12. Corn Dog Couture #2
For a long, heavy moment, she says nothing. Then she adjusts the stack of papers in her hands. “You better start cooking,” she says before whirling around again and walking away. “It’s almost time for Charlotte to eat dinner.”
“I wouldn’t bother with cooking if I were you,” Charlotte says, startling me. She’s been locked in her room for an hour, and as I glance up from the cutting board, ready to ask why, I do a double take.
She’s changed.
Gone are the sweatpants and tank top. Now, she’s wrapped in a wine-red satin slip dress, the fabric skimming over her curves and catching the light with every shift of her body.
A thigh-high slit flashes glimpses of smooth skin as she moves, and the delicate lace trim along the plunging neckline has me choking on my own saliva.
Holy crap.
Holy crap , please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.
She grabs her keys, tossing them into her purse.
“What—where are you going?” My voice comes out gruffer than I intend, my eyes still locked on the dangerous slit along her thigh.
She steps closer, her heels clicking against the floor as she smacks her lips together. “Remember what you said today? About how I should be where I want to be and do what I want to do?”
“Not exactly what I said, but yes.”
“Well, I want to be at the Silverlight Arena, bouncing up and down to Midnight Reckless.”
I set the fish fillet down with a dull thud. “Oh, no. No, no, no .”
“Yes.” She blinks at me, all wide-eyed innocence. “Yes, yes, yes, y?—”
“Doing whatever you want regardless of what your mom says isn’t what I meant, Charlotte.”
She grins. “Isn’t it? Then what did you mean?”
I open my mouth, but my brain short-circuits as she bends to catch her reflection in the oven door, then applies cherry-red lipstick in precise strokes. The movement is hypnotic—her mouth parting slightly, the pigment gliding over her lips and making them look even fuller, more kissable.
“I-I don’t know, but not this .” She rolls her eyes. “What if your mom comes back?”
“She won’t.”
“But what if she does?”
She turns, amusement curling at the edges of her mouth. “She’s spending the night with her boyfriend, so you don’t need to worry about that.”
“But—”
She’s suddenly in front of me, tilting my chin up with two fingers. “Chef, I work every day and every night. I’m stressed, and I’m tired, and I’m not going to argue with you. All right? I deserve this, so I’m going.” Her voice takes on a teasing lilt. “But your worried face is adorable .”
She walks away and opens the door, ready to step out of the apartment, but my feet are already moving.
“Wait, wait.”
Her shoulders stiffen.
“I get it, okay? But do you really think this is a good idea?” My voice is lower now, and she angles her head to watch me from the corner of her eye. “She makes things hard enough for you, Charlotte.”
Her expression flickers, but then she gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Which means I don’t have a whole lot to lose.”
She presses the elevator button, the numbers steadily rising as it makes its way to our floor. “Who’s going with you?”
She taps her chin. “Tens of thousands of fans.”
She’s going by herself ? I don’t like that. Not one damn bit. The thought of her alone in a crowd, surrounded by strangers, dressed like that . I know men too well to be comfortable with it.
She reads my face, because of course she does, and smirks. “I can take care of myself, Chef.”
“I know you can. I just . . .”
“I’ve looked like this since I was fourteen. That’s how old I was the first time I got catcalled. You know how many talent managers I’ve had to put in their place?” Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know how many before I even turned eighteen?”
Eyes bulging, I freeze. “How many?”
“You’re missing the point.”
“No, I’m pretty sure I’d like an actual number. And names.”
She hitches her bag higher up her shoulder. “Adorable.” She hesitates for a beat, then, “Look, I don’t need you. Seriously. But I do have an extra ticket.”
My lips press together as the implication sinks in.
If she’s not going to be here to eat dinner, my job is kind of pointless tonight.
I’ve already prepped her meals for the weekend.
And if I were in Beatrice’s shoes, I’d sure as hell prefer my daughter not go to a concert alone.
At least if I’m there, she’ll be safe. She’ll be with me, and my intentions are pure.
Mostly pure.
“Assuming Sadie’s cared for.”
“What?”
She tilts her head. “Sadie? Your daughter? If you can’t go, it’s fine. She’s probably waiting for you, right?”
“She, um . . . she’s with her grandma.”
She asked about my daughter. It’s just the decent thing to do, I guess. But my mind plays an unfair comparison game, and Charlotte caring is enough to overwhelm me with gratitude.
She watches my internal war with undisguised amusement, then steps inside the waiting elevator, leans against the back wall, and grins.
“Get a jacket, Chef,” she says, voice dripping with satisfaction. “It’s chilly out.”
The cool night air hits us as we burst out of the stadium, and I can still feel the faint vibrations from the bass in my chest. Charlotte’s giddy with energy, her hands flailing in the air as she talks a mile a minute about the show.
“Did you hear that guitar solo?” she shouts. “It was like he was flying through the riffs, I swear! And the crowd? Insane! When everyone was jumping, it felt like an earthquake, didn’t it?”
She laughs with her whole face, and it lands right in the center of my chest.
I don’t think she notices how quiet I’ve gone.
I can’t stop staring at her, watching her move.
Her eyes are sparkling, her cheeks flushed, and there’s this unguarded joy on her face that I rarely see.
When I cook for her and her mom, she’s always so.
..composed. But tonight, for hours, she’s been free —her every word, every gesture, so full of life. I can’t look away.
She’s still talking, but her words are a hum in the background now. I’m thinking about how she looked tonight, dancing and singing, caught up in the music.
“So what did you think?”
“About what?” I ask, jolted back to the present moment as we weave through the lingering crowd.
“The music! The concert—the band?” Charlotte throws her hands up like it should be obvious.
“Oh. Yeah, it was . . . great.”
She halts abruptly, making me nearly crash into her. “You hated it!”
“I...” Her mouth curves into a contagious smile, and before I know it, I’m smirking too. “Not hated it, no. It’s just not my style, I guess.”
“What’s your style then?”
I scratch the back of my neck, suddenly feeling like I’m about to be judged. “Well...I like Carnal Sins.”
She nods. “Oh, yeah. That band from the 1900s.”
Ouch.
“What?” she asks when I fight a chortle. “What did I say?”
“Nothing. You just made me feel a million years old.”
She shrugs. “What else?”
“‘Let It Go’ is a big hit at home.”
She gasps dramatically. “‘Baby Shark’?”
I throw my head back. “Thank god Sadie’s over that shit. Most difficult summer of my life.”
Her laughter echoes in the cool night air, and for a second, I let myself enjoy this—the lightness, the easy back and forth. It’s rare. Too rare.
We push past a few more people before finally stepping into the parking lot. Before I can point out where I parked, I spot a corn dog stand a few feet away and remember she missed dinner. We both did.
I gesture toward it. “Let’s get some food.”
She follows my gaze, eyes narrowing slightly. “Corn dogs?”
“Yeah. You know, the gross sausage covered in a greasy crust. You said you wanted one, didn’t you?”
She stares at the stand like she’s looking at a mirage in the middle of the desert. “I’ve wanted one for ten years, since I started modeling.”
I pause. She started modeling at thirteen? Is that even legal?
Instead of voicing that thought, I nod toward the stand. “You had pizza the other night, and you survived just fine.”
She hesitates, and judging by the way she’s staring at the stand like it holds some kind of moral dilemma, she might need some encouragement.
I take a step forward, and after a beat, she follows, a little skip in her step. It’s such a small thing, but the sight of it tugs at my heart. Excitement over a damn corn dog.
We step into line, sandwiched between loud drunks. One guy in front of us sways slightly, and Charlotte subtly moves closer to me.
“Your runway show is tomorrow, right? Are you nervous?”
She looks at me, expression flattening. “Not really. I’ll get poked and prodded by a dozen hands backstage, stand around for hours waiting my turn, wear something ridiculous that no normal person would ever wear in real life, and walk in a straight line.
” She crosses her arms. “But if it’s Paris-themed again, I swear I’ll set fire to the Eiffel Tower backdrop myself. ”
I take my wallet out. “You don’t sound enthusiastic.”
She shrugs. “It’s all the same. You put on the dress, the hair, the makeup, you become this...thing for people to look at. And then you go home, scrub it all off, and wonder if you actually exist when no one’s looking.”
I watch her, my heart in a vise-like grip. Does she truly feel that way? Like she’s nothing more than an object? As if her worth is confined solely to what the world can see?
Before I can say anything, the people in front of us get their food, and it’s our turn to order.
I get two corn dogs and two bottles of water, handing over a few crumpled bills before stepping away from the stand.
The scent of fried batter and grilled sausage lingers in the air as we settle on the curb with the food.
She watches her corn dog with a strange expression, twisting it between her fingers like it’s something foreign, and in the silence, my mind drifts.
Why does she model? She makes it sound like a punishment. And yet, when she talked about those stylists and that Vogue person, there was passion, like she actually gives a shit about the industry.