“I can carry that for you.” He started to reach for the tray.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea, Charlie?” His mother’s worried voice stopped him in his tracks.
It seemed like a terrible idea now that she’d reminded him of his ongoing struggle with gravity. Conscious of Jean watching, Charlie made up his mind, grabbing the tray with both hands.
Was this how tightrope walkers felt? He tried to lock his arms to his sides, but the liquid still sloshed like there was a stormbrewing in the glasses. Step by step, barely breathing, he crossed the living room. Just a few more feet to the coffee table, and yet it seemed to take an hour, possibly because he was moving in slow motion.
“Oh thank God,” his mother breathed, pressing a hand to her heart when the tray came to rest on a solid surface.
If carrying six glasses from point A to point B was more than his parents thought he could handle, how did they expect him to take over an entire company? He waited until Jean was seated to deliver her drink, hoping to finagle a spot beside her on the couch.
At the last second he lost his nerve, due to the unfortunate placement of a throw pillow and Jean’s steadfast refusal to look at him. Charlie wound up hovering at the edge of the group, without so much as a wall to lean against. His parents were probably waiting for him to join in the conversation, but Charlie didn’t want to compete with Philip Koenig and his anecdotes about playing polo with minor royalty or sponge diving in Crete. He wanted to talk to Jean, without anyone else listening. That was the only way he could be himself, even if she was being someone else.
His father caught Charlie’s eye, trying to telegraph something with jerky head movements and a patently fakeahem. Probably he meantgo talk to Emma,but Charlie was pretty sure that was a doomed strategy. Far more polished people than Charlie would perish on the frozen tundra of Emma Koenig’s reserve. Charlie was more likely to annoy her than win her over, which was how he justified his decision to ignore his dad and sidle up to Jean instead.
“Thank you for the drink,” he said, showing Jean his empty glass like she was handing out gold stars for finishing first. “It was very refreshing.”
Although he probably shouldn’t have gulped it down that fast, judging by the beads of sweat breaking out along his hairline. Heracked his brain for something to say that would remind Jean of happier times. A coded message only she would understand.
“It’s something I’ll alwaystreasure. Like a winning poker hand. Or… a jungle hideaway.”
“Charlie,” his mother said, in a tone of gentle reproof. “Why don’t you take the tray back to the kitchen?Justthe tray. Leave the glasses.”
There was no way to refuse without looking like a jerk. Charlie edged around the coffee table, hunched and shuffling as he tried to avoid sticking his rear end in anyone’s face. He was only mildly surprised when he stumbled over an unseen obstacle.
“I’m okay,” he said, managing to right himself before he hit the carpet again.
“My shoe isn’t.” Jean held up her sandal, shaking the broken laces. “You ruined it!”
Chapter 19
You would have thought Jean’s strappy platform espadrille was a Fabergé egg from the way they were all carrying on.
“I swear you could fall off a flat patch of grass while standing still,” Mr. Pike said to his son. He seemed to have two modes: negging Charlie and talking like a human billboard.
Meanwhile, Euro Daddy was studying the broken strap so intently, Jean wondered if he moonlighted as a cobbler. “Your lovely shoe,” Mr. Koenig sighed. “What a pity.”
Jean had never had a thing for older men, but there was some serious magnetism coming off this guy. The swoop of hair, the golden skin, those sculpted-by-Michelangelo cheekbones: it all screamed “I spend a lot of time swimming laps in my sleek minimalist pool before sweating out impurities in the sauna.” Also, you had to be majorly hot to pull off a western-style shirt with pearl buttons and the faint sheen of silk. He looked like either a European soccer coach or high-end male escort.
His daughter had a totally different vibe, with a face that said shy milkmaid—if you overlooked the sharpness of her gaze. Jean would have to be careful with that one.
Going in, she’d been most worried about fooling Charlie’s parents, but they were easy marks compared to Emma Koenig. She seemed most likely to see through the “Sockless Tommy’s niece” charade, which was annoying for practical reasons that had nothing to do with the fact that the senior Pikes were obviously pushing a match between Emma and Charlie.
As if Jean cared about that!
She didn’t.
As evidenced by the way she had sailed through the first test: seeing Charlie again. She’d played the moment like a champ, supercilious and above it all, as if she ate beautiful beer heirs for breakfast. Jean was in full command of the situation, a haughty hottie.
Extra props to “Eve” on being so convincing no one questioned her identity. If Jean was flustered on the inside, that was forgivable. First-night jitters were part of any performance. At least she’d hit her marks.
All Jean had to do was stick her leg out at the exact right moment and boom! Charlie took care of the rest.
She suspected Emma Koenig knew Jean had tripped him, but thus far she seemed to be keeping the information to herself. Maybe she’d write it up in her next journal article, like the fancy science person she was. That would impress Charlie, in case her booze fortune wasn’t enough of an attraction.
Though maybe not as much as Jean’s bustier and crotch-skimming shorts. The upside of being dressed like she took a wrong turn on the way to Ibiza while everyone else was doing Grand Ole Opry cosplay was that Charlie had been unable to tear his eyes away. Jean might have been easy to leave, but she was going to make damn sure she was impossible to ignore.
Remember this? That’s what I thought.
