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“Lucas—”
“Like I said, Charlee, I really don’t want to rehash anything. What’s done is done. But I’m sure we’ll be running into each other from time to time, and I don’t want to be a complete dick to you either.”
Her expression was unusually neutral. Not the Charlee I knew. “How generous of you.”
“You know what I mean,” I said, trying hard not to focus on her chest. Maybe if I didn’t know what it felt like beneath that shirt of hers, or if I couldn’t imagine those breasts filling both my hands, and then some.
“So we’re just going to pretend nothing happened, and that it hasn’t been ten years since we’ve seen each other”?
What did she want from me? To sit here and reminisce about the old days? Maybe Charlee forgot how things ended, but I certainly didn’t. “Works for me.”
Immediately, there it was. The fire. Took her long enough.
“You’ve changed, Lucas. I don’t remember you having a mean streak.”
“Hard to stay the same when you’ve been where I’ve been, seen what I’ve seen,” I said.
“Why don’t you grab a drink. Sit down. Tell me.”
How to say “no thanks” without acting like the dick Owen accused me of being? I respected the hell out of the guy and was glad to get to know him. So, I had been a little embarrassed when he’d said, “Listen, I get you two have a not-so-great history, but Charlee is one of the nicest women I know. Don’t be a dick to her if you can help it.”
He reminded me of my partner and spotter, Nate. Straight to the point. No sugarcoating.
What was Nate up to right this minute? I checked the time. Middle of the night in Africa, so he was sleeping.
One of the nicest women I know.
Easy, Lucas. Tame the beast.
“If I sit down, Charlee, we’ll talk about the last ten years. Catch up on each other’s lives. Eventually get to high school, the summer after. How we split. And like I said earlier, I’m just not in the mood for that.”
Another flash of those big, beautiful eyes.
What I wouldn’t do to bend this woman over when she looked at me that way. Mmm.
“Not in the mood,” she repeated. Definitely pissed.
“I’m not. . .” How else to say it without making things worse? “Ready.”
That worked.
“Ready, meaning there might be a time you are willing to talk about it?”
She sounded so damn hopeful. Too damn hopeful. It would have been easier if she’d just moved on. And maybe she had. There was no ring, but that didn’t mean Charlee wasn’t with someone. I hadn’t looked at her social media for over eight months, and last I saw, she was with some tool from a neighboring town.
“You want to talk about it?” I asked her.
Fuck. Hadn’t meant to ask that. It just slipped out.
She swallowed. Looked nervous all of a sudden. “I do.”
Jesus, Charlee, you’re killing me.
Maybe I should grab my drink and sit with her. Let her explain. That’s all I’d wanted for the longest time.
Know thyself.
It was one of the lessons the Army taught me. Did I want the temporary pleasure of getting her side of the breakup? Or the permanent one of facing an enemy—and Charlee was most certainly the enemy, my cross to bear—and coming out victorious?
