Page 3 of Messy Match

“He could rub you the right—” Amber starts, nudging Nora in the side and slinging her a wicked grin.

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” I warn, grabbing the hanging garment bag and my rolling suitcase from where I stashed them in the stockroom this morning. And I head for the door without making Jake a drink. Two can play this game. And he can get his caffeine fix somewhere else.

Chapter two

Jake

Ipullovertothecurb outside The Daily Grind and flick on the hazards. A glance at the dash reveals I’m seven minutes early to pick up Charlotte.Damn.I should have driven around the block once or twice. But I wasn’t paying attention to the time. I was distracted by the fact I’m about to spend hours alone with the knockout who, for years, has simultaneously driven me up the wall and made me want to kiss some sense into her. Okay, a whole lot of sense.

A small voice in the back of my head says maybe, she won’t notice I’m early, but I scoff. Who am I kidding? Of course, she’ll notice. Charlotte Harris doesn’t miss a thing. And I’ve just handed her ammunition on a silver platter. Being early is basically admitting I’ve been thinking about this. About her. About four uninterrupted hours of having her gorgeous curves only inches from me and her smart mouth giving me a hard time. In close quarters. Without her brother’s watchful eye or the guys or Maya from the station around to witness whatever thisthingis between us.

These seven minutes blow my carefully crafted image of being the guy who doesn’t care enough to show up on time. The guy who’s too busy living up to his playboy reputation to get invested in anyone. The guy she thinks I am. It’s been hard enough keeping up the pretense that’s worn thinner by the day since that disaster on New Year’s Eve two years ago. But this weekend? It will be nearly impossible.

Plus, who am I kidding? I’ve been ready for this drive since the stars aligned so that Brock and Libby headed up to Wildwood yesterday while Mack, Maya, Zoe, and Levi can’t leave until tomorrow. Which left Charlotte and me. The bridesmaid without a driver’s license and the best man who conveniently has a Class B CDL. I volunteered a little too quickly, earning a raised eyebrow from Levi and a knowing smirk from Maya. Being early isn’t my first slip when it comes to Charlotte Harris, and it certainly won’t be my last.

I grip the steering wheel. This weekend at a fancy mountain resort will test every ounce of restraint I have. Because the truth is, everything about Charlotte Harris gets under my skin. Her fierce independence. That sharp tongue that never fails to put me in my place. The way she throws herself into life with a passion that makes my career—even with its inherent dangers—feel like a cop-out. And now, I’ll be trapped in a car with her infectious energy and intoxicating presence for hours while I pretend she doesn’t affect me at all.

I blow out a long breath and climb out of the car. Through the wall of windows, I catch sight of Charlotte chatting with some coworkers and a customer. Under her apron, a tank top clings to her curves. The sight has my mouth suddenly as parched as a desert. My chest tightens like a safety harness pulled too tight whenever she’s around. I’ve never met a woman who lights up a room the way Brock’s sister does. It’s the very first thing thatstruck me about her that very first night. When she captivated me and I fell under her spell. Before everything went sideways.

I take two long strides across the sidewalk, reaching for the coffeeshop door, but Charlotte’s already pushing through it. The rich aroma of freshly ground beans follows her like a signature scent, wrapping around me in a way that makes my pulse quicken. That perfume has become my personal torment. The smell of coffee never fails to bring her to mind, as if she’s branded into my senses. Even when I miss her deliveries to the station, I can tell she’s been there. Her presence lingers in the air, as unmistakable as smoke after a fire. Every. Single. Time.

Her silver-gray eyes narrow as her gaze slides over me. “You’re early.”

Told you.Charlotte notices everything, which is part of what makes this whole dance we do so dangerous. I shrug. “No line at the rental place. And traffic wasn’t bad on the way over.”

It’s a half-truth, if not a full-out lie, and we both know it.

Before she can say anything else, I reach to help her with her bags. She blocks me, twisting sideways with a curt, “I’ve got it.”

Grrr, this woman.

It’s exhausting. This careful choreography of barbed comments and heated glares too often feels like a messed-up kind of foreplay. Every cell in my body is keenly aware of how close she is. Of how easy it would be to brush against her, press her against the car and tongue kiss her until her knees give way. But, no, instead, loading the car becomes awkward as Charlotte does everything she can to avoid my assistance and any possibility of physical contact.

Once the trunk is closed, I follow her to the passenger side, but she jerks open the door and slides in, tugging it closed before I can do it for her. I’ve never known a woman to be so blasted independent. She goes out of her way to make it crystal clear she doesn’t need a thing from me…or any man. From the start,Charlotte had me questioning every instinct I have. Because apparently, being a gentleman and good at my job somehow makes me an overbearing watchdog in her eyes.

I skirt the back of the car and sink into my seat behind the wheel. She’s digging through the bag in her lap.

“Where are my earbuds?” Frustration hunches her bare shoulders. The same bare shoulders I’ve imagined trailing my lips across more times than I care to admit. “I know I threw them in here this morning.”

As I start the car, the satellite radio station I selected on the way here, one I know for a fact she likes, starts up. I could kiss the universe, or whatever higher being is in my corner this afternoon, because at this exact moment, the first notes of a hit from one of her favorite artists blast through the speaker. She glances at the dash, a notch forming between her brows. But her shoulders drop, and she sets the bag on the floorboard by her feet, pulling out a well-worn script instead. “I need to run lines, anyway.”

I turn down the volume and check the side mirror before pulling into traffic. “What’s the audition for?”

“An off-Broadway adaptation ofTaming of the Shrew.” She flips through the highlighted pages. "A parody of the original."

“Kate?” I ask, seeing immediately how Charlotte would be perfect for the sharp-tongued, strong-willed character. Charlotte’s head snaps toward me, surprise flickering across her face.

“You know the play?”

There’s no way in hell, less than sixty seconds into this drive, I’ll admit I’ve been paying attention to what’s playing on and off Broadway for more than two years now. Ever since Brock happened to mention his sister was an actress, in addition to being a barista.

I lift a shoulder, not meeting her gaze. “I’ve heard of it.”

Chapter three

Jake

Ninetyminuteslater,Charlotte’shumming along to a song on the radio while demolishing the bag of salt-and-vinegar chips I stashed in the center console for her.

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