Page 48 of Maverick Mogul

“But?”

He smiles. “She told me I seemed smart, which wasnotthe popular opinion. She asked a lot of questions about my study habits and seemed really interested in the answers. Eventually, she asked if I’d ever heard of dyslexia.”

“And she was able to help you?” I try to imagine high school Charlie Fox, dealing with that paradigm shift while girls fawned over him and guys treated him like their king.

“She put me in touch with a friend of hers who was doing his PhD work in New York, researching dyslexia. We did video chats twice a week. He tutored me, taught me new study skills. I helped with his research—clocked my reading time with different fonts, tried a reading ruler, you name it.”

“That’s pretty amazing.”

Charlie nods. “It worked out. When I applied to that same school in New York, I wrote my essay on dyslexia and how their student’s research helped me. They let me in, and I set up an appointment with student disability services the first week.”

“And the rest is history,” I finish. I look at him, like maybe I’m seeing him clearly for the first time. Here, I thought the world had rolled out a red carpet for his Italian leather shoes, but it turns out that the confidence I’ve been so jealous of—the thing that seemed like it came so easily to him—was really developed as a smokescreen to hide the troubles he was really going through.

Which is why his next words take me by surprise. “You know, I was always kind of jealous of you in school.”

I boggle. “Jealous. Ofme?”

“Academics always came so easily to you,” Charlie explains. “You got straight A’s like you weren’t even trying. You always had your head in a book. You justunderstoodeverything.”

“Because I studied. To tell the truth, I didn’t have anything better to do. And it was easier to hang out at the library than be at home.”

Charlie gives me a curious look, so I take a breath, and admit:

“Things weren’t exactly… Easy in my family. My brother, Jordy, needed a lot of attention. Special therapists, medications, routines… There was always a new emergency or drama, so, I got pretty used to just taking care of things myself.”

Charlie nods slowly, but thank god, he doesn’t look pitying.

“How’s he doing these days?”

“Good,” I tell him, truthfully. “He lives in a community that he really likes, and he’s holding down a job, which is great. Best case scenario, in the end.”

“I didn’t realize, that’s what you were dealing with back then,” he says, looking thoughtful.

“Looks like both our first impressions were a little off the mark.” I focus on my food, avoiding the new look of understanding in his eyes. There’s more to Charlie Fox than I thought, which is very bad news for the rising sea level of my crush.

“Should we hit the road?” I say brightly. “We don’t want to miss the fun. And by fun, I mean, the opportunity to text Dash pics of you in all your RenFaire glory.”

Charlie laughs, getting to his feet. “You say that like you’re not getting dressed up either. Those wench costumes can be very unforgiving!”

12

CHARLIE

Operation:Resist Grace was going just fine. Yeah, there was that spontaneous excursion to Brooklyn to deliver supplies, but I managed to get out of her bedroom without upending our whole arrangement. And, OK, maybe I was a little more handsy at the boat party than I needed to be, but we were selling a ruse to her asshole exes. It was necessary.

But I haven’t kissed her again. I haven’t left her breathless and moaning. And I definitely haven’t peeled her clothes off and made her forget her ex ever laid a hand on her, the way I so desperately wanted the other night.

But trapped in the front seat of my rental car with her, inches away, her sundress just… Fluttering around her bare thighs?

This is pushing my gentlemanly self-control to the absolute limits.

“It’s so nice out,” she chatters, as we drive out of the city. The roads are still clear, and the BMW takes them like a pro. “I was worried it might rain, but the forecast is clear all weekend.”

“Uh huh,” I manage to mumble, keeping my eyes on the road—and not the way her hair is dancing over her bare shoulders in the breeze. “Great.”

I crank up the music, trying to block out rush of blood in my ears, and for the next seventy-one miles, I grip the steering wheel like it’s a lifeline.

In the passenger seat, Grace watches the scenery out the window, her dress hitching further up her thighs. Further….

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