Chapter 10
“IS THERE A REASON WE have to listen to this shit? Torturing me with the weights isn’t enough for you?”
I’d been in a foul mood since Charlotte left me naked and alone in a hotel room the day before.
Yanking a brute force bag into the air and curling it into my arms over and over had done nothing to improve my mental situation.
I mean, what was that it’s been lovely, bye bullshit she’d pulled?
She said she had a client meeting, which was probably true.
I mean, I didn’t have any reason to believe it wasn’t, but that didn’t stop my suddenly paranoid brain from inventing all kinds of imaginary dinner dates for her—or even worse, imaginary after-dinner dates.
Fuck me.
She’d been clear with her expectations. I’d been clear too, more or less. Just because I wanted things I hadn’t shared with her didn’t mean we still couldn’t have them. It didn’t mean she’d climbed out of bed with me to have dinner with another man.
I’d let the L-word thing slip, but honestly, the woman had me so twisted up in knots, it was hardly my fault.
Surely that wasn’t why she’d made such a quick exit.
It’s not like I’d said the three words. I’d simply substituted love for cher.
It was an endearment, nothing else. No reason for a grown woman to bolt post-coitus before I’d even had a chance to catch my second wind.
“Two things.” My trainer gave me a look that suggested there were an obscene number of burpees in my future if I didn’t get my shit together.
“Credence Clearwater Revival is one of the greatest bands of all time, and seventy pounds of sand in a canvas bag hardly counts as torture. If you really want to work, we can up it to a hundred.”
He might be on to something. Not the CCR thing—they were fine in small doses but not in my top five of greatest bands—but the weight thing.
If I wore myself out, I’d have less time to obsess over Charlotte like a thirteen-year-old girl waiting to get asked to a dance.
That wasn’t really fair to teenage girls.
I doubted even they managed this level of angst.
“Bring it, sadist.” If I couldn’t will myself to stop thinking about her, I’d wear myself out instead.
“Really?”
Jesus, he looked like I’d just handed him a Golden Ticket.
“Anything short of urgent care.” I regretted my words as soon as I saw the unabashed joy on his face, but not enough to call uncle or take them back.
“Let’s start with ten bear complexes and finish with Turkish getups. We can cool down with the abs. Russian twists, maybe,” he said.
Thirty minutes later, I was regretting every life choice I’d made, and I was still thinking about Charlotte. I showered and put on my street clothes. I had a couple hours’ work waiting for me at the office before I could head out for an extra shift at the bar.
I didn’t have time to tend bar—not with the acquisition of the two new restaurant sites in the works—but I also couldn’t make myself stay home.
Not just because of the unlikely chance Charlotte might show up, although honesty demanded I admit that thought was in the back of my head.
It was more that I fed off the creative energy of mixing cocktails.
The aromas and combinations of flavors. The way people responded to the drinks I mixed.
With all the heavy business stuff going on with my company and the focus it required, I needed the outlet of a shift at the bar more than ever.
Despite the fact that my legs felt like they’d never be the same again—fucking bear squat things—I decided to walk instead of calling for a car.
May as well extend my wreck the body to save the mind plan regardless of the lack of evidence that it was actually working.
My muscles ached, and I was still obsessing about Charlotte. And starving.
I hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast and the extra torture at the gym meant I’d missed lunch. It also meant I could splurge. I’d sure as hell worked hard enough to earn some cured meat and cheese, and I knew exactly where to go to get it.
The deli a few blocks away had the best muffuletta around and was an easy walk from where I was.
Or would be if I could get my abused legs to work.
I’d spent the best parts of my childhood there, snacking on shaved slices of soppressata.
I headed toward the mouthwatering sandwiches that might almost make up for the ridiculous workout I’d just put myself through.
Probably not even close, but the salami was still a thing of beauty.
My phone chirped as I crossed the street, and I paused to look at the screen, praying a work emergency wouldn’t derail my cured meat plans.
The picture I’d taken of Charlotte at the bar the night we met flashed on my screen, and I smiled in spite of everything. I swiped open the text and came face-to-face with a picture of what looked like a pot of gumbo.
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MAYBE WE CAN TRY THIS NEXT TIME WE COOK.
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I didn’t doubt the text was a way for Charlotte to try to jockey for power, to take control of my part of our arrangement.
What I wasn’t sure of was how much of it was her attempt to stay connected to me.
Or if that even played into it at all. I might be the only one who had an almost Pavlovian response to her texts, which would be sad if not entirely unexpected. Especially after her speedy hotel exit.
All of which just meant I needed to find a way for us to spend more time together.
Time like we’d had making the beignets, getting to know each other and building an intimacy unrelated to sex.
Not that I didn’t want the sex too. I wanted all of it.
Over and over until we exhausted each other and fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms. I just didn’t have any illusions about sex equaling intimacy for Charlotte.
Given her hesitancy about relationships, it would take more than phenomenal fucking for her to want to risk taking a chance on more.
Gumbo would be a start, but a labor-intensive slow simmer wasn’t what I had in mind for our next time. Not the cooking part anyway.
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WE NEED TO WORK OUR WAY UP TO THAT.
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I sent back the quick text and then paused for a moment as inspiration hit. If I played my cards right, I think I figured out a way to spend hours with Charlotte without violating the terms of our agreement.
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I’VE GOT A PLAN. DETAILS TO FOLLOW.
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I smiled to myself, waiting for her response.
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NOTHING WITH YEAST.
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I was going to have to work very hard to stay a step ahead of this woman, if such a thing was even possible. But God help me, I loved the challenge.
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NO PROMISES.
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The genius plan forming in my head didn’t include yeast, at least not for our part of it, but it didn’t hurt to keep her guessing. Tucking the phone in my pocket, I took off for the butcher, a spring in my step, despite the ache in my legs.
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I LOOKED AT my phone and grinned like a little kid. I was a grown-ass woman with real responsibilities. It didn’t stop me from dropping everything every time Ford texted. It was ridiculous, and the tendency showed no sign of abating. Leaving him in the hotel had been harder than I expected.
I’d had to fight to stay focused through my dinner meeting and not relive every detail of my time with Ford.
I’d still managed to sign the client, but it was a much dodgier proposition than I was comfortable with—or usually allowed.
Controlling variables was my thing. Ford added variables by the handfuls, as evidenced by the whole cooking at my house/beignet yeast thing.
I’d warned him off yeast next time, but part of me hoped he ignored me.
I liked having the extra time with Ford, talking about books, our families, and pretty much anything but work.
So far, I’d liked everything about spending time with Ford, except the part where it had to end.
And the way he’d wormed his way into my thoughts even when he wasn’t around.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t fallen in love before; it just didn’t sit comfortably with me. The thought pulled me up short, and I dropped into my chair, still clutching my phone.
I was not in love with Ford.
He was funny and generous, both in bed and out, and so sexy, there really ought to be a different word to describe it.
He made me laugh and challenged me, both of which were my own personal catnip.
Every time we’d been together, I’d learned something new, even if it was just that I wasn’t entirely comfortable leaving him.
I liked him a lot—more than I ever intended or expected—but that wasn’t the same thing as love.
I could almost see Alex’s smug expression in my mind. See Meredith’s hopelessly romantic gaze and Elena’s pragmatic one. Hear Kindra’s gently probing voice asking me if I was living my authentic truth. None of which were helping with the sudden elevation of my blood pressure.
Fuck. I rocked back in my chair, closing my eyes as if that would somehow banish the pesky thoughts.
“Late night?” My paralegal Alison’s voice snapped me back to the present.
“No more than normal. What’s up?” We weren’t friends, but I liked the younger woman. She was good at her job, which made it easier for me to be good at mine.
“Abigail Mendez is on line two. Sounds like Mr. Mendez is moving his girlfriend into the family home. Mrs. Mendez is not keen on the couple’s children continuing visitation while the other woman is there.”
“She told you all of that?” Mrs. Mendez was volatile under the best of circumstances. Nothing about her divorce so far had been the best of circumstances.
“I think her actual words were If that fucking asshole thinks he can move his slut whore secretary Barbie into our home to play mommy to my kids, he’s a crazier dumbass than I thought.
Or something along those lines.” Alison gave me a sympathetic look.
“I think she’s just getting started. Want me to bring you some coffee before you jump into the fray? ”
“That would be great. Thanks.” Mrs. Mendez must be in rare form to get Alison to offer to fetch coffee.
She had a right to be. Aside from the obvious indignity of having her soon-to-be ex-husband move another, much younger woman in to replace her, the woman in question worked for him at a business that Mrs. Mendez helped build and still held a considerable interest in.
A sexual harassment suit would hurt more than her pride.
It would hurt her ability to maintain the kind of life she’d had before the dumbass—by far her favorite term for Mr. Mendez—decided to toss her aside for his secretary.
“Abigail,” I said, holding the receiver a few inches from my ear to protect my hearing when the yelling inevitably started. “How can I help you today?”
The raging woman on the phone had come a long way from the heartbroken woman who first sat in my office, trying to make sense of what her life had become.
She also reminded me exactly and in painful detail why falling in love with anyone—even someone as compelling as Ford—was a terrible idea.