Текст книги "Only Tonight"
Автор книги: Elizabeth Miller
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 9 страниц)
“. . . What are your beliefs on abortion and women’s rights?”
Unbidden, my cheeks reheat at the topic, but his response comes easily. “There must be a balance between personal rights and the right to live. I'll work diligently to ensure abortion becomes illegal in the United States. Life is precious and we must think in that context when considering ending it. It’s my personal belief there is never a situation in which abortion is the right answer.”
Frustration and indignation pulse like a second heartbeat bubbling to the surface. “You would take a woman’s right to protect herself, to protect her own body, away from her? For reasons you wouldn’t know, couldn’t know. You would take away a woman’s control over her body and possible health?” My voice is terse, hard. It’s as if I were thinking out loud, yet it was stated firmly and with conviction for everyone to hear. All heads swivel toward me, looking for the dumb-ass shouting out in argument with Mr. McPerfect McKenna. My cheeks burn and I know they must be the color of flames, but I don’t back down. I would like to know. I need to know.
It’s his turn to stare at me as he easily finds my eyes. His gaze holds mine for what feels like an eternity before he finally addresses me with consideration. “A child has a right to be born, a right to live. There are some things God must have control over, and those are life and death.
“Man has become too involved in the workings of what He should control. God should play a larger part in people's lives. Abortion is not the answer: life is.” His eyes continue to bore into mine, not letting go of our connection. My heart thrums at the link between us until I garner the resolve to break away, embarrassed by my outburst and my reaction to him.
Others invade the moment, hurling questions. Hesitating, his eyes linger before he shifts his attention away.
Relief floods through me as I sink back into my seat. What did I just do? I berate myself, wishing I could slink out the door.
The questions and answers flow until finally the conference comes to an end. McKenna catches my gaze for only a second, curiosity brightening his eyes, and a small smile lifts the corners of a perfect mouth before he turns to exit the platform. I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Standing abruptly to straighten my skirt and pack my iPad, I follow the woman next to me toward the door.
A touch to my elbow halts my progress and my heart stills with it. Reluctantly, I turn at the contact, meeting a pair of lighthearted gray eyes, flashing with a secret air of amusement.
“Ms. Carter?” When I nod, the man smiles and continues, “Evan Daugherty, Colin McKenna’s campaign manager.”
His hand reaches toward mine in greeting. It hovers in the air as I fumble for words, still reeling from my enormously stupid foray into presidential debate. He has a warm, easy grin centered on a handsome face; handsome in a California surfer kind of way. His hair waves from root to end, the shaggy cut perfect in its imperfection. Gray eyes that pierce mine are hauntingly expressive and compliment his bronzed skin.
Again I’m stunned by how young he is considering the position he holds. Taking his hand in mine I find my voice, “Mr. Daugherty . . .”
“I hope your trip was uneventful. Did you have any challenges finding the university?”
“No…”
“Please, come with me. I have a private space set aside for us to talk.” He turns in a hurry and I can do nothing but follow in his wake.
I don’t know if this is a good idea; after the reaction I had toward Senator McKenna, this assignment is looking more and more unfavorable. Nerves are about to get the best of me so I only listen half-heartedly as he leads us to the front of the room and up the four steps of the stage. If this is not a good fit, I’ll walk away. I can always say no; an interview goes both ways.
We end up in a small meeting room with a few people milling about, and others huddling together, exchanging excited conversation at a large table which anchors the room. No doubt they’re a part of the campaign team, planning McKenna’s next steps. A stunning, petite blond woman, smartly dressed in an expensive, curve-hugging suit stands at the front, shifting when she sees me to lift her frame straighter. She does not look pleased. Her eyes narrow as she follows me across the room with a scowl marring her beautiful face. I’m sure she heard my comments from earlier and wonders why I’m here.
Daugherty ushers me through another door to a tiny room with a small navy couch and two chairs, a low circular table centered in between. A thin window sits on the far wall, letting in muted afternoon light, helping the small floor lamp light the space.
“Please have a seat,” Daugherty offers. “Colin will join us any minute, would you like something to drink?”
“No, thank you.” The approaching interview has sent a nervous energy racing through my body; putting something in my stomach isn’t a good idea. I choose one of the two chairs, sinking down in the plush cushion, and crossing my legs out of habit. Dropping my black messenger bag to the floor next to the chair, I slip the cover over to grab a binder from within.
Just as I look up, Senator McKenna walks through the door. He's taller, larger in frame than what I envisioned after seeing him on stage. No longer fully suited, he wears only a dark gray vest with a white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a fine navy-patterned tie lies loosened at his neck. I catch myself staring at his muscled thighs, barely concealed by the slim line of his matching gray slacks. Oh, boy. This can’t be good.
By his mere presence, Colin McKenna commands attention and he definitely has mine, every nerve in my body is highly attuned to his proximity, shimmering, a spark waiting to ignite.
His smile broadens and I lose myself in the brilliance for a moment, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. Standing from the chair to greet him, my knees teeter as I tilt my head back to continue eye contact. He's breathtaking.
Extending his hand to mine he says, “Ms. Carter, I’m Colin McKenna. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice.”
As my hand connects with his, a line of electricity shoots up my arm and the air suddenly feels full of an almost palpable energy I’ve never experienced before. His smile shifts, brow furrowing as the energy, electric and curious, continues to pulse. I wonder if he feels it too.
He stares at me for a long moment with scrutinizing eyes, searching mine for answers to unasked questions. My lips part as if to respond to the mysterious inquiry, but no sound escapes my now parched throat. Shaking my head, I recover, slipping my hand from the heat of his. The electric current recedes but the air remains potent.
With our physical connection broken, his smile and brow smooth. “Please have a seat. May I offer you anything?”
I sink back into the soft chair, crossing my legs again; his eyes follow, staring for a second at my leopard-print heels. “No, thank you I’m fine.” My voice is low, weakened by our intense greeting and his casual perusal.
Sitting on the couch, he crosses his leg, his ankle resting over his knee. “I hope you had an uneventful drive. Where is it that you live?” His tone remains polite as he searches my face in wait of an answer.
“Royal Oak, Michigan. It’s just north of Detroit.”
“That must have taken you most of the morning. I’m very sorry we didn’t give you more notice to plan an accommodating travel schedule.” His eyes narrow and he sends Daugherty a stern glance.
“It was no trouble, really. I didn’t mind the drive.”
He nods. “I understand Evan has reviewed with you my thoughts on creating an extensive social media campaign, a chronicle if you will, relating to my candidacy and me personally. I want to connect with those who use the Internet and social media as their primary means of communication.”
“And you believe I may be the person best suited to do this?” I can’t help that my voice is incredulous. I fail to understand how my experience qualifies me for this assignment.
“Yes, I do.” He continues by changing the subject. “Ms. Carter, it seems you and I have differing opinions on topics that are very pertinent to the moral compass of our Country. I’m intrigued to learn more about your position.”
I don’t know how to respond. This is not a conversation I want to have with him. I could kick myself for opening my mouth and wish I had shoved my glorious leopard-print heel into it versus spew verbal vomit out of it. I stare into his bright eyes for a moment before deciding to offer the truth. “I don’t believe a man wholly unconnected to the state of a woman’s body should judge and prevent a possible life-saving procedure. Who are you, or any other politician, qualified to determine what a woman may do with her own body?” I glare, impassioned by the topic.
“And what about the baby, Ms. Carter? Who will protect the innocent life taken each time an abortion is performed?” His eyes penetrate mine, ferocious in their interest to know my answer.
I flinch, blood pounding in my ears. “There are some instances in which neither one would survive if not for the option. It’s in those circumstances I believe the woman has a right to choose her own life over the beginning of another.” The intensity of my position shows as my voice reverberates my answer, forceful, even though the tone is low.
His gaze is intense, but comforting in an indescribable way. Nodding, as if to close the topic he says, “It’s very rare that someone voluntarily and so spontaneously opposes my opinion at an event sponsored by my camp. I need to be connected to people, even those with beliefs that differ from my own. I like that you offer another side of the picture painted before me.”
“Is it my opinion you seek, or my ability to write about yours?” I ask. What is it he wants me to do?
His eyes light with my response, “Both. Tell me, how do you approach a topic to present it in a fair light, approach it from a true, unpolluted perspective?”
I consider his question for a moment. “I withhold all personal judgment of the individual or subject. It’s not my job to provide a conclusion for the reader; it’s my responsibility to share the facts as I understand them. I remain neutral, seeking to understand and communicate that understanding thoroughly.” I have regained my footing, comfortable in my answer. “It’s important to keep an open mind, refrain from presumption. I learned very early on most people are not as easily read as one would believe. I let them tell me their truth, and listen carefully to the art of people. You would be surprised by what you hear.”
Raising his fingers to his mouth, he begins to pull gently on his lower lip. After a short moment he asks, “And what if the topic is of no interest to you?”
“There is something interesting in everything, Senator. Life is interesting. I don’t need to have a passion for everything in it; I have to find what’s interesting for not only myself, but for the readers. That’s what will engage them in the blog and the topic itself.”
I look at Evan who has remained silent through the entire conversation, standing against the far wall, arms folded in front of his chest. He's looking at me with an amused smile, choosing this moment to interject. “I’ve read many of your articles, Ms. Carter. You have an uncanny ability to understand the workings of people and get them to open up to you. How is that?”
I tilt my head, not certain what he’s asking. “Mr. Daugherty, I choose to find the good in everyone. The world is a dark place when one focuses on or seeks out the negative attributes of those surrounding them. There are few people I’m unable to find a positive quality I can connect with. I understand human nature—or at least, I try to. It’s that connection that allows me to capture the true nature of my subject. They feel comfortable with me and share their truth.”
He nods, eyes twinkling like he’s in on a joke I’m not aware of.
I turn back to McKenna. His eyes darken and his face grows very serious, “Ms. Carter, I’m about to embark on a tour of the United States seeking the Republican presidential nomination. I would like for you to accompany me as I campaign. Use your expertise to understand my motivations and connect my beliefs and me to voters via the Internet. Will you come?”
It takes a moment to formulate a response, and the only thing I can think to say is “Charlie.” He looks at me quizzically, his right eyebrow lifting in question. “Please call me Charlie. Mrs. Carter is my mom, and Charlise is so formal; everyone calls me Charlie.”
“Charlie,” he says as if tasting my name, savoring it. When I don’t answer he tries again. “Charlie, I want you to contemplate my offer. Would you consider meeting me tomorrow for breakfast?” he asks, with beseeching eyes. “It will give you an opportunity to learn more about the campaign and more about me.”
I’m drawn to this man, his masculine, chiseled jaw and cheekbones, straight nose, blue eyes and the glorious waves in his hair. This is unchartered territory, and I’m not sure accepting his offer is the right thing to do—for him or for me.
“I’m leaving this afternoon. I haven’t booked a room to stay through the night.”
He glances over my shoulder. I turn, following his eyes to the window and the snow that has started tumbling from the sky. Big, wet flakes fall, the roof of the building next to ours already thick with buildup.
“Charlie, I'll take care of the room for you this evening. Please don’t drive in this weather.” His words are pleasant, but his tone is demanding.
I agree with him; snow is not my favorite driving condition, especially for an almost four-hour drive. “Okay.”
“Good,” he says simply. He stands, staring down at me, his face unreadable. “If you agree to work with me, I would like for you to enter into our agreement knowing little about me or my campaign. Base your perspective on what you learn firsthand. Can you promise me you'll forgo any research from this moment forward?”
I’m surprised by his request. Most journalists engage in extensive preparation prior to embarking on such a journey. “Will you promise to be forthright and honest with information when I ask for it and have a need to know?” I search the sculpted lines of his face to determine the truthfulness of his answer.
“On my honor,” he says with sincerity, his eyes piercing in their connection with mine.
“I promise.”
“Until tomorrow then.”
Standing, my hands fan over my skirt to ensure it’s lying smoothly over my rounded hips. His eyes flick over the area I just caressed before lifting his hand to shake mine in farewell, the electricity pulses through me when we touch.
Bewildered, I look into his eyes once more. “Good night, Senator McKenna.”
TWO
FEELING LAZY, I snuggle deeper into the warmth of the bed, unwilling to start the day. Last night there were no erotic dreams of a man with deep, intense blue eyes or nightmares from a past I can never seem to fully escape.
I haven’t spent any time trying to decipher my reaction to Colin McKenna, pushing thoughts of him out of my mind each time they drive forward. Lying under the thick covers, I’m cocooned in the soft warmth of the hotel bed. Yesterday's dream and my reaction to the real man flood into consciousness, refusing to be repressed any longer.
The image of his sculpted face, his lips that in one moment harden into a firm line and in the next are soft and full, the brilliant smile and dimples that soften the solid and strong lines of his face cause my heart to beat faster. Blood pounds quickly, reverberating in my head, down my arms and tingling in my fingers. Oh, my. I catch myself as my breathing changes, increasing with the direction of my thoughts.
The magnetic pull I feel when I look at him is beyond surprising. These unbidden reactions scare me; this kind of physical response has never happened before. I can’t figure out why now, why him?
Throwing back the covers, the cool air of the room quickens my pace into the bath for a hot shower. Turning on the water, I contemplate the day ahead. I had not expected to stay over so I was completely unprepared for the night and even more so for today. Taking advantage of the hotel amenities, I was not left wanting for a toothbrush and soaps; clean clothes were the hardest part of an unexpected stay. The hotel offered same-day laundry service, yet it was too late to send my things and have them back for an early-morning meeting.
I’d been surprised to find University of Notre Dame panties in the gift shop, which solved one problem. I’d also bought a long-sleeved Fighting Irish T-shirt I could wear underneath the slim-cut jean jacket I had in my car, along with my skirt from yesterday. It isn’t very professional, but it will have to do.
After our meeting, Mr. Daugherty had made a couple of phone calls to secure a room for me at the hotel, in addition to a reservation for the Senator to meet me at nine this morning at Sorin’s, a restaurant within the inn itself. After that I was alone to fend for myself throughout the evening. It would have been the perfect opportunity to walk the campus, if the snow had let up. It didn’t, so my only outing was the gift shop, spending the rest of the night watching movies with room service for company.
The bathroom is hot and steamy as I dry myself, the outline of my body present in the foggy mirror. I sigh as the towel runs over my hips and full breasts, standing to the side to stare, disheartened, at my stomach. I’d joined a Pilate's class, guaranteed to strengthen and lengthen muscles, and my own hope was it would help with my coordination. Clumsiness is a recurrent and ongoing challenge for Charlie Carter. I laugh at my naked self—so much for guarantees—because the reflection returned is still soft. That’s the best word to describe the roundness of my hips into muscled thighs, the effect of many summers spent water-skiing at my parents’ lake house. My ample breasts hover above a flat but healthy stomach. No one would call me skinny—curvaceous maybe, but not skinny.
My hair has responded differently this morning, creating natural silky and smooth loose waves cascading over my shoulders. I have limited resources when it comes to make-up; but I slept well, so there isn’t a lot of coverage needed. My clear ivory skin is a gift, along with the blazing auburn waves, from my biological mother, who I barely remember.
One last look in the mirror confirms I resemble a student of the university, not a professional on her way to a breakfast meeting with a presidential candidate. I smirk at the vision in the mirror; leave it to me to take business-casual to a whole new level.
It’s ten to nine when I leave my room, intentionally allowing just enough time to make the appointment. A calculated move on my part, so my nerves can’t get the best of me while waiting for him to arrive.
The doors to the restaurant are framed in heavy wood, and the name is written above the entrance in the same navy and gold colors that are woven throughout the inn and conference center. The dark wood carries through the entire space; it all looks very stuffy and old. Hmm . . . based on his physical appearance and intense eyes, I would guess Colin McKenna is many things; old and stuffy are none of them.
A young girl managing the hostess desk, wearing a casual yet crisp white shirt and navy pants, greets me. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m meeting Colin McKenna. Do you know if he’s arrived?”
Her once pleasant features drop and her mouth opens and then closes before saying, “Uh, yeah . . . yes, please follow me.” She rounds from the back of the desk, poorly trying to hide her scrutiny.
There are few patrons at this hour so it’s not hard to find him, sitting at a small table in front of the room’s only fireplace. Thankfully, his head is tipped to read something on his phone so he misses my inspection. He is, even more so than in my memories, striking. More relaxed than I saw yesterday, he's wearing a dark blue cable-knit sweater with a high collar. It hangs open exposing a thick, muscled neck and the white crew-neck T-shirt hidden underneath the heavy knit. His stature is impressive, with wide shoulders and firm forearms visible as the sleeves of his sweater are pushed toward his elbows.
Looking up, his eyes connect directly with mine, piercing intensity visible in their depths. He stands in greeting, not looking at the hostess as she deposits me at the table. “Is there anything you need, Senator McKenna?” she asks with a hopeful draw to her tone.
“No, thank you.” His eyes remain trained on mine as he holds his hand out to me. “Charlie.” It’s almost a whisper from his lips.
Held in his trance, I raise my hand to his and gasp when our fingers touch. The electricity is so strong I pull back, as if burned. His brow furrows and we stand silently together, unmoving for a short moment. In time he steps to the chair next to his, pulling it out graciously for me to sit.
“Thank you.” It’s the only thing I can manage without giving away how appalled I am at my reaction to him and our physical contact.
He relaxes, sinking into his chair gracefully. “Thank you for changing your plans and meeting with me, Charlie. I hope you slept well?”
Okay, normal conversation. I can do this. He is, after all, a man, just like everyone else. I inhale deeply to steady my nerves before replying, “Yes. Surprisingly I slept very well.”
Our waiter presents at that moment, “May I get you something to drink?” He looks to me. The Senator already has coffee and an orange juice sitting in front of him.
“Coffee, please.” I beam with gratitude. Coffee is usually the first thing I have when I wake up, even before showering; I feel half-awake without it this morning. My smile remains in place as the waiter leaves. I tip my head back to the Senator, whose own face has become impassive as he gazes at me. “Did you sleep well?”
He considers my question thoughtfully, one side of his mouth rising. “Yes, Charlie, I did.” I wish I knew what he is thinking. One minute he's completely unreadable, the next his eyes are sparkling like the fire lapping next to him. I glance to the flames, appreciating the heat on my bare legs.
“Are you cold?” There’s real concern in his tone, as if he would add kindling to raise the languid lick of flame to an inferno if I said yes. He's very serious, refined in his dialect and manners. I suddenly wonder if he ever has any fun, if he ever laughs or is teased.
“The heat feels nice; my legs and toes are a little cold. I didn’t have my thermals to keep me warm last night.” I try not to smile as I say it, keeping my face smooth.
He tips his head back and laughs. “Thermals?”
Oh, his laugh is deep and genuine, warming me from the inside out, and I have no idea why. It spurs me on. With a sober face, designed to maintain a certain amount of dignity, I tip my head to him. “It’s very cold in Michigan, at nighttime especially. Thermals are warm; you should try them.”
“I think you say that in jest, Charlie.”
“You doubt thermals are warm?”
“No, I doubt you wear them.” A small grin brightens his face, eyes glistening with laughter.
He’s breathtaking, and for a second I lose myself in him. After recovering, I shrug my shoulders, to tell him he’ll never know what I wear to bed. He looks over my face and then catches sight of my shirt, his right brow lifting in question as his head tilts a fraction.
“A sudden fan of the Fighting Irish?”
“You like it?” I ask, opening my jacket to showcase my Kelly green fitted T-shirt. “I’m sorry I’m not more presentable. I wasn’t prepared for the overnight stay so I improvised with a gift-shop find.”
“It suits you.” His impish grin remains in place. “The color enhances your eyes.” There’s heat in his voice, so much so my stomach flutters. Oh, my. . . It’s very strange to sit across from this powerful man and engage in lighthearted, comfortable banter, as if we’ve known each other for a long time. I stare, fixated on his full lips, mesmerized by his sheer masculine beauty, idly wondering what his mouth tastes like, how it would feel on my neck.
I almost kiss the waiter when he interrupts my errant thoughts with my coffee.
“Thank you.” My voice is a little too breathless for my liking. Cream and sweetener are already on the table so I busy myself with the task. When I look up, McKenna’s watching as I stir my additions to the steaming cup. “I like my coffee sweet and light.”
“So I see.”
“You graduated from Notre Dame?” I ask before taking a sip.
“Yes, 1999 undergraduate.” He doesn’t offer more and I don’t say anything waiting for him to continue. “I graduated with two degrees: Economics and Management Entrepreneurship”
“The second sounds interesting.”
He laughs. “It was. You don’t like economics?”
“No, not at all.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. My brain has a permanent aversion to it; that and math.”
“Why does entrepreneurship interest you then?”
“It sounds like the foundation of the program is entrenched in creativity—that I can buy into. Economics is boring.” I pretend to sleep on my hands.
He shakes his head, chuckling. “And where did you go to college?”
“A small university in Michigan.”
“Tell me.”
“Oakland University. I graduated with a degree in English Literature.”
He nods. “Did you always want to write?”
“Not in this sense. I thought I would teach high school English. When I graduated there weren’t any teaching positions, so I went in a different direction: writing freelance articles for magazines and taking programming classes to learn more about the Internet so I could translate my work there.”
“Are you happy?”
I find his question curious, as if he’s not necessarily asking about work. “Yes and no.” He uses my technique against me, lifting his right brow and waiting for me to continue. I sigh, keeping it strictly about business. “Writing freelance is very competitive. Finding work or getting something published is difficult, which is okay. I’m certainly not complaining.”
“But?”
“But I would still like to teach one day, or write something more meaningful. There are only so many nonsensical topics I can address without losing my mind.”
He contemplates that for a minute before asking, “Do you think writing about a presidential hopeful might qualify as something more meaningful?” I detect a hopeful hint in his voice, yet his expression gives nothing away.
“Maybe. I have to be honest. I don’t know how good I’ll be at it because I’m ignorant to the whole political scene.”
“I like your honesty, Charlie. And it's exactly why you’re perfect for the assignment.” His eyes lose some of the levity as he becomes serious, leaning in with elbows on the table. “Your neutral perspective will provide a truthful, austere position to the campaign and to me.”
The waiter approaches. “Are you ready to order?”
McKenna looks to me, his brows arched in question. “Hungry?”
Hungry? Hungry for him. Holy mackerel, where did that come from? I swallow reflexively, picking up the menu as a diversion to my suddenly erratic heartbeat, and quickly decide on breakfast. “Um . . . I’d like the blueberry pancakes with ham, please.”
“And I’ll have the president’s choice, ham, and rye toast.” My eyes widen at his pompous selection. “It’s on the menu, Charlie.” He points to it, proving he didn’t make it up.
I smile wryly, changing the subject, “You got your undergrad at Notre Dame; do you have a higher level degree?”
“A Masters in Public Administration with a concentration on International Development from Harvard.”
“Harvard?” I squeak. It’s confirmed; he’s in a completely different league than anyone I’ve ever met before. To bring it back down to my level, I say, “Your parents must have spent a fortune on your education.”
Laughing, he nods. “Yes, I’m lucky I had scholarships to both schools.”
I actually roll my eyes. He tilts his head down and stares at me through his lashes. “Sorry, that was meant more for me than you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Scholarship money at these schools equates to genius level academics. I shouldn’t be surprised about the schools, the courses or the scholarship money, because it’s a given you’re seriously smart.”
“How is it a given?”
“Are you trying to tell me you’re not?” I ask, exasperated.
“No, I’m just wondering why you would assume I am?”
Oh I don’t know, because you need an IQ of 150 and a 4.0 GPA to get into both schools. “I don’t know, maybe I’m psychic.” Ask me a sarcastic question and you’ll get a sarcastic answer, Mr. President.
He laughs as our food appears. Laying my napkin on my lap, I’m thankful my mom taught me the basics of table manners.
The pancakes are delicious. We suspend conversation, eating in companionable silence. I’m amazed at how easy it is to be with him, talking or sitting silent in tranquility. Serene, easy moments pass as we enjoy the meal. The electric current is still swirling around us, but it’s become manageable and somewhat natural.
“How are your pancakes?” He breaks into my reverie.
“They’re delicious. How about your president’s special?” I scrunch my nose up while looking at it.
“It’s very good. Are you turning your nose up at my choice?”
“No, no, not at all, it just looks boring.”
He chuckles. “It’s not boring, Charlie, it’s healthy.” Looking into my eyes, he takes a bite of his scrambled egg whites and roasted peppers.
Boring, I mouth. “Here, try some of my pancakes; you can taste the difference between boring and fantastic.” I push my plate toward him an inch, encouraging him to take a bite.
He reaches his fork over cutting a triangle from the stack and I watch as he raises them to his mouth. Our eyes connect and the heat is back, raging uncontrollably at our table for two. It was only a pancake, for the love of God. How can it turn into this unbearable tension?
I have to look away. My appetite is suddenly gone, I can’t concentrate on anything but the intensity coursing between us.
“Charlie?” His voice is deep, the laughter gone. “They’re very good.” I peek at his face where a small smile offers encouragement.
