Chapter 3 Charlie
Charlie
My adrenaline is pumping. I can feel the blood rush to my ears.
Calm down, Charlie, freaking out is not going to help.
I take a deep breath, counting to four before I exhale.
How could I have been so careless? I blame Lila and Jade; I was on the phone with them, caught up in our usual shenanigans.
I must not have been as aware of my surroundings.
Lila and Jade are my oldest and dearest friends.
They’re practically honorary sisters to Claire and me; we went through our awkward teenage years together and stayed close even after heading off to different colleges.
When Lila moved in with her grandma after her parents passed away, Claire and I took it upon ourselves to look after her.
She was a year younger than us but folded perfectly into our existing trio with Jade.
Jade was born a month after Claire and me in the same hospital, even delivered by the same nurse.
Growing up, we were the three musketeers until Lila joined, making us the Fantastic Four.
As we got older, catching up has been so hard, especially with Lila being a flight attendant and always on the go.
We rarely got to catch up with all of us.
Prime example, Claire couldn’t join the call this morning.
My head was in the clouds thinking about Lila living out a real-life, love-at-first-sight trope while on a work trip.
And now, I’m in my own real-life trope. Captor and captive.
If this was a dark romance book, instant swoon.
However, it’s likely not, and I probably should figure out how to get free before I end up in a Netflix documentary.
Focusing all the brain cells I have left on the situation, I try to regain some sense of awareness.
My brain struggles to compute that I am being kidnapped in Everly Falls. Not our little town.
Then I remember, this is our busiest time of the year and the town is swarming with out-of-towners.
Today is the first day of our annual Christmas in the Falls, a week-long tradition where the entire town transforms into something out of a snow globe.
Main Street drips with twinkle lights, every storefront competes in the annual window-decorating contest, and the scent of pecan-covered cinnamon sugar and hot cocoa lingers in the air twenty-four seven.
Tourists come from all over the state just to experience it, and tonight is the inaugural lighting of the Christmas tree.
The tree is the largest fresh-cut Christmas tree in the world at 140 feet tall.
It’s like someone stole the tree out of Whoville from The Grinch.
The strong arms holding me against a broad chest squeeze, reminding me I am about to be taken—and not in a good way.
I inhale. I don’t know why, but obviously, what else should you do in these moments?
It smells like smoke and cedar. How cliché.
It’s like he walked into Dillard’s and said, “I would like a bottle of your oversold, overpriced cologne. One that screams, I’m your next book boyfriend.
” He does have a hint of another smell—aftershave?
Oooh, maybe he has a beard. I’m a sucker for a man with a beard.
There’s just something about the scruff grazing over different parts of my body that heightens my arousal.
That’s an untimely thought; maybe now’s not the time to think about your arousal.
Okay, think, Charlie. How would the badass FMC from every dark romance novel we devour get out of this?
She’d outsmart her captor with her wit and banter her way into his heart.
Now, if I’m lucky, I’ll have the same faith, and he won’t just be my captor but my next boyfriend.
I’m internally laughing at myself for that unhinged thought, but when he shoves me into the backseat of the car, I can’t help but shout, “Enemies to lovers, baby!” as I throw my hands up like I’m on a rollercoaster at Disneyland.
He immediately yanks them down, pulling them behind me, and I feel a rope biting into my skin.
Oh, kinky. Maybe he’s into bondage play.
The door slams shut, and I hear his footsteps receding.
Taking a calming deep breath, I fumble around my surroundings.
Soft leather seats. Crisp, clean car smell.
Not exactly what I imagined for a kidnapping.
Wouldn’t kidnappers drive something gross?
You know, stale fast-food wrappers, smoke-stained upholstery, and maybe a faint whiff of despair?
This car is nice. Expensive, even. Which can only mean one thing: the mafia is involved.
I wonder if he is Russian? Better yet, I wonder why me?
My brain flips through every romance trope I’ve ever read.
Maybe he spotted me across the street, instantly captivated.
Or maybe I bumped into him at the market, he became obsessed, stalked me for weeks, and now he is finally ready to claim what is his.
Ooooh. I like that one the best. Fingers crossed, that is my arc.
At least, that is the best-case scenario, because if he were obsessed with me, I could use that to turn him into my dream guy.
Classic case of “I can fix him.” I could totally change him.
He just needs a little guidance, a spark of inspiration from his muse—me—to turn his life around.
We’ll live happily ever after, and this will be the meet-cute we’ll tell our children.
Our “How I Met Your Mother” story. This isn’t like the books, though, I scold myself.
I may not have dated anyone in months, but I’m not that desperate.
I need to focus. Figure out how to get out of this situation.
The driver’s car door slams, and the engine rumbles to life. I shift in the seat, straightening my spine like a pro. I’ve prepared for this moment. Not literally—I don’t exactly tie myself up often—but mentally, emotionally, spiritually? Oh, I’m ready.
I’ve read enough dark romance novels to recognize every red flag in the book, and I’m confident I can spin them to my advantage. If this guy is going to ruin my Saturday morning, he is going to earn it. Time to weaponize tropes.
If I know anything about the Captor Arc, their heroes are usually grumpy and hate life.
And if they are grumpy, the best way to pry them open is relentless, insistent conversation.
It’s like I’ve been training my whole life for this.
My mom used to say I overshared when I was nervous.
It was a terrible habit, especially when you are already awkward and decide to reminisce about getting your period at a seventh-grade pool party and how a friend had to coach you through shoving a tampon up your hoo-haa from outside the bathroom door.
I probably won’t share that story with him. But there are plenty of others to share.
Okay, tall, dark, and handsome kidnapper. Let’s see where our story takes us.