Page 81 of Between the Lines

“Yes. I’m not an expert, and I know fuck-all about publishing.” I shrug a little. “But I know you, and Chaos, I know how to produce things that sell. Why not test it out on me?”

Her lips tip up. “Okay. Yes, I’ll do that.”

“Work in here,” I say and nod toward the couch.

Charlotte’s smile remains in place. “I have a small room down the hall that your staff have so kindly allowed me to use.”

“The couch is more comfortable.”

She retreats a few steps, her smile turning teasing. I lean back in my chair and drink in her expression. “Maybe,” she says, “but the last thing we want is for your employees to start gossiping, hmm?”

“They’ve been doing that about me for years.” I might as well give them something I actually care about to discuss.

She shakes her head. “I’ll see you later, Aiden. Oh, hey, is what I’m wearing okay or should I head home to change?”

My gaze slides down her body. The white button-down and the cornflower-blue silky skirt. She looks professional, presentable, and delicious.

I lean back in my chair. “I’m not sure. Twirl for me.”

Charlotte laughs. “I know that’s not needed, but okay. Fine.” She spins slowly on the carpet, the fabric dancing around her legs. She’s glorious.

“Sorry, just had to make sure,” I say.

“Make sure of what?”

“That there were no panty lines.” I grin at her. “I know what you wear beneath those respectable outfits now.”

She pauses, gaping at my words. Then she reaches for one of the pillows on my couch and chucks it across the space at me.

I catch it with a laugh. “I’m not sorry!”

Charlotte is quiet beside me in the car on our way to Velveteen. We run into traffic near Beverly Hills, and she sighs softly. I watch her undo the hair bun at her nape. She spreads the tresses out with her fingers, the light-brown waves glossy and long.

“What role am I playing tonight?” she asks me.

“Yourself.”

She shakes her head a little. “No, that’s not the one. Who do these people think I am to you?”

Everything.The word flashes through my mind before I can stop it. “You’re working with me on a literary project.”

“So we’re going with the truth tonight.”

“When have we not gone with the truth?”

“I’ve played your date to several events now,” she says. Her hands smooth down her thighs, over the blue fabric.

“Not on purpose,” I say.

She ignores that and picks at her hem. “Caleb and Nora Stone. How old are they?”

“Mid-thirties, or so.”

“Who founded their company?”

“Nora. She brought her younger brother on a few years later. They split the responsibilities of running it after that. He’s the head of technical development, and she’s been leading content and marketing.”

“Huh. Think you could work with your sibling like that?”

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