Page 187 of The Charlie Method

“What if you leave?” I blurt out, surprising even myself.

She sits up, confused. “What?”

I force myself to meet her eyes. “What if I let myself feel this, and you leave?”

Her features soften. She reaches out to touch my cheek, stroking my beard. “I’m not your ex. I would never hurt you.”

“You say that now. But you can’t see the future. People change their minds. People leave. You don’t know what will happen.”

“I know that I love you, more than I ever thought I would. I know I would never intentionally hurt you.”

I want to believe her. Fuck, I want to. But the fear has wrapped itself around my chest like a boa constrictor.

She leans over me, resting her forehead against mine. “Trust me, Ice Boy. I love you. I’m not going to hurt you.”

I close my eyes. She’s asking me to let her in, and I don’t know if I can.

“Please,” she murmurs. “Trust me.”

I exhale. Maybe I don’t have to say it. Maybe it’s enough, for now, to just hold on to her.

“I’ll try,” I say quietly, pulling her against my chest.

“That’s all I’m asking for.”

We stay like that for a while, her breathing evening out as she nestles closer. Eventually, I feel her body relax completely as she drifts off to sleep, but my mind continues to race.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

WILL

Tick-fucking-tock

IWAKE UP TO THE SOUND OF MUFFLED VOICES AND THE DISTINCT CREAKof the front door opening and then closing. It takes a moment to fully shake off the remnants of sleep. I blink, realizing the voices aren’t in my head. There are people downstairs.

I roll over, expecting to find Charlotte still asleep beside me, but the bed is empty, and I remember she slept with Beckett last night.

I wait for it. The stab of jealousy. The heat of possessiveness.Mine. She’s mine.

But it doesn’t come.

Because she’s ours.

I toss the covers aside and slip out of bed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants and sliding my phone in my pocket in case I need to call the cops. Because the voices downstairs are only growing louder, and I don’t hear Charlie’s feminine pitch. It sounds like a bunch of dudes arguing with each other.

What the fuck?

I make my way downstairs, but it isn’t until I round the corner into the living room that I find the source of the commotion. Beckett stands near the window, shirtless, his arms crossed, while an older blond man paces the hardwood with a frustrated expression on his face.

Judging by the strong resemblance, I deduce this is Beck’s dad.

And the man is clearly agitated, making wild gestures as he says, “Can you believe it? Over a job offer!”

Beckett sighs and drops his arms to his sides. “Dad. Seriously. Chill, bro. Did she actually kick you out?”

I lean against the doorway, trying not to eavesdrop too obviously, but curiosity gets the better of me. Beck’s dad has the same broad shoulders and strong jawline as his son, but his hair is graying at the temples, and he’s sporting a bit of a paunch at his midsection. Australians do like to drink.

“Yes!” Mr. Dunne exclaims, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Kicked me out of my own house because I accepted a job offer! A great opportunity, mind you, but noooo, she says it’s too much of a sacrifice.”

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