6. Jake
Chapter six
Jake
A moment later, as we rise from the table, Charlotte clutches the back of her chair. She’s had two glasses of wine with dinner, and there’s a teetering to her movements. She smooths her hands down her dress and rolls her shoulders, trying to mask her true state. Just like that night two years ago, when she’d insisted she was fine right before those drunk guys cornered her outside the bar.
I want to spread my palm across her lower back for support, or offer her my arm, but I settle for keeping an eye on her as Brock and I shake hands. Fortunately, he’s too focused on his fiancée to notice, and he’s quick to tug Libby snuggly against his side after she and Charlotte hug. When his gaze flicks to Charlotte, he studies his sister for a moment, perhaps noticing the same unsteadiness I did, but the minx flashes him her most dazzling smile. “’Night, big brother. Sleep well, you two.”
“Don’t stay up too late,” Brock calls over his shoulder as the happy couple heads toward the elevators, his comment directed at me as much as to his sister.
“You okay there?” I ask quietly, spinning back to Charlotte. She’s still got one hand back on her chair and her cheeks are flushed pink.
“I’m fine,” she insists, but her voice lacks its usual sharp edge. “Just a little lightheaded.”
“It’s the altitude. Alcohol hits harder at this elevation.”
Her eyes narrow, but before she can argue, I catch movement at the bar. The bearded guy who’s been watching Charlotte throughout dinner is still there, his attention fixed on her with an intensity that makes my jaw clench. He’s been nursing the same whiskey for the past hour.
“So I’ll see you in the morning?” Charlotte says.
“Let me walk you back.” I shift closer, deliberately placing myself between her and the guy at the bar.
Her eyebrows arch, but before she can launch into a lecture about me being overprotective, I add quietly, “A man at the bar has been watching you all night.”
Bad idea. Within seconds, she’s pressed up on her tiptoes to search for him over my shoulder. “Which one? Maybe, I want to meet him.”
“Over my dead body.” The words escape before I can stop them.
Charlotte’s laugh is sharp, but her focus returns to me. “Wow. That’s rich coming from you. The man flirting with the front desk clerk at check-in. What was it she said? ‘I’ll be here every night’?” She mimics the receptionist’s sultry tone.
“That’s different—”
“How exactly?” Her silver irises flash. “You can fuck any woman who bats her fake eyelashes at you, but I can’t talk to a man who gives me a second look?”
“Charlotte,” I warn, an edge to my tone.
She lifts a hand to her waist, taking a stance. “What?”
“I don’t trust him."
“I can handle myself.”
“I don’t doubt that for a second. And,” I add, inching closer to her. “I’m not interested in Samantha.”
Something flickers across her face, but then she seems to catch herself. “Well, you don’t need to worry. I’m not interested in beard-guy, either.” She sways slightly. “Though, it’s none of your business if I was.”
She’s wrong. Dead wrong. It is my business, even if it’s the last thing in the world she wants. Charlotte is my best friend’s sister, and that’s enough to get me involved. And even if she wasn’t, the thought of this saucy gorgeous woman in another potentially dangerous situation makes my blood run cold. I’d step in to protect her again in a heartbeat. Truce or no truce, consequences be damned.
But I drop the subject for now. Neither of us is in a state to have a conversation like that. “Like I said, I’ll walk you back.”
Charlotte scowls, squaring her shoulders as if she’s preparing for battle. “I’m perfectly capable of finding my own room.” She lifts her chin in that all-too-familiar defiant tilt. But then she takes off toward the terrace instead of the lobby.
“Other way, sweetheart.” Her steps falter, and a sense of triumph surges through my veins.
Until she spins to face me, eyes flashing with that fire I’ve seen a hundred times before. The look that both infuriates and enthralls me.
“I knew that. I’m just…exploring. On. My. Own.”
I should let her go. Charlotte’s a grown woman who can handle herself. But as she disappears through the enormous sliding glass doors onto the moonlit terrace, I don’t think twice about following. I slip outside, sticking to the shadows as if I’m the hero in a spy movie and she’s the mission I can’t walk away from.
The summer night air is crisp at this elevation, fresh with the scent of pine and wilderness. Charlotte wanders to the stone railing and wraps her arms around herself. Of course, she’s cold. She doesn’t have a jacket on—mine or her own. Just as I’m debating whether to approach her, she tips back her head and lifts her gaze to the dark sky full of brilliant stars.
From where I stand, the view is something. Not just because there isn’t a skyscraper in sight, but thanks to the endless ink-black sky scattered with more stars than I’ve ever seen and Charlotte, silhouetted against the backdrop, backlit by the light spilling across the terrace from inside. The silver moonlight reflects on her dark hair as she takes it all in. It’s the kind of sight that makes a man forget how to breathe. Charlotte Harris is stunning even if she is full of fierce independence and stubborn pride. Or perhaps, because that’s the way she is.
Something off to our left catches her eye, and her whole face lights up. Fireflies are dancing in the gardens below, their gentle lights pulsing like earthbound stars.
“Oh!” The soft exclamation escapes her as she leans forward, entranced by the display. I’ve seen her perform, watched her command attention on stage, but this unguarded delight is something else entirely. Something real and raw that makes my chest ache.
And though I’ve been as quiet as a mouse, she says, “I know you’re there,” a moment later without turning around. There’s no bite in her tone, only wry observation. “Let me guess, you’re afraid I’ll fall off the terrace without your watchful eye.”
I move closer, drawn by the slight sway in her stance. She’s still tracking the fireflies, and three beers in, I can’t help but yearn to be by her side. “Can’t blame a firefighter for assessing potential hazards, darling. Especially when they come in that dress.”
Slowly, she turns to face me but wobbles enough that my hands shoot out to steady her hips before she can stumble. Suddenly, we’re pressed as close together as we were on that dance floor two years ago. The contact sizzles like a live wire. Her skin is warm through the thin fabric of her dress, and my fingers flex involuntarily, pulling her harder against me She gasps and I catch the faintest trace of her perfume on the breeze.
“I told you no heroics,” Charlotte whispers, but she doesn’t pull away. If anything, she sways closer. I’m transported back to that New Year’s Eve, to how perfectly she fit against me before it all went south.
“This isn’t heroics.” My voice comes out rough. “It’s self-preservation.”
“How’s that?”
“If you fell, your brother would kill me.” But we both know that’s not the real danger here. The real danger is in how right this feels, how natural it is to hold her like this.
“I’m not going to fall.” Her hands come up to rest on my chest, but instead of pushing me away, her fingers curl into my shirt. Behind her, the fireflies continue their dance, nature’s own version of the strobe lights that surrounded us that first night.
“Charlotte…” It’s meant to be a warning, but it comes out like a prayer.
“I hate that you’re always watching me,” she says fiercely, but there’s something vulnerable in her gray eyes that wasn’t there before. “That you’re always there. That I can feel your eyes on me, even when I’m not looking. That you notice everything, even when I wish you wouldn’t.”
Before I can respond, she surges up and kisses me, her lips crushing mine. It’s angry and desperate and nothing like I’ve ever imagined kissing Charlotte would feel like. But then her tongue traces the seam of my lips, and all thought evaporates. I pin her against the terrace with my hips, one hand sliding up the smooth silk of her dress while the other cups her face. The rapid flutter of her pulse pounds under my palm.
She tastes like wine and something uniquely Charlotte. My heart drums against my ribs as a small sound emerges from the back of her throat. Every nerve ending is on fire, every sense overwhelmed. But what registers more than anything is the way Charlotte Harris kisses me as if she’s been dreaming about it for as long as I have.
Then, as suddenly as it began, she pulls back. For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other, both trying to catch our breath while processing what just happened. Peering up at me through lowered lashes, with lips parted, it takes a second, but I see the exact moment the spell breaks.
“I…” she starts then shakes her head. “I need to go.”
This time, when she rushes away, I need a minute to collect myself before I follow her. I keep my distance again but stay close enough to be certain she makes it back to her room safely. And the sound of her door clicking shut as she disappears inside feels like a punctuation mark on this evening. On whatever just happened between us.
A moment later, back in my room, I hear her moving around through the wall. The connecting door between our rooms has never felt more like a temptation. Or a challenge.
I drop onto my bed, running a hand over my face. The taste of her still lingers on my lips, her scent filling my senses, and I know sleep will be impossible tonight. Because for the first time since that New Year’s Eve, I’m starting to think I’m the one who needs saving.