“Two things.” My trainer gave me a look that suggested there were an obscene number of burpees in my future if I didn’t get my shit together. “Credence ClearwaterRevival is one of the greatest bands of all time, and seventy pounds of sand in a canvas bag hardly counts as torture. If you really want to work, we can up it to a hundred.”
He might be on to something. Not the CCR thing—they were fine in small doses but not in my top five of greatest bands—but the weight thing. If I wore myself out, I’d have less time to obsess over Charlotte like a thirteen-year-old girl waiting to get asked to a dance. That wasn’t really fair to teenage girls. I doubted even they managed this level of angst.
“Bring it, sadist.” If I couldn’t will myself to stop thinking about her, I’d wear myself out instead.
“Really?”
Jesus, he looked like I’d just handed him a Golden Ticket.
“Anything short of urgent care.” I regretted my words as soon as I saw the unabashed joy on his face, but not enough to call uncle or take them back.
“Let’s start with ten bear complexes and finish with Turkish getups. We can cool down with the abs. Russian twists, maybe,” he said.
Thirty minutes later, I was regretting every life choice I’d made, and I was still thinking about Charlotte. I showered and put on my street clothes. I had a couple hours’ work waiting for me at the office before I could head out for an extra shift at the bar.
I didn’t have time to tend bar—not with the acquisition of the two new restaurant sites in the works—but I also couldn’t make myself stay home. Not just because of the unlikely chance Charlotte might show up, although honesty demanded I admit that thought was in the back of my head. It was more that I fed off the creative energy of mixing cocktails. The aromas and combinations of flavors. The way people responded to the drinks I mixed. With all the heavy business stuff going on with my company and the focus it required, I needed the outlet of a shift at the bar more than ever.
Despite the fact that my legs felt like they’d never be the same again—fucking bear squat things—I decided to walk instead of calling for a car. May as well extend mywreck the body to save the mindplan regardless of the lack of evidence that it was actually working. My muscles ached, and I was still obsessing about Charlotte. And starving.
I hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast and the extra torture at the gym meant I’d missed lunch. It also meant I could splurge. I’d sure as hell worked hard enough to earn some cured meat and cheese, and I knew exactly where to go to get it.
The deli a few blocks away had the best muffuletta around and was an easy walkfrom where I was. Or would be if I could get my abused legs to work. I’d spent the best parts of my childhood there, snacking on shaved slices of soppressata. I headed toward the mouthwatering sandwiches that might almost make up for the ridiculous workout I’d just put myself through. Probably not even close, but the salami was still a thing of beauty. My phone chirped as I crossed the street, and I paused to look at the screen, praying a work emergency wouldn’t derail my cured meat plans.
The picture I’d taken of Charlotte at the bar the night we met flashed on my screen, and I smiled in spite of everything. I swiped open the text and came face-to-face with a picture of what looked like a pot of gumbo.
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MAYBE WE CAN TRY THIS NEXT TIME WE COOK.
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I didn’t doubt the text was a way for Charlotte to try to jockey for power, to take control of my part of our arrangement. What I wasn’t sure of was how much of it was her attempt to stay connected to me. Or if that even played into it at all. I might be the only one who had an almost Pavlovian response to her texts, which would be sad if not entirely unexpected. Especially after her speedy hotel exit.
All of which just meant I needed to find a way for us to spend more time together. Time like we’d had making the beignets, getting to know each other and building an intimacy unrelated to sex. Not that I didn’t want the sex too. I wanted all of it. Over and over until we exhausted each other and fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms. I just didn’t have any illusions about sex equaling intimacy for Charlotte. Given her hesitancy about relationships, it would take more than phenomenal fucking for her to want to risk taking a chance on more. Gumbo would be a start, but a labor-intensive slow simmer wasn’t what I had in mind for our next time. Not the cooking part anyway.
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WE NEED TO WORK OUR WAY UP TO THAT.
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I sent back the quick text and then paused for a moment as inspiration hit. If I played my cards right, I think I figured out a way to spend hours with Charlotte without violating the terms of our agreement.
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I’VE GOT A PLAN. DETAILS TO FOLLOW.
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I smiled to myself, waiting for her response.
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NOTHING WITH YEAST.
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I was going to have to work very hard to stay a step ahead of this woman, if such a thing was even possible. But God help me, I loved the challenge.
