30. The Secret Ingredient
The Secret Ingredient
C harlotte’s fingers trace lazy patterns across my chest, her body spent and pressing against mine as I tighten my arm around her. “We should go out.”
“Out where?”
“Out. Like on a date.”
Her fingers pause their movement. “We should?”
I watch her expectant gaze. Though we’ve talked before about us not just hooking up, we haven’t made anything official, have we? Do people her age even make things official? Do people my age?
“Yes. I’d like to, you know...take you out to dinner. Maybe bowling.” Noticing the scrunch of her nose, I quickly course correct. “A movie?”
Her fingers continue their path up and down my arm, lazy, absentminded. “I haven’t been on a proper date in forever.”
I brush my lips over her temple. “What’s a proper date?”
“A date you actually care about.”
My heart clenches. I press my face into the crook of her neck, overwhelmed by the simple fact that she cares. That she wants this. “I haven’t been on any date in years.”
Charlotte shifts to meet my eyes, warm and teasing. “Are you nervous?”
I give a sheepish laugh. “I’m always a little nervous around you.”
“Yeah.” She grins, tilting her head like she finds that impossibly endearing. “You are.”
No poker face. Never with her.
“Are you nervous?”
“No,” she says, but her voice wavers, betraying her. “Not about the date.”
“About what?”
“Well, what happens when your brother hears about it? Or my mom? Or...everyone else?”
“I actually wanted to talk about that.” She tenses, chin tilting up. “If you’d like to go on that date—and many others—maybe we should come clean, tell everyone about us.”
She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, curiosity flickering across her face. “Everyone?”
“My brother. Your mom. And...my boss. Amelie too.” She blinks but doesn’t react otherwise, so I continue. “Logan asked me to be his best man. I thought he was just doing it for Mom, but we talked. Really talked. I think things might be looking up between us.”
She grins. “Aaron, that’s amazing.”
“It is. And Amelie offered me a job.”
Her smile’s gone. “You already have a job.”
“A better job. As a chef in her kitchen.”
“Oh.” She studies me for a long moment, then tilts her head. “So...now that everything’s going great in your life, you want to smash it with a wrecking ball?”
“No, of course not.” I squeeze her hands before releasing them, trailing my own down her arms. “But what’s the alternative? Waiting for them to find out in the worst possible way?”
“The alternative is we just keep having fun. Secretly. We don’t let anyone else make it complicated, so we can continue to enjoy this. So we don’t lose each other.”
She’s scared. I kiss her forehead, taking a moment. Of course we can’t do that, but the thought that she wants to keep me hidden because she’s afraid something will come between us speaks to how much she cares about this.
“Are you worried about your mom?”
“No. What is she going to do?”
“Then what?”
Her lips part, but nothing comes out for a long time. Eventually, she tucks her head under my chin. “Well, for one, you say you’re ready to come clean, but...are you sure you’re prepared for the consequences?”
“Yes,” I say honestly. I can’t imagine losing Amelie or Logan, but I can’t continue to live my life like a hostage of my own past. If Charlotte is the proof they need to decide I’m an irredeemable fuckup, then so be it.
“They’ll get over it. Probably. We have a better chance if we come clean, that’s for sure. But I’m ready for the alternative.”
I barely catch the flicker of something vulnerable in her expression before she sits up and reaches for the sheet to cover herself. “We can tell Logan if you really want, but leave Amelie out of this.”
Oh, come on. What’s her problem with Amelie? She’s fine with Primrose, fine with Josie, with all the women in my life but her—I don’t get it. “Why not Amelie?”
“Because I don’t know her.”
I smirk. “As opposed to the long-standing friendship you share with Logan?”
“At least I’ve met him.”
Yes, and he insulted her, then me. It’s not exactly a foundation built on trust.
“Okay, uh . . . I think we need to talk about this.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.” She swings her legs over the side of the bed, and I reach for her. When I try to pull her back, she resists. I feel the tension thrumming beneath her skin, the walls going back up.
I don’t know how to break through them.
“Charlotte?” I call, gently pulling her back. “We got better at this, didn’t we? At talking about our feelings?”
She bites her bottom lip. “I’m sorry, I just...I don’t think this is a good idea. It’ll ruin everything, and I really don’t want to lose you. In fact, I can’t take losing you—I think it’d actually break me. So, no, I’m not okay with this.”
Watching the anguish play on her face, I squeeze her hand in comfort. I don’t get it—Charlotte is the most unapologetic and secure person I know. She offered fictional prostitution services to Logan when he offended her. She came out of a jail cell laughing . Why is she so afraid of this?
“And besides, what’s that going to change? If anything, my mom will just make it harder for us to be together, and we don’t want that, right?”
I run my hands along her arms, tracing the warmth of her skin and trying to soothe her. “Maybe we could start working on a version of your life more similar to your fictional town. One where your mom doesn’t have this control over you.”
“Yeah?” She waves her hand around. “I’ll get my own apartment, then? Quit modeling, look for a job as a fashion designer?”
When she looks up at me with a frown, I know she’s just masking the questions with snarky remarks. That’s what she wants, and this is her asking me if I think she can make it. “That’s exactly what you do.”
She laughs, like it’s a fun dream to think about but not one she believes in yet. “I don’t even know how to...” She shrugs, frustrated. “I don’t know. Pay rent? Cook food? Change a lightbulb? Beatrice is right, I’m helpless.”
“Well, guess what? I’m a chef, and I’ve paid rent for”—better not focus on that—“a long time.”
“So I’d go from relying on my mom to relying on you.”
“No, because I’d teach you, Charlotte. I wouldn’t treat you like you’re too stupid to learn.”
Her face puckers in thought.
“Look, this is a lot to think about. And I’m not saying you should walk away from your life if that’s not what you want to do. I’ll support you either way. But what we’re talking about...it’s not a pipe dream. We can have it—all of it.”
“No, we can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” She looks away, eyes closing. “Because...we’ve only just met. There’s a lot you don’t know about me. And some of it may...”
Break me? Is that what she’s talking about? The thing she’ll do that will push me away? I remember that conversation, how she was so adamant about it.
“Charlotte, I don’t want you to think like that.” I cradle her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing over the wet skin beneath her eyes. “There’s nothing you can do to push me away.”
She looks down. “Aaron?—”
“I won’t leave, and that’s the end of it. It’s just not going to happen.” I bring our foreheads together. “I never wanted perfect, okay? Just someone who tries as hard as I do.”
Charlotte’s eyes shine, her lips trembling like she wants to speak, but I don’t let her. I kiss her instead. I pour everything into it, every bit of longing, every ounce of certainty, hoping she can feel what I mean.
When she pulls back, she’s shaking.
“Aaron, there’s something...something you should know. About me. And I want to tell you, but I’m so... so afraid.” Her teary gaze meets mine as I pull back slightly, and I can taste her terror.
Whatever this is, it’s big.
“Okay, let’s hear it.”
“But you have to promise ?—”
The front door opens and slams closed, a thunderous echo that shatters the bubble we’ve been wrapped in. Instantly, the warmth is gone. The affection. I feel Charlotte stiffen before I even fully register the sound.
In a blink, it’s sheer, unfiltered panic.
“Charlotte?” Beatrice’s voice carries from the corridor, clipped and expectant.
Shit. Shit. Shit. What is she doing here? According to her schedule, she should be out on a Friday afternoon.
Charlotte jolts upright, scrambling to put some clothes on, her hands moving so fast they fumble with the fabric. My pulse pounds through my skull, an urgent drumbeat of get up , get out , get the fuck out .
The handle rattles.
“Open this door, Charlotte.”
My body locks up. I take a step back, then another, as if putting distance between myself and the door will somehow erase the fact that I am very much here. In Charlotte’s bedroom. Smelling like her.
She turns to me, wide-eyed, her breath coming fast. “Just a second!” she calls out, and then she’s grabbing my wrist and tugging me toward the closet.
Seriously? Am I seriously hiding in her closet?
There’s no time to argue. The handle rattles again, more insistent this time.
I’ve barely stumbled into the closet before the door is yanked shut behind me. The space is cramped, filled with the scent of her perfume, her clothes brushing against my bare skin. My heart hammers against my ribs as I listen to her footsteps hurry back across the room.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Beatrice asks, her tone sharp as she bursts inside. Through the gap in the closet’s door, I see her enter the room and look around with a grimace.
“What? I was on the phone.”
Beatrice’s eyes narrow. “Were you recording one of your videos ?”
Holy . . . fucking . . . shit. Is she talking about what I think?
Charlotte hesitates, lips parting. “What—videos?”
“Don’t play dumb, Charlotte. Peter told me everything. About ‘Cherry.’ About your little peep show.”
Charlotte goes rigid, her fingers tightening in the hem of the oversized sweater she threw on. “Oh, that.”
That asshole! How the hell did he find out?