I mull this over as fresh beers arrive. Tyler might have a point. He usually does, annoyingly enough. If Charlie truly didn't care about what happened between us, she'd probably be politely indifferent, maybe even professionally friendly. This ice queen act, the careful distance, the way her jaw tightens every time I walked into the same room, it all suggests I got under her skin in a way that goes deeper than simple irritation.
"So what's your move?" Tyler asks.
I think about her face in the elevator, closed off and defensive. I think about her in my arms on the dance floor, the way she looked at me in her apartment when I had her against the wall and she kissed me back, the feel of her skin against mine, remembering the taste of her and how easily I made her come apart multiple times.
"I need to find a way to talk to her," I decide. "Really talk to her. Not just an 'I'm sorry' in passing."
"That's my boy." He grins. "Though fair warning, she seems like the type who might make you work for it."
"Good thing I like a challenge." I clink my bottle against his. "Always have."
"True." Tyler's expression turns serious. "Just make sure you know what you're after here, Bash. If it's just about smoothing things over to make work comfortable, that's one thing. But if it's more..."
He doesn't finish the thought, but he doesn't need to. The question hangs between us. What am I really after with this woman?
I didn't come to this job looking for anything but a fresh professional start. A way to translate my sports career into something sustainable. Romance wasn't on the agenda.
But then again, neither was waking up beside a woman who made me want to stay.
"I just need to clear the air," I say finally. "Make things right."
Tyler gives me a look that says he doesn't quite believe me, but he lets it drop. "So what's your strategy, Mr. Sports Marketing Man? How would you pitch this apology campaign?"
I laugh despite myself. "I haven't figured that out yet. But I will."
Later, as I drive back to my half-unpacked townhouse, I can't stop replaying the day in my mind. The shocked look on Charlie's face when Amelia introduced us. The way she maintained perfect composure while I felt like the ground was shifting beneath my feet. The crisp, professional emails. The way she called me "Sebastian" with just enough formality to create distance.
I open my front door and I'm surrounded by moving boxes and furniture that hasn't found its place yet. It strikes me that my life is in transition in more ways than one. New job. New home. And now, unexpectedly, a new complication in the form of a gorgeous woman named Charlotte Whitaker.
Tomorrow will be day two. And somehow, I need to find a way to break through those walls she's built overnight.
Because the truth is, I didn't just leave her apartment because I panicked about feelings. I left because for the first time in years, I could see myself wanting something real. Something that lasted beyond a night or a weekend. Something that scared the hell out of me. Something that actually took me out of my comfort zone.
I toss my keys on the counter and drop onto my still-wrapped-with-plastic couch, staring at the ceiling. Truth is, I've never had this problem before. My whole adult life has been lived out of suitcases and temporary rentals. First following the competition circuit, then after the accident, the consulting gigsthat kept me on the road. "I'm only in town for the weekend" wasn't just a line; it was my reality.
Women knew exactly what they were getting with me. No promises, no expectations, just good times with clear expiration dates. They'd get the charming snowboarder with the wicked grin who'd be gone before things got complicated. I didn't get attached because I couldn't. The mountains were always calling.
But now? I've signed a lease. Bought furniture. Committed to staying put.
And then there's Charlie. She got under my skin in ways no one ever has. The way she challenged me, matched my banter, saw through my bullshit. It was different. Magnetic.
I rub my hands over my face, frustrated. This isn't me. I don't chase women who clearly want nothing to do with me. I don't overthink exits. I definitely don't sign up for the kind of mess I've created.
Yet here I am, plotting ways to get her to talk to me again.
Chapter eight
Charlie
The elevator doors close behind me with a soft ping, and I lean against the wall, letting out a breath I didn't know I was holding. The ride up to my floor seems to take forever, my mind replaying the excruciating elevator moment with Sebastian over and over.
His stupid apologetic eyes. His stupid perfect jawline. His stupid attempt at small talk.
My apartment door is barely closed behind me when I hear my sister's distinct laugh echoing from my kitchen. Great. Just what I need after the day I've had. An audience.
"Charlie? That you?" She calls out.
"No, it's a burglar who happens to have keys," I mutter, kicking off my heels with more force than necessary.
