Charlie
Hours ago. Been very productive. Definitely not pacing around nervously.
Me
Nervously about what?
Charlie
Come to my bedroom when you’re functional. I have something to show you.
Me
Should I be concerned?
Charlie
Yes.
I stare at the devil emoji for longer than is healthy. In my experience, that particular symbol from Charlie means one of two things: she’s about to do something chaotic, or she’s about to do something that will test every ounce of my carefully maintained self-control.
Given our current trajectory, probably both.
I extract myself from the blanket fort wreckage, my joints popping in protest as I stand. The living room looks like a tornado hit a sleepover—cushions everywhere, sheets drooping from their ceiling anchors, the snack debris scattered across every available surface. I should clean this up. Put the sectional back together. Do something productive with the remnants of last night.
Instead, I head for the guest bathroom to brush my teeth and splash water on my face. If Charlie has “something to show me,” I should at least be presentable for whatever fresh chaos she’s cooked up.
The face in the mirror looks different than it did a week ago. More relaxed around the eyes. Less tension in the jaw. There’s something almost soft about my expression that I’m not used to seeing—a looseness that wasn’t there before. I haven’t been thinking about my insurmountable problems with their haphazard solutions. I’ve been investing in a relationship that actually gives something back.
Charlie Riley is dismantling my carefully constructed emotional fortress brick by brick, and the most alarming part is how little I want to stop her.
I dry my face, run a hand through my hair in a futile attempt at presentability, and head down the hallway toward her bedroom. Past the kitchen where the Rotel pan is soaking in the sink. Past the windows showing off another aggressively sunny Miami afternoon. Past the spot where Black Cat is lounging in a patch of sunlight, watching my approach with an expression that suggests he knows something I don’t.
“Kiss-ass,” I mutter at him. “You only favor her because she overfeeds you.”
He blinks slowly and goes back to grooming his paw. Zero loyalty when it comes to food.
Charlie’s door is closed when I reach it. I knock twice, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet hallway.
“Come in.”
I push the door open.
And stop breathing.
Charlie is standing in the center of her bedroom wearing a black teddy that looks like it was designed by someone who wanted to cause highway pileups. Lace and silk and strategic cutouts that leave approximately nothing to the imagination. The straps are thin as spider silk, looking like they might disintegrate if I stare at them too hard. The neckline plunges to somewhere around her navel, held together by sheer optimismand probably some kind of fashion tape. The whole thing barely qualifies as clothing.
She’s also standing next to a chair—one of the decorative ones from the corner of the room, now pulled out to face the bed like a throne awaiting its occupant.
“Took you long enough,” she says, with a confidence that almost masks the nervous energy vibrating beneath her skin. I can see it in the way she’s holding herself, shoulders a little too straight, chin a little too high, hands clasped in front of her like she doesn’t know what else to do with them. “Sit.”
I don’t move. I’m not entirely sure I can move. Every functional brain cell I possess has redirected its attention to the task of not staring at the way that lace hugs the curve of her hips.
“Charlie. What is this?”
“It’s a chair.” She gestures to it like I’m being particularly slow. “You sit in it. With your butt. I’m sure you’ve done this before.”
“I meant—” I gesture vaguely at her entire situation. The lingerie. The staging. The obvious premeditation of whatever is about to happen. “This.”
