Page 1 of The Charlie Method

CHAPTER ONE

CHARLOTTE

Some might say I lead a double life

NEVER HOOK UP IN CARS WITH FOOTBALL PLAYERS.

That’s what my mother always told me.

Fine, I’m lying. Mom never said that. But I can say with absolute certainty that my mother would not approve of what I’m doing right now.

Or rather who I’m about to do.

Isaac Grant is six foot six, muscular, and barely fits in the front seat of his own car. It’s a sports car, of course. A silver Porsche 911 coupe that made me lick my lips when I pulled into the lot behind the Hastings seniors’ center and saw it parked there. This car is so sexy it makes me shiver.

Or maybe it’s Isaac who’s making me shiver, on account of his tongue exploring my mouth, teasing mine with slow, skillful strokes. He’s a good kisser. Meanwhile, his fingers are moving inside me. He’s good at that too. He curls those two fingers to find my sweet spot, and the resulting torrent of pleasure has me clenching around his hand.

“Mmm, baby,” he groans against my lips. “I can’t wait to feel you squeezing my cock.”

A bolt of desire shoots through me. Dirty talk issucha turn-on. My inner muscles do indeed squeeze at his wicked words, as if trying to capture his fingers inside me. Isaac releases another strangled sound of need. I’m shameless as I grind against him, but he doesn’t seem to mind my total lack of control.

He starts kissing my neck. Goose bumps rise along my flesh, transforming into a flurry of shivers when I feel him against my thigh. A long, hard ridge that seems to never end, confirming my best friend Faith’s theory that the size of a man’s hands correlates to the size of the D.

Speaking of Faith, I’m about ten seconds from a raging orgasm when her ringtone slices through the fog of heavy breathing in the front seat.

“Shit,” I mumble, the movements of my hips stilling.

“Don’t answer it,” Isaac mumbles back.

“I have to.”

With great regret, I lean toward the passenger side, where I left my phone.

Faith Grierson is the only person aware of my current location. The only person privy to the clandestine hookups I occasionally like to engage in. Sure, I could’ve met Isaac tonight without alerting a single soul and saved myself the good-natured jabs I’ll receive later, but on the off chance that the star wide receiver of the football team also masquerades as a murderer, it’s better to let Faith know where I’m going to be. She won’t judge me.

“Nooo,” Isaac complains when my fingers close around my phone.

“I’m sorry. Could be an emergency.” I lift the phone to my ear. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Sorry to interrupt, but apparently we’ve got a Presidents’ Gala meeting tonight.”

“No, we don’t. It’s tomorrow.”

“Well, you see, Charlotte,” Faith answers in her trademark dry inflection, “Iknow it’s tomorrow, andyouknow it’s tomorrow, but you know whodoesn’tknow it’s tomorrow and has decided to gaslight the entire house into believingwe’rein the wrong?”

“Fuckin’ Agatha,” I grumble.

“Fuckin’ Agatha,” she confirms. Her laughter tickles my ear. “I told her you’re on your way, so you’d better book it over here if you don’t want a two-hour scolding session tomorrow.”

“Ugh. I’ll be there soon. Thanks for the heads-up.”

I end the call and curse under my breath. Agatha Buckley-Ellis does this shit on a regular basis. The president of Delta Pi, Briar University chapter, is incapable of admitting when she’s wrong or if she’s made a mistake. Instead, she’ll dig herself into a hole so deep, it’s a wonder she doesn’t wind up in another state.

The meeting was 100 percent, unequivocally, tomorrow. My calendar is not the Wild West—not a single item makes it on there without proper confirmation. It’s probably not something I should brag about, but I’m a straight up anal-retentive psycho when it comes to my calendar.

Besides, we never hold meetings on Friday nights. Everyone knows Agatha’s right-hand woman, Sherise, has a standing Friday night appointment at the salon in Hastings to touch up her grays. Sherise claims she started going gray at the temples in the tenth grade—supposedly early female graying runs in her family—but Faith and I like to think it’s on account of Agatha. Our sorority president is capable of inflicting a staggering amount of stress.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell Isaac. “I totally forgot about an important meeting.”

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