Emily

I PRESS MYSELF AGAINST the back of my bedroom door, trying to get my breath into my locked lungs.

Give her some attention, you know? She needs to feel pretty and wanted again.

Is it possible to die of utter mortification? My brother feels he needs to coax his friend into giving me attention? The least he could have done was close the door. I was about to enter the room when I overheard them.

Pull yourself together, Emily. I inhale slowly until I get my lungs working properly again. I just have to power through this night. He can never know I heard that conversation. Never. I’ve been through worse humiliation and lived to tell.

I just don’t want to do it again. God. Am I really so pathetic that my lot in life is just...shame?

A knock on the door jars me and I squeak.

“You ready to go, mistletoe?”

Damn him. My nickname? Now? Really?

One more breath. In. Out. I open the door, schooling my face into a bland expression.

“Yep.”

I brush past him, down the stairs, to the front door, ignoring Carter’s goodbye.

I start my car and avoid the temptation to fill the awkward silence after he gets in and buckles up.

Being a good hostess, I turn on the radio, and strains of Alvin and the Chipmunks fill the car. Maybe not a great hostess because I leave the station on, hiding my own wincing and tapping my fingers on the wheel as if I’m enjoying the song.

More awkward silence.

“Did you like high school?” Charlie asks as we pass the schools.

“Yes.”

“Were you in any sports?”

“No.”

The next song comes on. God, another one? Are they doing a chipmunk marathon?

I turn down a residential street that likes to do the light show up big, each house competing with the others on the block—each year getting a little nuttier.

“I bet you were a good student.”

I shrug.

“You’re chatty tonight.”

Breathe. In. Out. “I didn’t invite you, Charlie. You wanted to see the lights, but I didn’t promise conversation.”

Charlie squares his jaw and twists his head slowly. “Are you mad at me for something? You’ve been short with me for the last couple of days. And all these one-word answers are getting a little old.”

“I’m sorry I’m not entertaining enough for you.”

He holds his hands up in a “stop” position. Oh good. That is universally as acceptable as trying to calm a person by telling them to calm down. “I don’t expect you to entertain me. I just thought...never mind. I was wrong.”

We don’t speak again until we get to my apartment over the pub downtown. I jerk the car into park. “I’ll be right out.”

“Oh, no. I want to see your place.”

“I don’t think—” But he is already out of the car, waiting at the entrance.

I don’t have to go through the bar, so I lead him up the stairs through my separate entrance, conscious that his eyes could be on my ass as I go up. But probably not. My boxy jacket covers my butt anyway.

Maybe Sheila will be home. Sheila is good for distractions. I enjoy living across the hall from her because there is always something crazy about to happen in Sheila’s world. Living vicariously is as close to crazy as I want to get—but it is still entertaining.

Once inside my apartment, I tell Charlie to stay in the living room while I get what I need from my bedroom. Which is nothing. I only said I wanted to go home so I could take a break in my quiet space surrounded by my own things.

Nervous sweat breaks out over my body, so I throw off my coat and pick out a new shirt. Another turtleneck. I stare at it. Hating it.

My wardrobe is easy and modest. Neutral colors. Classic fabrics.

Boring.

I shop in the parts of the store even my mother refused to enter. I could trade clothes with my grandmother if I wanted to. I guess part of me thinks if I dress the way I imagine a preacher’s wife to dress, I would what...get Alan back? No. I have zero interest in getting him back. So why am I trying to be the girl he’d wanted me to be?

Now is not the time to analyze my wardrobe. I need to get Sergeant Hottie out of my apartment. I’m not going to get my break tonight. Not going to sip a cup of tea from my favorite Wedgewood and curl up with my chenille throw. Is it too much to ask for an hour to decompress? I grab a duffel bag and stuff it with some random things so I look legit. Like I’d needed to come home. I am ridiculous.

“I think your apartment is amazing.” His voice makes me jump. He has got to stop sneaking up on me.

I whirl around, clutching the duffel to my chest. “Amazing is kind of a strong word. It’s a one-bedroom above a bar.”

He steps into my bedroom. Uninvited.

“It feels like you. It’s warm and I don’t know...cozy, I guess.”

I snort. He thinks I am cozy. Basically, I’m a twenty-five-year-old Angela Lansbury.

Fine. Maybe I am. And before he showed up, that was the way I liked it. Nothing wrong with Mrs. Potts.

“What the hell is your problem?” Charlie crosses his impressive arms over his barrel chest. Stop noticing his muscles. He is all big and blocking the doorway and why couldn’t he just go away so I can find my center again?

“I don’t have a problem. Except for the big man in my bedroom swearing at me. I could do without that.”

He takes the duffel from my arms. “Don’t even pretend you’re intimidated by me. I want to know what changed. Something happened the day we built the bikes.”

I pull at my sleeves so they cover my hands. “Nothing happened. I’m giving you an out. Why won’t you take it?”

The skin above his nose gathers in tight folds. Nice. Now there is a big man frowning in my doorway. Well, too bad.

“I don’t understand why you think I want an out. I thought we were friends.”

I thought so too. That’s why I pulled back after the bike building—because I didn’t want to use him to get over my insecurities. It’s laughable now, me thinking I was doing him some kind of favor. He didn’t even want to be with me.

I try to pull my bag out of his hands, but he doesn’t let go. “I don’t want to be the reason you withdraw from everyone around you,” he said. “Ever since I told you that you scare me, you’ve gone into your shell like a damned turtle.”

I tug harder on the bag. Turtle? “How long has my brother been convincing you to be nice to me? Is that the reason you came to Maple Grove in the first place? His poor little wounded sister needs a man to show her some attention? Just be nice to her, Charlie...throw her a compliment here and there. How far does he want you to go? You really had me going there, the night you told me Carter wouldn’t want you touching his little sister.” I let go of the bag when it is clear he won’t.

I’m egging him on—to what end I don’t know. But damn it, I want a reaction. Anger and embarrassment swill together in my stomach like a batch of my cousin’s moonshine. Potent. Wicked. Volatile.

But instead of sparking a similar rage in Charlie, he drops my bag on the floor. Calmly. Grr. Why is he so calm?

Without raising his voice, he asks, “Is that what you think? That he had to convince me to be nice to you?” His voice is measured. Too measured. That’s how I know he isn’t unaffected by the toxic brew inside me that seems to spill out into the room. He feels it too, but Charlie is not the guy who goes red hot with rage. No, he goes ice cold. “I guess you overheard him talking tonight?”

“I guess I did.”

“This makes a little more sense then.” He takes a step toward me. Crowding me. “Don’t back down from me.”

I jut my chin out. “I don’t intend to.”

“Good.”

I never expressed anger at Alan. Not to anyone. I never felt I had a right to it. Not after what I did. But I feel angry now. Angry that I don’t know how to handle a man who shows interest in me. Angry that I want to go back to being a little mouse. Angry that I’m not brave enough to do anything else. Angry that I can’t trust that I haven’t mistaken interest for pity.

And logically, I know it isn’t Charlie’s fault. Part of me feels like I should be tucking all the anger back in.

Part of me wants him to see everything.

He pulls the hat off his head, clenching it in his fist near his thigh. “I told you things. Things I never told another soul. Your brother has nothing to do with us.”

“I heard him—”

“That was the first time he’s said anything like that to me. I hope you believe that. But even if you don’t—you have to believe that night we had together.”

My brain tries to reject what he is saying. But I can’t turn off what I feel. “Why?”

“Why did your brother ask me to be nice to you? Because he’s worried about you. And he has no idea that I’ve already kissed you. That I’ve been in your bedroom. That I’ve felt closer to you than any other person in my entire life.”

I close my eyes, trying to block out the conflicting emotions warring inside me. He could be lying. Covering. Trying to make me feel good. Just like Carter asked him to.

His palm on my cheek makes me open my eyes. “I’m going to kiss you again. And if you still feel any doubt that I’m here with you because I can’t stay away, I’ll walk out of this town and you never have to see me again.”

He is going to kiss me? Every nerve ending in my body sings a hallelujah chorus. No—Emily, slow down. You don’t want him to kiss you.

Liar.

He just keeps turning my world upside down until I don’t know what I know or feel anymore. Could a kiss decide that for me? One kiss? It was one kiss that started this all. “What if I do believe you? What happens then?” What if he can’t stay away? I’m not ready for either proposition.

He moves his hand down, sliding it to the back of my neck. “I have no idea. You ready to find out?”

Am I? Am I brave enough to just go with it, not knowing what comes next?

I knew all my next steps with Alan, and look how that turned out.

But I’m angry and embarrassed and confused. Why does he even like me? How had he even seen me? The shadow I’ve lived under since the bachelor party has cloaked me so well for so long.

Charlie’s dark gaze is zeroed in on me. He sees me. He knows my flaws, but he doesn’t turn away. Isn’t disgusted. I’ve even been a shrew to him and still here he is.

I’m really not ready, but I nod.

“Not good enough. Tell me.”

I roll my eyes at him. I can’t just say the words he wants to hear. I’m not like that.

He tugs on my hair, pulling me closer. Stares at my mouth, but doesn’t kiss me. He won’t be gentle, but he won’t push me.

And Charlie would never cry while we were having sex.

“Kiss me, Charlie. I want you to kiss me. And we’ll find out what happens next.”