The Set Up (30 page)

“I can stay with Charlie.”

Her lip turns up in a snarl. “Your parents won’t like that. Besides, Charlotte needs to learn some independence.”

I nod, knowing I need to be going before Charlotte gets yelled at. “’Bye, Charlie,” I say and look at her.

She bites her lip, and I tuck only one hand in my pocket. They’re signals. How we communicate in front of adults. When she bites her lip it means she needs me. When I put one hand in my pocket it means “leave the window open for me, I’ll be back as soon as I can.” We have other signals too. A wrinkle of her nose means she’s fine. Two hands in my pockets means I probably can’t sneak out because my dad is home and he might notice. A twirl of her finger around her hair is to let me know she understands. A fake sneeze alerts me that her dad will be home.

The windows are open as I walk out the front door and cut between the houses to go in my back door, and I hear her mother say, “Charlotte, why are you always so needy?”

Even then I knew Charlotte was anything but needy.

Neglected? Yes.

Lonely? Yes.

Frightened? Yes.

But needy? No.

I blink out of it. I hate remembering those times. I hated that there were days when there was nothing I could do to help her. This feels like one of them. I have to figure out a way to help her. Fuck the storm within me. Fuck my worries about what might be. Good and bad be damned. I’m done fighting this. Done.

My body buzzes thinking about her, and without another thought about why I shouldn’t call her, I just do it. I need to talk to her. To hear her voice. To make sure she’s okay.

“Hello?” she answers, a little breathless.

Her voice is sweet and I want to reach through the line and lick it. “Charlotte, it’s me, Jasper.”

She’s silent.

“Charlotte, it’s Jasper,” I repeat.

“I know who this is.” Her tone is curt.

“Don’t be mad.”

“Why would I be mad?” There’s a hint of sarcasm in her voice this time.

“Come on, you know why.”

“No, tell me.”

“Because I said I’d call you and I’m just doing it now.”

She’s quiet.

“I . . . I . . .” I stumble for the right words. “I told myself I wouldn’t soil you with all my shit, but I don’t want to stay away from you, either.”

“Jasper,” she sighs.

Over the horizon the sun blazes like a huge orange halo and I look at it anyway. “I want to take you out tonight . . . on a date.” No more dancing around.

She sucks in a breath. “I’m sorry, Jasper, I can’t.”

“Look, I know this is last minute and I’m sorry I haven’t called you sooner, but please let me make it up to you. Don’t shut me out.”

“I’m not. That’s not why I’m saying no. I know you have a lot going on. I don’t hold anything against you.” She sounds genuine. “And I’d really like to see you, but I have to work tonight.”

Wondering what kind of job she got so fast, I ask her, “Where are you working?”

Her sigh sounds resigned. “At the Bronx Bar.”

Alarm floods me. Putting my car in gear, I ease on the gas and head toward the highway. “Charlotte, I don’t want you working there.”

I can hear her breathing pick up and know she’s getting upset. “I appreciate your concern, but it’s really none of your business.”

I ignore the comment and zing—I have the perfect idea. “What if there was a different solution to your money issues. A better one.”

“What, like stripping?”

Horrified, I snap. “No!”

“Relax, I’m just kidding. But if there was a better job, I would have taken it.”

“What if you come work for me instead?”

“Jasper, be serious.”

Flooring it on the main road, I hit 60 in no time. “I am. More than serious. We could really use someone like you right now.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Will is trying to hire an image consultant and the cost is sky high. What if you came to work for us? You could write press releases. Help set the record straight. Provide updates. Write articles about the community. Even set up a blog like we were going to do with
The Detroit Scene
until I had Will fire that douche’s ass.”

“Jasper,” she gasps.

“Charlotte, please, we could really use someone like you on our team.”

“I don’t know.”

Pulling off near her street, I slow my pace. “Call in sick. Then let me take you out to dinner tonight and we can talk about it. If it’s something that you think might work for you, take the job. If not—” I let the sentence hang because fuck, I can’t stand the thought of her working in a bar with all those lowlifes who will easily prey on someone as beautiful as her. Once again, I remember the horrible stories my mother had spoken of when she’d worked at a bar in the Cass Corridor.

This time her sigh is long.

“You’re thinking about it, I can tell.”

“Jasper, I can get off work tonight. That’s not a problem. I was just picking up an extra shift and the other girls are always wanting extra shifts as well, but is your offer real?”

My car is in front of her place. “I already told you, Charlotte, I never lie.”

“You said you would call and you didn’t.”

“That’s not true—I’m calling you now.”

Silence.

I can hear her breathing. Contemplating. Twirling her hair, I bet.

Still there’s silence.

“Charlotte, please. I read some of your stuff this week from when you were blogging on Mackinac Island. It’s really good.”

The line is still silent.

“Charlotte, please,” I repeat, my voice low.

“What time?” she concedes.

I smile for the first time in five days. “How about now?”

She laughs. “Give me an hour.”

Already feeling better after just having talked to her, I don’t care if I have to wait one hour, one day, or one year to see her. “See you then.”

NO U-TURN

Charlotte

I WANT TO
look good for him.

For our date.

Not too casual. Not too dressy. Not too sweet. And definitely not too sexy, but just sexy enough.

Any quick glance at me will tell you I’m nothing like the girls he’s been photographed with.

I’m okay with that.

My body isn’t curvy, my breasts are definitely not large, my hair isn’t smooth, and my wardrobe isn’t extravagant.

But it’s who I am.

The tomboy in me never quite left.

Clothes are meant to be comfortable—jeans, shorts, tank tops, and sweaters.

Shoes are practical—sneakers, boots, ballet flats, and sandals.

And makeup? Well, that’s meant to be quick and easy.

Right?

However, tonight I spend extra time on getting myself ready.

A little more eyeliner than usual, an extra brush of mascara on my lashes, a dab of powder to help cover my freckles, and some pink-tinted lip gloss.

My body buzzes with excitement at the thought of seeing him again. It seems wrong to feel this way in the midst of the chaos consuming both of our lives, but being with him . . . I don’t know . . . it sets me free.

Yanking practically every dress I own from my closet, I toss each onto a pile. Too old. Too young looking. Just plain ugly.

Ugh . . . I really need a new wardrobe.

Finally, I find the perfect thing tucked away in the back of my closet. A body-hugging black tank dress that I bought on sale a few summers ago. In fact, I bought three of them in different styles from the Victoria’s Secret catalog.

This one has a racerback. To make it a bit edgier, I select a skimpy bralette so the white straps will show, and then I choose the matching panties with just a hint of lace.

Even if he doesn’t see any of it, knowing it’s there will make me feel sexier.

Next a little spritz of perfume. And now the worst part: I have to tackle my hair. I take a little extra time to style it so the wildness is slightly tamed.

Now, I glance in the mirror and can’t help but smile.

Not bad, really.

Then on to my shoes. I pick a pair of silver-studded black sandals that I rarely wear because if I walk in them too much they pinch my toes. But they’re cute and flat, and the silver dresses them up nicely.

Jewelry.

A long but simple silver chain and small diamond studs that belonged to my aunt with a few silver bangles, and I’m ready with ten minutes to spare.

Pacing.

Pacing.

More pacing.

Up the hallway and back down, my mind is in overdrive.

Wondering.

Contemplating.

Weighing my options as I think about his offer.

Was he serious about me working for him? Would I be of benefit or a charity case? I’m not certain about the former and couldn’t stand to be the latter.

Knock. Knock.

I’m right beside the door and even though the sound is gentle, I jump. It makes my body come alive because there is no doubt who is on the other side of that door.

Telling myself to calm down, this is just a simple date, I check my dress and straighten my shoulders, and then I swing the door open.

Hands behind his back, his downcast eyes lift and he smiles at me with a hint of shyness that causes my heart to skip a beat. Just then it occurs to me that the man standing before me isn’t just a man, he’s the boy I once thought of as my hero, and oh, how he has grown up.

Handsome as hell.

Breathtaking.

So very much a man.

Unable to resist, I take him in from head to toe. His black T-shirt clings to his broad shoulders and lean waist, jeans that look like they were made for him sit low on his narrow hips, and those boots he wears that he doesn’t always tie are tied tonight.

I bite my lip subconsciously, not even realizing how much I’ve missed him this week until now. Something that feels like swarms of butterflies in my belly seizes me and I force my gaze up, hoping to calm them.

Bad idea.

Eyes that glimmer with specks of gold, with long lashes that sweep his skin in a blinking motion just before he fixates his stare on me, mesmerize me. Forcing my gaze to widen, I look at his hair. Oh, that hair. It sticks up in just the right places. It looks like he ran a hand through it one too many times or no, maybe it looks more like he just rolled out of bed. Either way, it’s perfection.

In a surprising move, he takes my hand and pulls me close to him. Once our bodies are aligned, his hand shifts to my waist. “Hi,” he says and then kisses my cheek.

Nothing overtly sexual. Just a soft brush of his lips on my skin, but I feel it. I feel it from my head all the way to my toes, and I shiver as the feeling courses through me. Unbelievably, my nipples harden from just that small touch.
Oh no.
“Hi,” I say back, trying not to think about the fact that my dress is skintight or that I sound way more breathless than any girl should when getting picked up for a date by a guy who hadn’t called her in five days.

“Great dress,” he tells me, stepping away, his voice catching on the words. One hand still behind his back.

“This old thing?” I laugh, and then look at it before admitting, “I wasn’t sure what to wear and found this in the back of my closet with the tags still on.”

His eyes crinkle with so much appreciation that it makes me feel as though I look like a supermodel wearing couture and not Lycra. That stare continues for a few long, heavy seconds, and the heat in it becomes almost too much. “You look . . . you look amazing in it,” he breathes out.

Blood rushes up my neck and lands on my cheeks. I’m blushing. I never blush. Or at least I didn’t—until the grown-up Jasper entered my life. “Thank you,” I say, turning away so he won’t notice. “Let me just grab my purse and keys.”

He’s still in the hallway.

“Come in. I won’t be long.”

When he steps inside, he brings his other arm around and I swear the earth shakes beneath my feet. In his hand is the most perfect bouquet of forget-me-nots.

Trembling, I slap my hands to my mouth, and then realizing how ridiculous I must look, I inhale a deep breath. Upon exhaling I ask, “How . . . how did you know they are my favorite?”

Moving closer, he hands them to me. “I saw your tattoo and asked my mother what they were. After I described them, she told me, and she also told me where I could find them.”