I didn’t think so.”
“I’m not going to tape them. Just paint. And yes, I think I can do that while you tape the living room.”
“Oh, really? You’re not going to tape? What about the carpeting?” I don’t even try to prevent the sarcasm from dripping into my voice.
“It’ll be fine. I’m confident I can cut the paint into the ceiling and just use a drop cloth to protect the carpeting.” He shrugs and smiles. Taking another drink of his coffee.
I peer at him, and he matches my stare. “Hmm. I guess we’ll see.”
“Yep,” Charlie says, emphasizing the “p.”
Two hours later, my calves are burning from climbing up and down the stepladder to tape along the ceiling in the living room when Charlie comes sauntering into the room just as I’m about to tape the last doorway.
“Do you want to come see what you think of the first coat?”
I spin around to face him. “You aren’t done!”
He grins. “Uh, yes, I am. Let’s go check it out.” He gestures with his hand for me to walk ahead of him, and I do. I’m sure he probably did a shoddy job or forgot a wall or something.
Nope. I’m wrong. When I enter the first bedroom, it looks perfect. I literally cannot find a single imperfection in his work. And the carpeting is just as it was before. The second bedroom is exactly the same.
I spin to face him. “What kind of sorcery is this?” I narrow my eyes at him suspiciously.
A hearty laugh erupts from Charlie and a pleased grin spreads across his face. “I assure you, no sorcery. I worked as a painter for my buddy’s dad’s contracting company when I was going through paramedic school and fire academy. I got pretty good at it.”
“Ah, so you held back some details from me,” I joke. “So how long would it have taken you to tape the living room, Michelangelo?”
“Exactly zero minutes. Because I wouldn’t have taped it.”
And on that Charlie chuckles, turns away from me, and walks back downstairs.
I chase after him—well I try to, but it’s more like I walk gingerly after him because my calves are on fire. When I get downstairs, I stalk over to Charlie. “We didn’t need to tape? Do you have any idea how badly my calves hurt from climbing up and down for the last two hours?”
“Sorry.” He doesn’t look sorry—he looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “It’ll make it faster because we won’t have to worry about you messing up the woodwork or ceiling if you get too close. I’ll do the trim work, but still…”
I shouldn’t be annoyed, because he’s doing me a huge favor, but my muscles tell me to be furious with him. So, when he shows me how to use the roller, in a “W” shape on the wall, I get to work and don’t talk to him for a few minutes. It doesn’t seem to bother him, though, and ten minutes later, I’m chatting away, all forgotten.
* * *
CHARLIE
By noon, Emily and I have the first coat on all three rooms she wants to paint as part of the house update, so we break for lunch. We take thirty minutes and eat, then have another cup of coffee. We used a premium paint, and it requires two hours to dry so I can put a second coat upstairs, but we have some time yet until we can do the second coat in the living room.
I stand and stretch. “All right, I’m going to put the second coat on the upstairs rooms. I’ll be back down in a bit.”
“What? I’m helping you.” Emily stands and grabs our empty plates from the table. I follow her as she walks to the kitchen.
After she puts the plates in the dishwasher and turns back to me, I exaggeratingly look her up and down, focusing on all the spots she has paint on her clothing. “Sorry, Em. That’s not a good idea. Remember, we’re keeping the carpet in those rooms, so we need to avoid drips.”
She lets out an adorable huff in response to my words but then looks at her clothes and her shoulders droop. “Fine. But I’m coming to keep you company. We can chat and I’ll bring my book in case you can’t hold up your end of the conversation.” She gives me a cheeky wink,
“Ah, yes. Your smoky book club is coming up soon. Jack invited us guys out to O’Riley’s that night. Finn’s coming too, since Shayna’s hosting at her house.”
“Spicy Girls is a steamy book club, Charlie, not smoky. What do you think we’re reading about? No. Don’t answer that. I’m gonna top off my coffee. Do you want me to do yours, too?”
“Yes, please. And I know exactly what you read about in that sexy book club.” I return her wink from a few seconds ago and watch her mouth drop, then I turn and head upstairs.
By four-thirty p.m., we’re exhausted but finally finished painting and have cleaned up all the mess and paint supplies. Not wanting to risk getting paint from our clothes on any of Emily’s furniture, I use the first-floor bathroom to change out of my paint clothes and into the clean clothes I brought, and she goes upstairs to change.
When Emily comes back down to the living room, she gets us both beers and we plant our exhausted bodies down on her couch.
“I’m pretty sure all the reaching and up and down on the step ladder is the most intense workout I’ve had in months,” Emily says. “I’ll be paying for it Monday when I’m trying to chase five- and six-year-olds around the playground at work.”
I take a swig of my beer and peer around the room at the freshly painted walls. “We made pretty good progress today. And I like the color you picked. I’m thinking we can do the flooring next weekend. If it’s okay with you, I can come over on my days off this week and pull up the carpeting.”
“Sure, but I can also start working on that. It will be therapeutic for me to do some demolition.”
I chuckle that she considers pulling up carpet demolition, but I’ll give it to her.
Emily nudges me playfully in the shoulder. “Guess we make a good team, huh?”
“We sure do.” I rotate my body to look at her and when I do, I see exactly how much gray paint is in her light blond hair and I can’t stop the laugh that erupts from me.
“What?” she asks, clearly confused.
“I think you got more paint in your hair than on the walls.” I smile at her and wonder if she’d let me take a photo on my phone.
“Shit. The last time I painted it took almost a week for me to pick all the paint out of my hair. And I walked about with a sizable streak of navy-blue paint on the back of my head for a few days until I saw Shayna and she told me about it.”
Emily sags back into the couch and throws her head back, closing her eyes and releasing an irritated sigh.
My beer is almost empty, so I swallow the last bit. “Come on, I’ll help you. Let me sit over there by that light since it’s bright and you sit on the floor in front of me.”
Emily’s eyes light up. “Really? You’ll help pull the paint out of my hair?” She asks as she’s already rising off the couch to make room so I can scoot over to where she’s sitting.
“Of course I will.”
I guess I didn’t think this through, because when Emily plants herself on the floor, between my legs, I realize it feels more intimate than I expected. But I swallow the lump in my throat as she takes down her messy bun and runs her fingers through her hair. The faint floral smell from her shampoo fills my nose and I smile, realizing it’s how she always smells—soft and feminine.
“Okay. Have at it.” Emily laughs and leans her head back a bit. I grab one of her lap blankets from the back of the couch and roll it up, sliding it under her neck so she’s comfortable. Then I get to work using my fingers to pull the paint coating off the strands of her hair.
Over the next half hour, I pull as much paint out of her locks as I can find while she talks about anything and everything. I mostly answer yes, no, and as few words as I can say because I’m fucking distracted by the occasional satisfied sighs that escape her when I’m moving my fingers through her silky strands trying to see if I missed any spots. I’m sure she has no idea the effect she has on me.
“I could sit here all night. It’s like getting a head massage. I forgot how nice it feels when someone plays with my hair.” She pauses. “I mean, I’m not saying you’re playing with my hair, but it feels similar. When we were younger and Trina used to brush my hair and braid it for school, I loved it. It’s one of the most relaxing sensations. And… I’m rambling.”
The mention of Trina jolts me back to reality. This is Emily—my friend, but my best friend’s little sister. And it won’t do any good to let my mind think of the possibility of anything more, since it can’t happen. I gently remove my hands from her hair and clear my throat.
“I think I got it all.” My voice sounds rough, gravelly.
Emily stands without saying anything and pulls the coffee table closer to the couch, sitting down on it and facing me. She looks down at the floor before she speaks.
“C-can you check the front, too? I know I can do it myself but…” Something in her voice sounds uncertain, too quiet, like she’s afraid I’ll say no. She rubs nervously at her forearms and meets my gaze with her bright blue eyes.
I smile at her, forcing down the thought that I should say no. That this feels like I’m playing with fire, and I should avoid it. But I can’t. And suddenly all the reasons I should—her loss this year, not wanting to risk our friendship or mine with Trina but, most importantly, knowing I’m probably not good for her—fade into the background.
“Sure.” I slide forward on the couch and grasp the coffee table on either side of her, pulling it closer so I can reach her easily without either of us straining.
I got a lot of the paint out of the front when I was behind her, but there is definitely some I couldn’t reach. Even with her hair a mess and full of paint with speckles of gray on her face as well, she’s still the most lovely, breathtaking woman I’ve ever seen.
As I pick through the flaxen strands, I remember Emily asking me years ago what my “type” was. She thought it was tall, dark or red hair, like the few women I’ve dated over the years. The truth is, those women weren’t my type, because I don’t have a type. I have one woman who I’ve not been able to get out of my head since I met her almost ten years ago and I dated women who looked as different from her as possible, trying to not think about her in that way. It never worked. And it’s certainly not working now with her this close, her knees between my legs and my hands in her hair.
Shit, my hands—they’re no longer methodically picking through her hair for paint. Engrossed in my thoughts, I involuntarily transitioned to running my fingers through her hair.
“Charlie.” Her voice is quiet, warm. My name on her lips sounds like an invitation.
Startled, I start to remove my hands from her hair, but she quickly grasps one of my wrists, halting my withdrawal.
“Don’t stop,” she whispers.
My eyes dart to hers and the deep cobalt blue color captivates me as her gaze bores into mine.
“Sunshine,” I manage to grind out.
Her only response is to move forward, to the edge of the coffee table, closer to me. Not able to resist, I lift my hand that’s no longer touching her—the one that’s trembling just slightly—to her smooth cheek, cupping her face, and the trembling stops. Her hands move to my thighs, just above my knees, her fingers gently pressing into my flesh as she holds on to me.
We stay that way for several long seconds, staring at each other. But when she looks down at my mouth and a whimper escapes her, I lose what little control I have left.
I lean into her as if in slow motion, telling myself I shouldn’t be doing this, yet not able to stop. I lie to myself when I tell my brain it will just be one small kiss, just to feel the sensation of her lips touching mine again—it’s been so, so long. But, as soon as our mouths connect ever so slightly, all bets are off. My heart and brain are warring, but my heart is winning by a landslide.
Our lips hover over each other’s and I tenderly place a few feathery kisses along her mouth, her jawline. Just when I try to force myself to pull away, she raises one of her hands and weaves it into my hair, pulling me closer, returning my kisses with her own.
I bury my hand deeper in her blond locks.
On a faint moan that nearly undoes me, she opens her mouth slightly, and I take it for the invitation it is, allowing my tongue to enter her mouth, to explore and taste her. Her tongue joins mine in a tangled dance of affection and desire and we kiss like this for at least a minute or two before escalating passion turns it deeper, almost frantic with a need to get as close to each other as possible.
Emily’s hands slide further up my thighs, and it fuels my passion A third part of my body decides to join the fight for control as it twitches in my pants. It jolts me back to reality and I pull away—not abruptly but agonizingly slow—my heart screaming “No!”
I must wear an expression of panic on my face because Emily moves both of her hands onto my shoulders, as if to ground me.
“Charlie, it’s okay. I’m okay.” Her gaze is fixed on mine. “I wanted that. Don’t freak out.” The kindness and tenderness in her voice makes it worse. I fucking take advantage of her vulnerable state, a widow less than a year, and betray my best friend’s trust and she’s trying to make me feel better.
I remove her hands from my shoulders and hold them for a moment as I stand, pulling her up with me. I’m trying to act normal, like my heart isn’t racing and my brain going just as fast trying to catch it. I don’t trust myself to say anything about the kiss. Last time, on that Thanksgiving night, I hurt her with my words, and I don’t want to risk doing that again. But I need to get out of here—away from her and the yearning in me to kiss her again.
“I, um, I’ve got to get going. I have to go do a few things to get ready for the work week.” I avoid eye contact and drop her hands, moving a few feet away from her.
“Charlie, please. I know you and you’re spiraling about this.”
“No, I’m fine.” I rub my hand through my hair, then jerk it out, since she’ll know that’s a sign I’m uncomfortable. I make my way toward the door and when I turn back to face her to put my shoes on, her shoulders sag in defeat. My heart skips a beat, hating that I did that to her.
She approaches me slowly, like I’m a caged animal, which is probably what I look like right now. Without warning she wraps her arms around my middle and hugs me, then lifts onto her tiptoes and kisses my cheek.
“It’s okay. Have a good night.”
She steps back and I turn and walk out her door like the coward I am.
When I get into my truck and turn it on, I let my forehead fall forward onto the steering wheel. “Fuck!” I yell. Fury fills me, both at myself and at my situation.
Why did I have to be the one born into a family of fucked up men who ruin any woman they’re with? Why was I stupid enough to fall for my best friend’s sister?