Chapter Three #2
“Warning you. There’s a difference. And don’t you dare tell Colleen about this, this, mistake.
” Another hand flap toward the bed. “She’d be disappointed in both of us, but with me more.
She trusts me to always make the right decision, and this so obviously wasn’t one.
You’re the biggest mistake I’ve ever made. ”
Something tripped inside him. Something dark and chilling.
With his arms crossed over his chest, he looked across the expanse of the bed at her.
Standing there, spine straight as a plank, the sheet wrapped around her like some ancient warrior goddess and that superior jut of her chin lifted toward him, he lowered his voice an octave and said, “On one condition.”
“What?”
“I won’t tell Colleen about this,” he thrust his chin toward the bed, “on one condition.”
“You’re in no position to be bargaining or asking something of me, Kolby.”
“You can think that.” He shrugged with a lot more ease than he felt churning inside him. “I won’t stop you. But I can’t guarantee that what happened here won’t get back to her...some way.”
The tears dried in a heartbeat, her wet eyes going hard. “That’s blackmail.”
Another shrug. Maybe it was. But right now, he was hurt more than he cared about how it seemed.
“What’s the condition?” She bit down on her bottom lip.
He couldn’t believe she was actually asking.
After a few moments of consideration, he said, “You need to start acting like we’re part of a team.”
“What? I do."
“You don’t. Whenever we’re working, or even just meeting with clients and pre-planning, you make little comments that tend to undermine me, what I’m going for when I present ideas to the couple.
You’ve done it more times than I can remember.
Even Colleen has commented on it from time to time, and I know she’s called you out on it. "
The blush returned, darkening her cheeks and the hollow at her throat.
“We’re a team, Charity, and whether or not you believe it, I’m trying to make a couple’s day as happy as you are. So, moving forward, no more swiping at my ideas, or rolling your eyes, or any of the other passive/aggressive things you do to show how much you despise me.”
“I don’t despise you. I just...”
“Disgust you, yeah, you already said that.” He shook his head. It hurt. It hurt way more than it should have.
“Deal?” he asked, stuffing the hurt back down where it belonged. “We start working together like the team we’re supposed to be and you stop taking potshots at me and my work.”
“I’ve never taken potshots at your work,” she said. “You’re a good photographer.”
”Just a horrible person.” He tilted his head, his mouth flattening.
“I never said that either.”
“Sure you didn’t,” he murmured and reached for the jeans he’d slung over her vanity table chair last night. “Deal?” he repeated.
She nodded, although she didn’t look convinced it was the right response. Not by the amount of confusion dancing across her face.
“Good. Go have your shower. I know you’ve got to be at Inn Heaven by nine. I’ll get out of here, forget this ever happened like you asked, and never mention it. Anywhere or to anyone, as long as you keep your word.”
“I always keep my word.”
“Let’s hope that’s true.”
For a full five count, she stared at him. He didn’t a have a clue what was running through her head. Maybe twenty ways she could kill him with a hairbrush or something equally ridiculous. How she’d bury his body was another concern she was probably trying to figure out.
“Charity?”
After blinking a few times, her head bobbed once. He returned the move and then turned his back to her while he slid on his pants.
The quiet snick of the bathroom door closing told him he was alone.
He plopped back down on the bed and dropped his head into his hands as the shower kicked on.
“I’m getting too old for this shit.”
***
She turned the water to scalding, needing it to ward off the chill that had invaded her body.
How? How in the name of all that was holy and honored and respected had she slept with him?
Him?
The man was a walking, talking advertisement for the kind of man she’d always avoided. The kind who wore an invisible stay away if you know what’s good for you banner on his forehead next to the one that read warning.
And what was worse, ten times worse, a hundred –a thousand–she had no memory of it. How was that fair? Why couldn’t she at least remember something? Something; some small part of it. You’d think that his reputation would have made the event memorable at the very least.
But...nothing.
Charity closed her eyes and let the steamy water sluice over her face and body.
Vague snippets of him above her, kissing her, her legs wound around his waist flashed across her mind, but they were just that: vague.
She couldn’t remember what it felt like with their lips pressed together, his fingers touching her.
Something had synapsed in her memory banks when he told her she’d compared him to a warm blanket.
She remembered saying that. Kind of. It certainly sounded like something she’d say, anyway.
Self-loathing blew through her. She’d questioned how he could take advantage of the situation of her being drunk to sleep with her, but she was a partner in the blame game.
What she did remember of last night proved she’d been the one to stubbornly toss that first drink back, then order another simply out of spite because she was angry at him.
He’d treated her like a child and like he knew what was better for her, and that just galled.
Her brothers, grown men with families and children of their own, still treated her like she was a five-year-old girl who had to be protected from the monsters and bad guys on the playground.
Charity hated that. Had hated it at five when they tried to protect her from schoolyard bullies.
Hated it throughout her teen and college years, when they’d stuck their noses into her dating business, following her on dates in their own cars, and grilling any boy she'd brought home like a fish until she’d learned not to bring anyone around them anymore.
It had turned her into someone who became a master at deflection, redirection, and keeping everything close to the vest.
And she still hated it as a grown-ass woman.
How many times did she have to prove herself for the men in her life to understand she didn’t want, need, or ask for their help?
How many damn times?
Charity closed her eyes again and dipped her head under the spray, letting its heat settle her; calm her raw nerves.
Hauling in a breath loaded with determination, she opened them again and stared at the tiled wall in front of her. She couldn’t stay away from her family, that was for sure. Despite being so overprotective, she loved them to no end.
But she could avoid Kolby O’Brian at all costs, which is what she planned to do.
Oh, she’d interact with him at work and during events. That wasn’t in question. That was business, and Charity knew how to put on a business face when she had to.
But from a personal space? Things were going to change.
From now on she’d drive herself to venues instead of carpooling with him.
She’d speak to him only when absolutely necessary and only in a professional manner or setting, and avoid any kind of situation where they’d be alone even for a few seconds.
She could adopt the whole out of sight out of mind thought process and compartmentalize what she needed to in order to function.
She was, after all, a master at compartmentalization.
With another sigh, she turned the water off and wrapped herself in a towel. Once dry, she peeked out into her bedroom.
Empty.
Good. He’d left.
After slipping into her robe, she made her way through her bedroom, avoiding looking at the rumpled bed – and still pissed she couldn’t remember what had happened there – and into her kitchen. She needed coffee and caffeine.
And she needed them bad.
The apartment key sat on the table on top of a piece of the notepaper from her magnetized grocery list pad on the fridge.
Charity knew his handwriting like her own, since she’d been reading it for the past three years whenever he’d written dates and times on their combined work schedule.
Tiny, perfectly printed and aligned capital letters, like he was a human typewriter, covered the space.
Here’s your key from under your welcome mat. Find a better hiding place. It’s an invitation to break in.
It wasn’t signed, but it didn’t need to be
Charity’s eyes narrowed as her mouth curled into an upside-down U.
Her apartment complex was safe, damn him.
She knew it wasn’t the ideal place to put the spare key, but there really was nowhere else to leave it in case of an emergency.
She certainly couldn’t keep it attached to her door, now could she?
Or hanging on a peg on the wall next to it like it was a gas station bathroom key?
“Where the hell does he expect me to keep it? Arrogant, overbearing, pain in the ass,” she said out loud. “You’re not the boss of me.”
She grabbed the paper and threw it into the garbage, slamming the lid down with a decided thwack.
Then she plopped down at the table, bent her elbows on it and dropped her head into them.
“Lordy, what have I done?”