Page 70 of Between the Lines

The meeting with investors ran late, and there was too much on the line to leave early. Then Eric and Cynthia showed up with an urgent matter.

One that has left me in a sour mood. Not only had I likely missed my chance of spending time with Charlotte tonight, but there is a fire that needs to be doused within the company that could not, under any circumstances, be leaked to the press.

Wonderful.

I drive up the winding, familiar road to my house on autopilot. I’ve done it day in and day out for more years than I can count. It was one of the first purchases I made after college. Since then, the value of the property has appreciated so much that realtors are regularly hounding me to sell. But I don’t need more space.

I live alone, and I’ve always liked it that way.

Before.

Because I’m increasingly aware of there being a distinctbeforeand a resoundingafter.And it all revolves aroundher.

I hate the promise Charlotte made me make in the car last night. It goes against every instinct I have to get to know herbetter, to make sure she’s safe, and that whoever elicited that reaction from her never comes near her again. But she made me swear, and I’ll be damned if I’ll be the kind of man who doesn’t stand by his word.

That was my father, not me.

I pull into my driveway, and park between my sleek Ferrari Spider and Charlotte’s beat-up old Honda. I hate the sight of it now just as much as the first time I saw it.

Anyone can practicallyseehow unsafe it is with a single glance.

It’s a wonder it made it all the way here from Chicago, across hundreds of miles and rough terrain, with a stop at Zion National Park.

I park my car next to Honda and shoot it another look. I don’t want Charlotte driving around LA in that thing. Surrounded by giant vehicles that take the narrow hillside roads up here in the mountains far too fast. I should know. One incident, and she’d be…

Maybe I can convince her to let me buy her a new car. Make that a part of her deal. Nothing flashy, just…

From this decade, at the very least.

The house is dark when I unlock the front door. Of course, she’s already asleep. Why wouldn’t she be? I walk across the space with more force than needed. Usually, it’s my work that sustains me. Right now, I feel like it’s the one thing that’s bringing me down.

I hear soft voices, and then laughter. I head up to the second-floor landing and hear the voices get louder. Yes, it’s definitely the TV.

“Charlotte?”

There’s no response. Just more of a laugh track.

I see her on the couch. She’s lying on her side, curled up, hand beneath her head. The screen is showing an old episode ofFriends.

Sprawled on the table in front of her are two notepads, a still-opened laptop, and half a bottle of wine.

I lift the bottle.Langley Wineries.Along with my mother and my sister, I own this vineyard estate up in Sonoma Valley. She’s doing research?

I look down at Charlotte. She’s in a tank top and a pair of gray sweatpants, her face smoothed out in sleep. Long eyelashes rest against her freckled cheeks. Her hair is a wavy mess around the pillow. I want to reach out and run my hand through her gentle waves. I want to pull her into my arms and fall asleep right next to her.

I do neither.

Instead, I sit down on the other end of the couch and reach for a blanket. Being careful not to wake her, I spread it over her and then grab one of her notepads.

My name is everywhere.

She’s made notes for different chapters of the memoir in her slanted handwriting. There are comments about Mandy and how she’s planning to reach out to schedule a lunch with her. Questions that are still unanswered. There’s also a little checklist of topics that she’s waiting for my answers.

I look at the pen on the coffee table. Back to Charlotte. And then I sit back down and start answering them one by one.

She stirs when I’m halfway down the list. Curls even tighter into a ball before shifting onto her back. Her eyes blink open a few times, and she rolls her neck.

I put her notepad back down. “Hey.”

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