Thirteen #3
“I don’t know why he insists on keeping that one here,” he mutters.
When he inches closer to her and his body presses against her side, her heart rate quickens.
“I think I’m six or seven.” He points to the girl dressed as Buzz Lightyear.
Her long blond hair pokes out of her space helmet.
“That’s my sister, Emilia. She’s a year younger.
She insisted on being Buzz if I was going to be Woody.
She even went full Method acting and attempted to fly by jumping off our swing set, which landed her in the emergency department instead of trick-or-treating. ”
Charlie bursts out laughing. When she looks at him, he observes her with a soft smile.
“I bet you tease her mercilessly,” she replies.
He doesn’t look away. “Every Halloween.”
Charlie returns the photo to the desk. She’s never been upset not to have any siblings of her own, but she occasionally wonders what it would be like to have another person help carry her parents’ expectations.
“Today was fun, Rogers,” he says. “I missed this.”
Charlie’s lips part, shock electrifying her blood. “This?”
“Yeah.” He studies her, his body still. “This. Spending time with you.”
Her walls rumble under his confession, and she is unmoored, the pleasant, easy companionability vanishing at his honesty. How could he possibly miss something that felt to her like pity?
He steps closer, and she doesn’t move. Raising a hand, he tucks a loose curl behind her ear. His fingers linger on her jaw, sliding to her chin, tipping her face up to his.
The view, the buildings, the city blur at the edges of her vision. Her focus narrows to his fingers brushing her skin, his mouth coming closer, her complete lack of desire to pull away.
“Wes?”
She startles with a soft gasp. His hand vanishes, and suddenly there’s space between them again. The loss of contact leaves her cold.
A tall man with graying brown hair stands at the door, wearing a sharp gray suit. His eyes flick between the two of them, brow creased with mild confusion.
“Dad,” Wes says, and Charlie startles again, staring at the man with clearer focus. “Hey. Willis said you left for the day.”
Mr. Quinn enters the office, his frame similar to his son’s but lankier. He carries himself with the confidence of someone who frequently commands attention, and Charlie notes how similar it is to how Wes comports himself.
“My four o’clock canceled, so I ran back here to do some work before meeting my five o’clock. Did you see my message?”
Wes stiffens at his father’s tone, curt and businesslike. “No, I’ve been busy—”
“Good thing I ran into you, then, since you can’t be bothered to check your phone. Martin is out sick, and I need someone else I trust for this recruitment dinner. You need to come with me.”
Wes’s gaze flickers to Charlie before returning to his father, who flips through a few of the papers in the pile on his desk. “I thought we were meeting for dinner later. At seven—”
His father doesn’t look up. “You’re here now, aren’t you? What difference does two hours make?”
The tension in the office is suffocating. Charlie wishes she could disappear.
Wes frowns. “Dad, I have plans. I’m not—” He runs a hand through his hair, an outward sign of his frustration. “I’m not even in law school yet.”
His father looks up, piercing him with a steely stare. “It’s not up for discussion. This applicant will join our firm, but I believe showing him the future of the company in the form of my son will be a significant draw.”
Wes visibly bristles, flexing his hands at his sides. His father arches a brow before returning to the papers.
“Dad.” He makes a halfhearted gesture in her direction. “This is Charlie, a friend from school. Charlie, this is Gabriel Quinn.” He looks at her before turning away. “My father.”
Charlie clears her throat. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Quinn.”
Gabriel continues to peruse the papers. “Likewise, Carly.”
Wes flinches.
Charlie’s mouth parts in surprise.
She retrieves her backpack from where Wes placed it on one of the sleek office chairs. “I know the way out,” she murmurs. “I’ll see you later.”
She hurries back down the hall, overwhelmed by what she just witnessed.
Wes’s father is not what she expected. If genetics are any indication, Wes will not age poorly, but the cool disdain Mr. Quinn directed toward his son and the outward disregard for his opinion shakes her very foundation, reminding her starkly of a time when people she thought respected her choices directed that same disregard at her.
Jabbing the elevator button, she stares at the ascending numbers, tapping her fingers against her thigh.
“Rogers.”
She whirls around.
Wes stands before her, face blank, white box of macarons in his hand. He extends it toward her. “These are for you.”
She backs away. “No, it’s fine. Give them—”
“I got them for you.” His tone is firm. When she meets his gaze, she’s struck by the cool blankness she finds there.
Without another word, she accepts the box. “Thank you.”
He nods, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Have a safe trip home.”
He walks away, his footsteps disappearing before the elevator dings.
She almost forgot.
Amidst the glow of the city, the sightseeing, and the natural ease between them, Charlie almost forgot they aren’t actually friends. That apart from sharing a strong physical connection, they don’t have anything tying them together.
How foolish of her to forget.