Not her fault, she reminded herself.This is one hundred percent on Charlie.
Dragging her attention from the pop princess, Jean noted that even the normally standoffish Emma and Margaret the grump had been pulled into Adriana’s orbit. Though at least in Margaret’s case, she appeared to be uncomfortable in such closeproximity to a megacelebrity. Guilty conscience? Either that or she was wincing at Smithson’s attempt to “charm” their special guest with a monologue about sailing. Good to know he hadn’t upgraded his material in the last decade.
Conspicuously absent from the group was Charlie. Probably still in bed, after a strenuous night with one (or more!) of his girlfriends. Jean swallowed the acid at the back of her throat.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Charlie clattered down the stairs. Jean waited for him to lock eyes with lover girl and share an erotically charged smolder, but he didn’t so much as glance in Adriana’s direction—or Margaret’s. Charlie seemed more concerned with the floor.
“Has anyone seen Emma?” he asked.
“She’s right there.” Smithson jerked his thumb at Emma Koenig. “Talking to me. Take a number, Chuck.”
“Untrue,” Emma said, without looking at Smithson.
“Not that Emma.” Charlie bent to look under a side table. “My snake. She’s not in her habitat. I think she might have gotten loose again.”
Amid the general commotion—shrieking, jumping onto furniture—Jean noticed several interesting facts. The first was that Smithson screamed like a teen girl in a slasher movie. The second was that Adriana Asebedo turned to Margaret first, even though she had two gigantic bodyguards in shouting distance. Then again, her protection detail looked freaked, while Margaret remained stoic as always. No doubt she was used to snake-related emergencies from spending so much time with Charlie, whereas that kind of thing didn’t come up as often on stadium tours.
“Can we go to your workshop?” Adriana asked. Margaret shrugged, not meeting her eyes.
Emma (the human one) stood. “I will join you, if I may.”
Smithson opened his mouth, and they all knew what was coming next.
“In your dreams,” Margaret snapped, before he could ask. “Don’t you have work to do?”
“Excuse me,” said Charlie, pushing past him. “I think I saw something move. Under the couch.”
That cleared the room in record time, with Smithson leading the charge, in the sense that he shoved in front of the women.
“What a hero,” Jean muttered.
Charlie looked at her questioningly.
“Not you. Him.”
“Oh.” He shifted his feet, staring at the rug. Jean didn’t know if he was looking for snakes or avoiding her gaze. “Did you sleep well?”
“Not really.”
“Good, good.” He shook himself. “I mean, not good. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Are you?”
He hesitated, as if sensing a trap. “Yes?”
Jean sniffed. “How about you? Did you have a restful evening?”
“No.” Charlie rubbed his jaw.
“Something troubling you?”
“Yes.” He seemed relieved she’d guessed.
“Pangs of regret, perhaps?”
“More like things left unsaid. Or possibly said but not heard?”
“You mean your poem.” Jean let him sweat. “If I had heard it, who’s to say any of that was the truth?”
