Page 80 of The Charm of You

Caroline is different, though. It’s impossible not to always be affected by her natural beauty.

She stands on the inside of her threshold, her bare feet twisting sideways like she’s doing a secret dance. No fuzzy socks tonight, and I’m a little disappointed. I would’ve liked to see what other crazy patterns she brought with her from the city.

Her sweater reads New York in big block letters. The thick material hangs loosely over her breasts, and the hem barely skims the waistband of her black leggings.

I hold up a bottle of wine. “It’s not whatever fancy red you drink in Manhattan, and it’s probably not worth a shit, but it’s alcohol.”

Caroline bites her lip, presumably suppressing a smile, and when she moves to the side to let me in, I call it a victory.

“Our mothers are at their pottery class, so I figured you could use some company, no matter how dull said company might be.”

“He’s not so bad.” She shuts the door and locks the latch as I spin to face her. “What makes you think I didn’t make other plans tonight?”

I freeze—the thought never occurred to me. I was so preoccupied with finishing my shift at the shop, showering, and racing over here that I never stopped long enough to have the foresight to call her first.

“Do you have other plans?” I ask with a grimace.

“No, but it’s cute when you squirm.”

“I never squirm.”

“What else would you call what you’re doing right now?” she argues with a playful tilt in her light tone.

She fucking caught me.

I stretch the bottle toward her, and it exchanges our hands like a message, one I hope she takes to mean I’m sorry about earlier. After all, that’s why I was so impatient to get over here.

I should also apologize out loud, though, shouldn’t I? That would be the polite course of action.

I follow her into the kitchen, where she retrieves two wineglasses from the cabinet. Her cropped sweater rises in the process, and I’m tortured with the display of her pert ass. I bite my knuckles to stop myself from swiping the hair over her shoulder and nipping at her neck.

I’d love nothing more than to pin her lithe body against the counter with my own and have my fucking way with her.

The slam of a drawer shutting cuts off my arousing thoughts, and I drop my twitching hand into my pocket for safekeeping.

Quietly, she works the bottle open and pours wine into each glass. The liquid sloshes about, and ringing echoes in my head like an angry smoke detector.

There’s no other sound in here. No annoying small talk, or a TV on low in the background. She doesn’t even try to ramble any nonsense as she normally does—and I could really use a ramble right now.

Which is when I realize what she’s doing.

I see it in the twinkle of her eye when she hands me a glass, clinks hers to mine, and sips so easily that it must be forced.

She’s toying with me, isn’t she? She’s purposely making me squirm some more, and it’s working a little too well.

Humming, she clutches the glass to her chest, her nails a paler color compared to the Merlot swirling next to them. The tip of her tongue slips over her bottom lip like she’s licking the last drop left behind, and blood shoots straight south between my legs.

She leans her hip to the counter and levels me with an amused stare.

“For such cheap wine, it tastes expensive,” she says, and her tone matches the rest of her—fucking casual. But the longer we stare at each other, she adopts something more akin to mischief when she adds, “It’s definitely worth more than a shit.”

Sweat trickles down my spine as if she’s trying to shake me down. Like she’s jonesing to trap me in a lie.

What is she up to tonight?

“Where did you say you got it? Might have to take a bottle back with me to show Manhattan the right way to drink on a budget.” She settles the rest of her weight into her hip against the counter and watches me expectantly.

And there it is. She’s using the same conniving tactics now that she did with my mom when she delivered the apple pie last weekend.

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