Page 189 of The Charlie Method

My heart beats a little bit faster at the sight of her, my T-shirt hanging over her leggings, feet bare, long black hair rumpled from sleep. She falters when she notices Beckett’s father, her wary gaze darting between me and Beck, who gives her a rueful smile.

“This is my dad,” he says. “James Dunne, Charlotte Kingston.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and neither do me or Charlie. Instead, she walks over to shake James’s hand, then prepares herself a cup of green tea. As she’s dropping a tea bag into her mug, Beckett comes up behind her to plant a kiss on her neck.

“Sorry we woke you,” he says, then gives her ass a playful squeeze before grabbing a seat at the breakfast counter with his coffee.

“I didn’t know your dad was visiting,” she says to him.

“Neither did I,” he snorts, which prompts James to retell the entire sordid tale to Charlie, unfazed that she’s a total stranger.

Today I’m learning that Australians overshare.

I take a sip of coffee just as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, grimacing at the name flashing on the screen.

Tessa Diaz.

I haven’t heard from Tessa since she published that profile at my dad’s insistence. She emailed me a link to the article when it released back in December. The piece had painted me as the all-American son of a well-respected congressman, teeming with promise and potential, a guy with a bright and shiny future ahead of him.

In other words, total bullshit.

I duck out of the kitchen, bringing the phone to my ear. “Tessa, hey.”

“Will!” she chirps, far too enthusiastic for this early in the morning. “I’m sorry to call before nine on a Saturday, but I’m in Boston right now, and I’ll only be here until noon. I was hoping to drive out to Hastings for a quick chat. Do you have some time in the next couple hours?”

Curiosity creases my forehead. “Yes, I do. As long as it’s soon. We have a game later, so I need to be at the rink this afternoon.”

“It’ll be quick,” she assures me. “If I head out now, I can be at your place in about an hour?”

“My place? You don’t want to meet at the diner or something?”

“I’d prefer not to. Wouldn’t mind some privacy for this discussion.”

Well, color me intrigued.

After we hang up, I return to the kitchen, where Beckett’s dad is now asking Charlotte if she would divorce him for taking a job without her permission.

“Who was on the phone?” Beck catches my eye as he sips his coffee.

“Tessa Diaz, that journalist fromCapitol Magazine. She wrote the profile on me in the fall.”

“Right. Your dad’s mouthpiece.”

“She’s coming by in an hour. Says she has something to discuss with me.”

Slugging back the rest of my coffee, I walk to the sink and drop my cup in it, then head for the hall.

“Gonna grab a shower before she gets here,” I say over my shoulder.

In the shower, as hot water courses down my face and chest, I wonder what the hell my dad’s cooked up this time. Because there’s no other reason Tessa would be calling me out of the blue, wanting to chat.

We already did a puff piece, though. So this follow-up, or whatever it is, must have some sort of an angle, some new way to cram me further into the mold he’s crafted for me.

An hour later, Tessa rings my doorbell, all smiles and bright eyes as I let her in. She’s dressed in dark jeans and a thick blue parka with a fur hood, and I greet her with a handshake, trying to match her enthusiasm even as every instinct tells me to be wary.

Rather than remove her winter gear, she nods at the front door. “How about we go for a walk and chat? I promise I won’t take up too much of your time.”

“Sure.”

---