Page 27 of The Charlie Method

CHARLIE:

I’m listening…

B:

It involves those panties you’re wearing in your second pic.

CHARLIE:

Hold on. I don’t even remember which ones they are. Let me look.

CHARLIE:

Purple. You like purple?

B:

It’s not the purple—it’s the bow. Lars can confirm how much I love bows on a woman. They look so fucking innocent.

CHARLIE:

Ooh, someone has a little virginal fantasy.

B:

Maybe.

CHARLIE:

Okay, stop teasing. Tell me the fantasy.

B:

So…I’m just getting out of the shower when Lars calls me into his room. He says he has a present for me. I approach the doorway and see you in the center of the room, with Lars behind you. I start to walk in, but he stops me. Tells me he needs to unwrap my present first. So I stand there and watch as he starts undressing you. He unzips your skirt. He takes off your top. Undoes your bra. He takes everything off except those panties. I’m so hard it hurts now, but he still won’t let me come closer. He moves behind you again, wrapping his arms around you to cup your tits. Then he drags his hands down your body until his fingers reach that goddamn bow. He plays with it, looking mighty pleased with himself as he offers you up to me. You look at me, waiting to see what I’m going to do next.

CHARLIE:

And what are you going to do next?

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHARLOTTE

More like a Greek tragedy

THERE’S THIS HOCKEY GUY IN MYCLIMATEPOLICY ELECTIVE WHOthinks he’s charming, but really, he’s just obnoxious and full of himself. His name is Beckett. Of course it’s Beckett.

And because the universe has a twisted sense of humor, wealwaysarrive at the social sciences building at the same time. I swear he’s stalking me. Fine. Probably not. He probably likes showing up ten minutes early every Tuesday morning, same as me. If I weren’t in a toxic relationship with my schedule, I’d adjust my own habits and arrive fifteen minutes early or five minutes later. But I’m a ten-minutes-early girl, and no hockey player will ever make me compromise my principles.

Still, my least favorite part of the morning is reaching the limestone steps at the same time as him. The guy is more good-looking than he deserves to be, with blond hair, devilish gray eyes, and a broad frame always encased in denim and a black-and-silver hockey jacket.

He always flashes me a dimpled smile, and then, without fail, every single time I walk up, I’m ambushed with—

“Morning, sugar puff.”

Because one day, one fucking time, I ate a sugar puff.

And I haven’t even eaten one since! It was just a new pastry that the bakery in the student center had been advertising at the beginning of the semester. I kept walking by these signs with a picture of an oversize doughball shimmering with white sugar granules. It looked so delicious but horrifying at the same time, because it’s a literal sphere of dough and sugar the size of a baseball, and I needed to know why it existed. So I went inside, and I bought one. I bought a fucking sugar puff. I brought it with me to this building and walked to these steps, and I bit into it just as Mr. Hockey strode up. When he said hello, I could see how hard he was trying not to laugh at me, all the while feeling my entire face covered in sugar.

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