5. Jake
Chapter five
Jake
T he hotel bar just off the lobby is everything you’d expect at a luxury mountain resort, all gleaming wood and polished leather. It also boasts a stock of infused vodkas that would put any bar back in the city to shame.
“So how’d the drive go?” Brock asks, smirking over his Wildwood Brewing IPA at a standing table as we wait for Charlotte to arrive, so we can be seated for dinner. “You two manage not to kill each other?”
My thumb brushes the cool condensation of my pint glass as thin trails of carbonation in my pilsner rise. Brock’s question drags my mind back from upstairs, where the adjoining door between our rooms might as well be a portal to another universe. Because an alternate reality is the only way I’m ever getting another chance with the woman on the other side. The one whose every sound, every movement from her room I couldn’t help but hear. The running water was pure torture. And the way the steam crept under the door, carrying hints of her shampoo? Let’s just say my shower was as cold as ice and didn’t help my erection one bit.
“Actually, Charlotte and I have come to an agreement.”
“An agreement?” Libby’s eyebrows shoot up. “You mean you two actually found common ground? Quick, someone check if hell froze over.”
“More like a temporary ceasefire.” I watch Brock’s reaction carefully. My best friend might trust me with his life in a burning building, but when it comes to his little sister, the protective big brother act never fully drops. And given my reputation with women, I can’t exactly blame him.
“Well, that’s…unexpected.” Libby exchanges a meaningful look with Brock. His eyebrows pinch.
“Maybe, we should order a bottle of champagne.” Brock’s uncertain tone indicates he can't quite decipher what his soon-to-be wife is trying to communicate. Either that or he’s going for distraction.
“To celebrate the fact our wedding party might not implode after all?” Libby asks, with a relaxed laugh. But then she shakes her head. “Actually, we can’t do champagne. Charlotte’s on her way down, and she doesn’t drink the stuff.”
“Since when?” The question slips out before I can help it, but I wonder if Libby’s confused. Charlotte certainly drank champagne that New Year’s Eve night we met. I can picture her perfectly—barely there, sexy-as-hell little black dress, crystal flute in hand, bubbles catching the flashing light as she threw back her head, laughing at something one of her girlfriends said. Before everything went sideways.
Libby eyes me curiously. “Since I’ve known her. We had bottle service at the bachelorette party and mimosas at the shower brunch. Charlotte declined both times, saying she didn’t like champagne, but come to think of it, she never mentioned why.”
Something twists in my gut. The change of preference can’t be a coincidence, but I shut down that train of thought immediately. Surely, Charlotte’s drink choices have nothing to do with me. She probably just decided one day that she didn’t drink champagne. Just like the way, within minutes on New Year’s Eve, she decided I wasn’t the kind of man she wanted after we’d spent an hour on the dance floor, getting hotter and sweatier than I did with half the women I’d slept with that year.
But before I come up with a response to Libby’s comment, a bright movement by the entrance catches my eye. And just like that, my throat goes dry.
Charlotte approaches the host stand, wearing a sunset-orange dress that hugs her figure, the fabric swirling with each graceful movement. Her dark hair falls in waves around her shoulders, drawing attention to how one is completely bare while a delicate strap adorns the other. The way the warm light from the bar catches the curve of her collarbone has me gripping my pint glass a little tighter.
As she makes her way toward us, dress swishing around her legs, I feel Brock eyeing me curiously, but I keep my expression carefully neutral. Surely, I’ll deserve a medal of some sort for surviving this damn ceasefire while she’s dressed to kill.
I catch a bearded guy at the bar watching Charlotte as she approaches, completely oblivious to how her arrival has drawn the attention of nearly every eye in the room. My heartrate ticks up because that’s the thing about Charlotte. She has no idea the effect she has on men. Especially on me.
“Look who finally graced us with her presence,” Brock calls out, checking his watch with exaggerated movements.
Charlotte promptly ignores her brother and greets Libby with a tight hug.
“You look gorgeous, my dear,” Libby proclaims, drawing back to look at her future sister-in-law.
“Not anywhere close to as beautiful as the bride,” Charlotte replies. I would beg to differ, but she continues, gushing, “I can’t believe this weekend is finally here!”
“You’re telling me.”
“How’s everything coming along? What do you need? How can I help?”
“How about we get you a drink first? Plus,” Libby adds, shooting a glance in my direction, “I have questions about this little truce you have with Jake.”
“It’s nothing,” Charlotte insists, waving off the question even as her gaze darts to me with a flash of irritation that clearly screams, way to keep your mouth shut, Maddingly . “Jake and I are both here to make the weekend perfect for you two, that’s all.”
“Glad to hear it.” Brock pulls Charlotte in for a hug and effectively puts an end to the conversation. “Now, how about we get seated? I’m starving.”
All throughout dinner, I try to focus, but Charlotte’s perfume, something light and floral, keeps distracting me. That, and the way she laughs unabashedly at the way Libby’s version of the night she met Brock differs drastically from Brock’s account. Charlotte’s entire face lights up, head thrown back, and mirth dancing in her amused gray eyes.
I find myself tracking her smallest movements. How her fingers toy with the stem of her wineglass. How she leans forward when Libby talks about the schedule for the weekend. How the brush of her knee against mine under the table has me choking on my beer. Each time it happens, she shifts away quickly, but not before I catch the slight hitch in her breath. And the hint of a smile on her face, as if she knows exactly what she’s doing.
But when she reaches across me for the bread basket, time seems to slow to a crawl. Her arm grazes mine, and I catch another intoxicating whiff of that perfume. My fingers itch to trace the curve of her wrist, but I grip my fork tighter instead. This truce might actually kill me.
“Jake? Earth to Jake?” Brock’s voice cuts through my haze. “I asked if you remembered to bring the rings?”
I clear my throat, forcing my attention back to my best friend. “Of course. They’re locked in the safe in my room.” But even as I answer, I’m acutely aware of Charlotte’s presence beside me, of the way she delicately dabs her lips with her napkin, of how the candlelight from the votive on our table catches in her eyes when she glances my way.
Three more days of this. God help me.
“Well, we should head up,” Libby says to Brock after our plates are cleared, stifling a yawn. “Big day tomorrow with all the arrivals.”
“Mom said she and Robert hope to be up here by lunch. What about the rest of the crew?” Charlotte asks.
“Sometime in the afternoon. Hopefully, well before four because that’s when the rehearsal is.”
“What do you need in the morning? How can I help?”
“Brock and I are meeting with the event coordinator over breakfast, so I was going to suggest you two enjoy the nature path that starts out by the mountain bike rental shop, but since I haven’t finished assembling the guest welcome bags, I’m hoping you can help with that instead.”
Charlotte’s eyes light up. “I’m one thousand percent here for that. It will be so fun!”
Libby laughs. “I knew you’d be excited about it. And making things aesthetic is your strength, not mine.”
“Hey, you can save a life. I can make a welcome bag look like it came straight out of a bridal magazine. We each have our strengths.”
“True. Maybe later in the morning you two,” Libby says, waving a finger between Charlotte and me, “can hit the trail Brock and I took during our visit in April. It leads to a waterfall overlook that’s simply stunning.”
“I don’t know,” Brock interjects, before Charlotte can respond, a look of concern creasing his features. “That trail gets pretty steep near the top. And, according to the staff, there was a bear sighting last week.”
I take another sip of beer to hide my frown as Charlotte’s spine straightens at the mention of danger. That damned determined look fills her face. The same expression she makes whenever someone—especially her brother—suggests she might not be capable of something.
“A bear?” she scoffs. “Please. I’d be more worried about Jake trying to save me from a chipmunk.”
Wait, what?
“The trail’s perfectly safe,” Libby assures her soon-to-be husband. “And if Charlotte can take down a man twice her size, it’s the bear that should steer clear.”
Since when can Charlotte take down a man twice her size?
I glance at Brock, waiting for him to scoff at this obvious exaggeration. But my best friend just nods as if this is common knowledge.
“True,” he says, and my eyebrows nearly hit my hairline.
I study Charlotte, trying to reconcile this new information with two years’ worth of assumptions. She catches my stare, and that familiar smirk plays at her lips, the one that always makes me want to kiss it off her face. Only now, I’m wondering if she could flip me over her shoulder if I tried.
“Something wrong, Maddingly?” she asks innocently, draining the last of her wine. But the glint in her eye suggests she’s enjoying my confusion.
“No, I…” I start, before trailing off as pieces of a puzzle I didn’t know existed start clicking into place. Like why she’s always so irritated by my protective instincts. Or how she moves with that subtle grace I’ve always attributed to her theater background.
“Plus,” Libby adds, picking up the thread of her earlier suggestion, “they’d have each other if anything were to happen.”
The hint of conspiracy in her tone has Brock’s jaw clenching visibly. And the look he shoots my way clearly conveys he’s not sure if that would makes things better or worse. And to be honest, neither am I.