CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I get the Bat-Signal in the early evening after two glorious days of nearly non-stop fucking, with occasional breaks for work and the bare minimum of sleep.

The alert comes via text as I’m running along the West Side Highway.

At the gym in my building. Dipstick is here. He’s staring at my ring.

I sniff opportunity, like a dog. Bradley is why she said yes to being my fake fiancée in the first place, to ward off his obnoxious gift attacks, and to exact her clever revenge. Thank god he lost her. But still, he’s scum, and now I get to rub his loss in his face.

I break right and sprint across town, dodging pedestrians, guys in suits, women in dresses, construction workers, and everyone else in New York on this Tuesday evening as I make my way to Murray Hill. Once I reach her building, my breath coming fast, sweat streaking down my chest, I tell the doorman I’m here to see Charlotte. Since I’m on her list of approved-at-all-hours visitors, he waves me in. I head to the elevator and downstairs to the gym.

I find her in seconds. She’s jogging on a treadmill at a light pace, and Bradley watches her from the exercise bike as he pedals.

I lock eyes with him, give him a quick tip of the hat, and march over to Charlotte. After I hit stop on her machine, I kiss the hell out of her. She’s not expecting me, but she doesn’t question it. She goes with it, melting into my kiss, and soon the kiss moves from PG to PG-13. It veers into R territory when she hops off the treadmill, wraps her arms around me, and tells me to come upstairs for a quickie before we have to go to The Lucky Spot.

That’s me. Captain Fiancé at your service.

As I leave, I take a gander at Bradley. He’s huffing and puffing, and looks mad as hell.

I jut up my shoulders.

What can I do? The woman wants me.

* * *

The next Bat-Signal comes from my mother later that evening as I’m working in the small office at the back of our bar, surrounded by boxes of cocktail napkins and cabinets where we store our top-shelf liquor.

At first it appears as an invitation via text. Hi dear! We have tickets for the Fiddler revival tomorrow night. Two extra. Can you and Charlotte attend? We can all go to Sardi’s beforehand.

To say I’m not a fan of musicals would be a gross understatement. In fact, I’m surprised my mom even asked, because I’m known in the family circle for my variety of unapologetic excuses for declining all invitations to anything involving song-and-dance numbers, ranging from I’m watching paint dry, I’m busy rearranging my ties, to I’ll be having elective dental work done instead.

But none of these excuses makes it from my brain to my fingers to the phone, because my first thought is that Charlotte adores Broadway. I pop out of the office to find her manning the taps at one end of the counter. “Weird question,” I say as I join her. “Would you want to see Fiddler on the Roof tomorrow? With me?”

She studies my face, then places her hand on my forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”

“I’m serious.”

“Maybe it hasn’t set in yet.”

“I mean it.”

“Should I take you to the ER now to get checked, or wait for the chills to start?”

I tap my watch. “The invitation expires in five seconds. Five, four, three…”

She claps. “Yes! Yes, I want to go. I love revivals. That would be amazing. I’m not even going to ask where your bag of excuses is. I’m just going to enjoy myself.”

“Good,” I say, and I’m stepping closer to drop a quick kiss on her cheek when I stop myself in the nick of time.

Panic flickers across her eyes, and she makes a small jerk of her head. Jenny’s here, and so are waiters and waitresses on the floor, taking drink orders.

Shit.

How the hell did that almost happen? I’m not averse to PDA, but not here at work with customers, our manager, and staff circulating.

“Sorry,” I mumble.

From her spot mixing a vodka tonic, the dark-haired Jenny raises a well-groomed eyebrow, but says nothing. Charlotte doesn’t wear her ring here, but Jenny’s reaction makes me wonder if our employees can sense the change. Like animals sniffing out a storm, do they know their bosses are banging? Can they tell, too, it’s a temporary thing? Questions race through my brain—am I standing too close to Charlotte, am I staring too hard, is it completely obvious from the way I look at my business partner that I’m picturing her naked and fucking my face right now?

I shake my head, chasing off the dirty thoughts. I try to make light of my gaffe. “We almost broke another rule,” I say, just to Charlotte.

“Which one?”

“The no weirdness one.”

She laughs and pats my shoulder. “You’re okay, Holiday. That wasn’t even tiptoeing on weird.” She lowers her voice and speaks just to me. “It was actually adorable, truth be told.”

Ah hell, now I’m blushing. Because…

Wait.

What the hell?

I must really have a fever. I’ve volunteered myself for the pain and suffering of musical theater, and I’ve been dubbed adorable. I am not okay with this. This is not acceptable. Charlotte is so getting fucked from behind tonight so she knows there’s nothing adorable about me.

I’m only manly and rugged.

“Great,” I say, coolly drumming my knuckles against the bar, like my new casual attitude will resurrect my street cred. “So we’ll go tomorrow. Only ’cause you want to.”

My phone buzzes once more. I grab it, and my shoulders sag as I read, The Offermans will be there too :)

I turn to Charlotte. “It was an ambush,” I say, then share the details.

Her smile never falters. “It’s okay. I don’t mind going with them.” She leans in closer and whispers, “In fact, it’s been even easier to play your fiancée the last few days.”

“Why’s that?”

Her voice drops even lower. “Because of the way you fuck me all night long.”

A bolt of lust slams into me, and I’m ready to drag her to the office, slam the door, and screw her here at work.

But Jenny calls her over, and I return to the computer with my new wood.

As I answer emails from suppliers, it occurs to me that Charlotte’s comment about being adorable should make me feel weird. But it doesn’t bug me, and I ask myself why.

Maybe because Charlotte seemed so happy to see the show. Hell, taking her to Broadway is the least I can do for her, since she’s pulling off a fantastic performance this week to help seal the deal on my dad’s sale.

Mystery solved. I like making Charlotte happy because she’s my friend, and friends help each other.

There. I teetered, but avoided breaking another ground rule.