Page 10 of Messy Match

Charlotte scowls, squaring her shoulders as if she’s preparing for battle. “I’m perfectly capable of finding my own room.” She lifts her chin in that all-too-familiar defiant tilt. But then she takes off toward the terrace instead of the lobby.

“Other way, sweetheart.” Her steps falter, and a sense of triumph surges through my veins.

Until she spins to face me, eyes flashing with that fire I’ve seen a hundred times before. The look that both infuriates and enthralls me.

“I knew that. I’m just…exploring. On. My. Own.”

I should let her go. Charlotte’s a grown woman who can handle herself. But as she disappears through the enormous sliding glass doors onto the moonlit terrace, I don’t think twice about following. I slip outside, sticking to the shadows as if I’m the hero in a spy movie and she’s the mission I can’t walk away from.

The summer night air is crisp at this elevation, fresh with the scent of pine and wilderness. Charlotte wanders to the stonerailing and wraps her arms around herself. Of course, she’s cold. She doesn’t have a jacket on—mine or her own. Just as I’m debating whether to approach her, she tips back her head and lifts her gaze to the dark sky full of brilliant stars.

From where I stand, the view is something. Not just because there isn’t a skyscraper in sight, but thanks to the endless ink-black sky scattered with more stars than I’ve ever seen and Charlotte, silhouetted against the backdrop, backlit by the light spilling across the terrace from inside. The silver moonlight reflects on her dark hair as she takes it all in. It’s the kind of sight that makes a man forget how to breathe. Charlotte Harris is stunning even if she is full of fierce independence and stubborn pride. Or perhaps, because that’s the way she is.

Something off to our left catches her eye, and her whole face lights up. Fireflies are dancing in the gardens below, their gentle lights pulsing like earthbound stars.

“Oh!” The soft exclamation escapes her as she leans forward, entranced by the display. I’ve seen her perform, watched her command attention on stage, but this unguarded delight is something else entirely. Something real and raw that makes my chest ache.

And though I’ve been as quiet as a mouse, she says, “I know you’re there,” a moment later without turning around. There’s no bite in her tone, only wry observation. “Let me guess, you’re afraid I’ll fall off the terrace without your watchful eye.”

I move closer, drawn by the slight sway in her stance. She’s still tracking the fireflies, and three beers in, I can’t help but yearn to be by her side. “Can’t blame a firefighter for assessing potential hazards, darling. Especially when they come in that dress.”

Slowly, she turns to face me but wobbles enough that my hands shoot out to steady her hips before she can stumble. Suddenly, we’re pressed as close together as we were on thatdance floor two years ago. The contact sizzles like a live wire. Her skin is warm through the thin fabric of her dress, and my fingers flex involuntarily, pulling her harder against me She gasps and I catch the faintest trace of her perfume on the breeze.

“I told you no heroics,” Charlotte whispers, but she doesn’t pull away. If anything, she sways closer. I’m transported back to that New Year’s Eve, to how perfectly she fit against me before it all went south.

“This isn’t heroics.” My voice comes out rough. “It’s self-preservation.”

“How’s that?”

“If you fell, your brother would kill me.” But we both know that’s not the real danger here. The real danger is in how right this feels, how natural it is to hold her like this.

“I’m not going to fall.” Her hands come up to rest on my chest, but instead of pushing me away, her fingers curl into my shirt. Behind her, the fireflies continue their dance, nature’s own version of the strobe lights that surrounded us that first night.

“Charlotte…” It’s meant to be a warning, but it comes out like a prayer.

“I hate that you’re always watching me,” she says fiercely, but there’s something vulnerable in her gray eyes that wasn’t there before. “That you’re always there. That I can feel your eyes on me, even when I’m not looking. That you notice everything, even when I wish you wouldn’t.”

Before I can respond, she surges up and kisses me, her lips crushing mine. It’s angry and desperate and nothing like I’ve ever imagined kissing Charlotte would feel like. But then her tongue traces the seam of my lips, and all thought evaporates. I pin her against the terrace with my hips, one hand sliding up the smooth silk of her dress while the other cups her face. The rapid flutter of her pulse pounds under my palm.

She tastes like wine and something uniquely Charlotte. My heart drums against my ribs as a small sound emerges from the back of her throat. Every nerve ending is on fire, every sense overwhelmed. But what registers more than anything is the way Charlotte Harris kisses me as if she’s been dreaming about it for as long as I have.

Then, as suddenly as it began, she pulls back. For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other, both trying to catch our breath while processing what just happened. Peering up at me through lowered lashes, with lips parted, it takes a second, but I see the exact moment the spell breaks.

“I…” she starts then shakes her head. “I need to go.”

This time, when she rushes away, I need a minute to collect myself before I follow her. I keep my distance again but stay close enough to be certain she makes it back to her room safely. And the sound of her door clicking shut as she disappears inside feels like a punctuation mark on this evening. On whatever just happened between us.

A moment later, back in my room, I hear her moving around through the wall. The connecting door between our rooms has never felt more like a temptation. Or a challenge.

I drop onto my bed, running a hand over my face. The taste of her still lingers on my lips, her scent filling my senses, and I know sleep will be impossible tonight. Because for the first time since that New Year’s Eve, I’m starting to think I’m the one who needs saving.

Chapter seven

Charlotte

“There’snothingquitelikea mountain view,” Maya says as we emerge from the resort onto the back lawn, ready for the wedding rehearsal. The late-afternoon sun bathes everything in a soft golden glow, the kind of light photographers dream about, and the warm rays are welcome on my skin. A crisp mountain breeze carries the scent of wildflowers and fresh-cut grass, but a chill makes me grateful I brought a light cardigan.

I nod, grateful for her easy conversation after a busy day. Between stuffing welcome bags with Libby this morning and then a late lunch with my mom and stepdad after they arrived, I’ve successfully avoided thinking about last night. Well, mostly. Except for those quiet moments when my mind drifted to the way Jake’s strong hands gripped my hips on the terrace, his fingers digging into my skin through the thin fabric of my dress with just enough pressure to make my whole body heat. Or how the connecting door between our rooms seemed to mock me allnight as I tossed and turned, hyperaware of his presence on the other side.

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