Page 32 of Not in the Plan

“You okay?” Mack laid a warm hand on Charlie’s forearm.

No.“Yep.” Charlie half-assed a smile as branches slapped against the window. “I just get a little jumpy in storms.”

Mack checked her watch. “You’re almost closed for the day. Want to head upstairs?”

Rain bullets pelted the windows. The oppressive screeching of the furious wind amplified. Would the power go out? Where were her flashlights? Would the two vanilla candles on her kitchen table be enough? Charlie kicked herself that she never bought the generator that the contractor recommended.

The lights flickered as the ominous clouds hovered. Charlie’s insides quivered while her feet were cemented to the floor. “I need to… close up shop.” She cursed her shaky voice.

Mack clapped. “What do you need me to do?”

Charlie took a deep breath, breathed out her nerves, then rapid-fire instructed. Baked goods were shoved in containers. The till counted down. Chairs thrown on top of tables. Mops saturated and pushed across the floor in record time. Charlie stuffed a few chocolate chip cookies, two bags of salt & vinegar chips, and some bottled water in a bag.

“You ready for this?” Charlie asked, cursing that the inside stairs were blocked off by product and they had to use the outside stairs.

Mack patted the front of her laptop bag strapped across her body. “This baby’s waterproof. I’m good.”

The furious wind ripped open the door and slammed it against the side of the house. The air smelled like a wet, moldy penny. Charlie’s bell sleeves offered a sliver of protection for the pastries as she ran up the wooden stairs and attempted to shield her face from the rain razor slices. In the ninety seconds it took to lock the shop door and open her loft, her clothes clung to her skin, and drips fell from her hair.

She threw open the door, and Mack stumbled in behind her.

ELEVEN

MACK’S DRINK SPECIAL: STEAMED STORMY LATTE WITH A TOUCH OF SWEETNESS

Wet hair matted against Mack’s forehead; she pushed it to the side. A saturated blend of lavender and vanilla traveled to her nose, and she’d be lying if she said it didn’t do some sort of something tingly to her insides.

The loft was a stark contrast to her white-walled NYC apartment with its single couch, large bookshelf, and one hanging wooden clock. It looked exactly as she expected—like a fairy and a tornado joined forces. Twinkly white lights strung across the sage-green walls. Unfolded blankets on the couch, paperwork scattered across the desk, and stacked boxes filled the corner. Dozens of mismatched, randomly framed artworks with flowers, butterflies, city landscapes, and ocean scenes haphazardly hung across the wall.

Carefree and without rules.

Everything that Mack wasn’t.

“A hammock in your living room. I have so many questions.” Mack rested her laptop bag against the wall. She wrung her hands together and then stuffed them in her pocket.

Charlie toed off her shoes. “Sometimes I sleep there. I love feeling like I’m on a swinging cloud.” A warm glow filled the space when she flipped on a few lamps.

A few hours ago, when Mack bolted from her parents’ place, she didn’t expect she’d wind up at Charlie’s whimsical, fairy-dust-laden, messy-but-inviting place. The zings traveled figure-eight style from her gut to her head to her heart from being in Charlie’s home.

A shiver spasmed up Mack’s arm leaving an army of goose bumps.

“I’m gonna grab some towels,” Charlie said, and returned with a stack of multi-colored towels. She slid a package out of the way with the side of her foot and hesitated. The heat of her eyes lowered to Mack’s wet T-shirt for half a second before she shook her head and snapped her gaze to Mack’s face, pink shooting to her cheeks.

Mack wanted to rip her shirt off as much as she wanted to grab a blanket and sink into the oversized couch. Air needed to funnel in, stat. A lust-relief IV to counteract the palpable energy.

They exhaled a collective breath.

“You’re so wet.” Mack rubbed the towel across her arms and shagged it through her hair.

“That’s what she said.”

“Oh no.” Mack groaned but cracked up at Charlie’s grin. “So bad. Such a truly terrible joke.”

The wind howled outside, and a worry line cut across Charlie’s forehead.

The fierce storm roused Mack, and she ached for her keyboard.It was a dark and stormy nightwas not just a cliché for cliché’s sake. Having the lion’s roar of the wind stirred some heavy, raw emotions, and if she could tap into that, she could typically write from that perspective.

Storms were romantic, maybe even sexy. The thunderous booms ricocheted under her feet. A club mix of pulsing rain. Protected under the shield of environmental sounds, the wind drowned out nervous throat clearing.

---