Page 89 of Forgot to Tell You Something

“You’re moving here?” I thunder, my heart racing like a greyhound.

“Don’t get so excited, Owen. It’s only for the next several weeks. Then, I’ll return to San Francisco. Perhaps you might join me at that point.”

“Charlotte, we are not reconciling,”

“We’ll see, I suppose. We have a lot of years together, Owen. An awful lot of time invested.”

“Does this payday hinge on our reconciliation? Because if it does, I’m not interested.”

She fiddles with her fork, and I wonder if I’m about to witness a meltdown. I’ve never seen her fiddle before. I sure as hell have never seen Charlotte melt down. “Daddy is a businessman, and this is strictly business.”

Bullshit, and we both know it.

“I’m not with Marco any longer.”

I shrug, finishing the last of my coffee. “It’s not my business if you are.”

“It was difficult being with you, Owen. You were always working.”

“So were you. Different capacities, but you were wheeling and dealing 24/7. You never turned off.”

“I guess we’re both to blame.”

Not really, considering I didn’t screw Marco, but there’s no point in arguing. “Absolutely.”

She cracks a smile, motioning to my head. “It suits you.”

“You hate it,” I reply with a grin.

“I do, but you’re handsome, regardless.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that pseudo compliment.”

“It’s a start,” she volleys back. Hell, it’s the closest thing to banter I’ve experienced with Charlotte in years. Sarcasm is not a school that she ever attended. “Would you like a refill? We can discuss the specifics of the deal, and you can decide if you’d like to participate.”

“Sure, let me go to the bathroom first.” I stand, colliding with the server. For a brief second, a half-empty mug teeters on top of the plate, right before it tumbles down, dousing the front of my shirt and pants.

“Sir, I’m so sorry,” the server exclaims, fumbling to set down the dishes. She grabs napkins from a neighboring table and hands them to me. A nice gesture, but it’s going to take more than that.

“You need to watch where you’re going,” Charlotte hisses, her eyes narrowing at the young waitress.

“It’s fine. I ran into her.” I shoot Charlotte a warning look. Growing up in a world of privilege, she believes the world works for her. In some sick way, they likely do, considering the vast number of companies owned by her family.

“I’m so sorry, sir. I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.” Poor kid, she can’t be over nineteen and now thinks she’s about to lose her job.

“No need. It was my fault.”

“It wasnot—”

“Charlotte, I said leave it,” I reply, giving her one last warning.

With a huff, she waves her black Amex under the server’s nose. “Settle our bill immediately.”

The waitress scurries off, her eyes downcast and shoulders slumped. I may be covered in coffee, but I feel for that poor kid. Her day is ruined because of my ex-fiancée’s arrogance.

The moment she returns with the bill, Charlotte signs the document, snatching back her card. I’m shocked for two reasons: Charlotte’s behavior and that she actually picked up the tab. It’s the first time since we met that she paid her own way.

We walk outside, and Charlotte points to a sleek white Mercedes convertible. In a lot of high-priced vehicles, it’s near the top of the dollar list. “That’s me.”

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