Page 49 of Degrees of Control

James scratched his head. With Charlotte’s dark hair, their kids probably wouldn’t be blond, their eyes would be fucking incredible though. A vision of a tiny someone floated up in his mind. A whisper of a dog and a place to call his own. A laughing Charlotte meeting him at the door when he come home. James stood up so quickly his head spun. He was going to call someone, his CFO maybe and go out for lunch after all, even if it meant Verity catching him in a lie. He needed a goddamn drink.

Chapter 13

All afternoon, Charlie couldn’t stop opening her chest of drawers and running her hands through the lingerie, laying everything out on her bedspread before growing embarrassed and stuffing everything back in.

She’d never owned underwear like it before. Completely impractical, of course. The panties rode up, the lace itched and the tissue-paper bras gave her boobs no support, but each item was a handstitched work of art. It sounded silly but this underwear had character. It was uniquely lovely.

Still, it wasn’t the clothing itself but the idea that she could embody James’ fantasies that kept her returning to the drawer. That and nerves. Hayley invited her out for sushi later that day and she’d been forced to decline. When Hayley asked, Charlie had told her the truth. A night of sex her friend could have forgiven, but Hayley was pissed she was making James dinner “like a freaking housewife.”Her ominous warning that James would see this as a sign she was falling in love with him and use it against her still rang in Charlie’s ears.

She knew that they were pushing the boundaries of casual hook-ups, but shelikedJames. He was funny and self-aware and gorgeous as hell. Besides, since she and Dale had split up, she’d hardly cooked for anyone and she missed it. Contrary to Hayley’s assumption, cooking wasn’t about gendered servitude. When you made someone a meal, you were saying ‘you’re important to me,’ a sentiment that was as valid for friends as it was lovers.

Eight o’clock drew closer and Charlie forced herself to stop chopping unnecessary ingredients. Instead, she blared her dorky folk music and practiced headstands in the lounge room, trying not to count the minutes with each passing song.

When two sharp raps came from the hallway, she quickly up-righted herself, rushed to the door and swung it open. A familiar wave of intimidation surged over her. As usual, James wore black jeans and a gray T-shirt better than most men wore tuxedos, his dirty blond hair was rumpled and his expression was wary. Seeing him in such a familiar place made her heart kick like a snare drum.He’s here, in my terrible home. He came. He likes me too.

Charlie stood on her tippy toes and kissed him on the cheek.

He recoiled slightly. “Uh, hey?”

“Sorry, my mother’s Greek, that’s just what we do.”

James almost smiled and presented her with a bottle of sparkling apple cider. “I don’t know what non-drinkers drink, so I got this.”

She beamed at him. “I bought you beer! The guy at the store asked me for two kinds of ID.”

A small smile thawed his full mouth. “I’m not surprised. You gonna invite me in?”

“Ooh, yeah sorry. Come in.”

Charlie plunked the cider in the fridge and led him on a brief tour of her “home.” James kept his expression neutral, but it was obvious he thought it was a dump. She didn’t blame him. Itwasa dump. She didn’t know what was worse, the concrete floors, the mismatched wallpaper or the overpowering stench of weed. A hundred sticks of incense couldn’t erase it even if she wanted the flat to smell like a hundred sticks of incense.

“Yeah, this is more or less what I expected.” James inspected her broken bathroom sink. “You want me to fix this?”

“Only if you do it with your shirt off.”

He laughed, but it was strained. Charlie could see he was agitated. His gaze kept flicking from the door to the windows like a spooked horse looking to bolt. She decided to give him some space to relax, handing him a beer and busying herself by oiling the wok for dinner. James drank and seemed to calm down somewhat. When their gazes met, he quirked an eyebrow at the dozen bowls she’d assembled next to her. “This dinner particularly complicated, Miss Charlotte?”

“Not really, you’ve just got to do Pad Thai in stages. Trust me, it’ll be brilliant.”

James smiled. “Sometimes you do sound British.”

“Sometimes you sound like Foghorn Leghorn. Shut up and let me cook.”

As she fried off the shallots, she could feel him watching her. Just being near him sent energy flowing through her like a low-grade electric current, but having him here in her dank, marijuana-scented apartment felt like intimacy. When the wok was redolent with the smell of sweet and sour, Charlie threw in the rice noodles and started stirring rapidly.

“Help you with anything?” James called from behind her. “Dish towel, maybe?”

“The. Mess. Is. Part. Of. The. Process.”

When it was done, Charlie poured the mess of noodles into a bowl and placed it in front of him. “Bang. Dinner is served.” She turned her back on him so he wouldn’t feel pressured to make an approving face.

“This is pretty fucking good, Blue-Eyes.”

Charlie wanted to punch the air. “Thanks.”

She slid her bowl of Pad Thai onto the counter and sat beside him. They ate in silence for a few seconds until she couldn’t hold back any longer. “I have a proposal. Since I cooked, you have to talk to me.”

James’ face went blank. “About what?”

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