“WOODRUFF, CAN I see you in my office?” Kurt, her boss, barely made eye contact as he uttered the words. No “hello.” No “good morning.” And was his mouth set in a grim line?
Charlie’s heart plummeted. He knows.
Somehow, he’d found out about her night with Hutch. He was going to fire her, and she’d done nothing but kiss the guy. Bitter regret swirled in her gut. If she was going to get sacked for fraternizing with a client, she should have at least fraternized until neither one of them could walk straight.
Standing, her mouth suddenly dry, Charlie followed Kurt to his office. He took a seat behind his desk and motioned for her to sit across from him.
“I hope you don’t need me to tell you this…”
Charlie gulped.
“Hutch Barlow,” he said, arching a brow at her.
Her eyes went wide, and her pulse pounded in her throat.
“Did you know he has a shellfish allergy? Is the menu going to present a problem?”
Her relief was so great she almost slid out of her chair. It took her a moment to fill her lungs with air before she could answer.
“One of the platters on the buffet will have buffalo shrimp, but I can swap it out for wings or southwest eggrolls,” she said in a rush.
Kurt narrowed his eyes and steepled his fingers just beneath his chin. “Southwest eggrolls, huh?”
Charlie nodded.
Her boss cracked a smile. “Go with those.”
Grinning in relief, she nodded.
Kurt waved her off. “Sounds like it’s going to be a great party. I’m headed to the Seattle office this afternoon for a meeting tomorrow, but I’ll be back in time Friday. I’ll make sure our client knows that you planned the whole thing.”
Her breath stopped. “Oh… sir… you don’t have to do that,” she stammered, rising to her feet and shrugging away his offer. “Just doing my job…”
“Well, you’re doing a good job, Woodruff. You’re single-minded, and it shows.” He nodded in approval before swinging his gaze to his computer screen, effectively dismissing her.
“Thank you, sir.” Charlie turned away and headed for the door, willing her legs to move one after the other.
Single-minded?
She could hardly claim to be that anymore. Charlie was definitely of two minds when it came to Hutch Barlow.
She hadn’t even taken two steps out into the nave — the office’s open space — when Darius intercepted, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Girl, you been holdin’ out on me?” He spoke the question with a snap of his neck and a glare in his eye.
Charlie just stared. “What?”
He crimped his lips in an unamused smirk. “We’ve had lunch together almost every day for the last two weeks,” he said, swiping his long index finger in front of her like a metronome, “and I been telling you about all the tasty morsels I got my eye on, and you don’t share with me none a your candy?”
“Darius, what the hell are you talking about?” It was no secret Darius had a sweet tooth, but he was well aware that Charlie avoided sugar like most people avoided lice.
He rolled his eyes in disgust. “I’m talking about the sugar daddy you been keeping to yourself who just had a damn Pasadena Rose Parade float delivered to your desk,” he said, jerking his head over his shoulder. Charlie’s eyes followed, and she gasped.
A flower arrangement the size of a small refrigerator crowded her space. The perfume of tea roses enveloped her as she approached them. Two dozen, pale yellow flowers, their blossoms like cupped hands, spilled out of the arrangement. Charlie recognized them immediately.
Charlotte roses. Just like the ones Grandma Dee grew when Charlie was little.
“They look ole-fashioned. Like he got money,” Darius said, swishing his hand as he approached the flowers. “I didn’t know you liked them old, Charlie-girl.”
Charlie frowned. “He’s not old.”
Darius plucked the card from the trident hidden among the roses and presented it to her with a flourish. “He is if his name is Harold. Honey, nobody named Harold is under fifty years old.”
Snatching the card from him, Charlie glared. “You read my card?!”
He fanned away her censure. “You would have shown it to me anyway.”
Charlie spoke through her teeth. “No. I wouldn’t.”
Darius drew his left shoulder to his chin. “Well, I’m sorry, princess,” he purred, sounding about as sincere as a soap opera. “I wouldn’t have had to pry if you’d have told me about him. Go on. Read the card. The class has questions.”
Rolling her eyes, Charlie opened the envelope and slipped out the card.
Just trust me.
Harold
The first three words sent a ripple of warmth down her body that pooled in the vicinity of her thighs. The fourth almost made her smile, but the recklessness — the over-the-top display, the relentlessness, the fact that he sent her flowers at work — all made her want to scream. She had half-a-mind to shred the card and chuck the flowers out the window.
But not really.
She looked up at the bouquet. It was breathtaking. And it smelled heavenly. It was only just after nine. He must have ordered them first thing this morning. Which meant she’d been on his mind. Maybe even all night — just as he’d been on hers.
“So Harold’s not a creepy old man?” Darius asked, his pointed gaze watching her every expression.
“No. He’s not called Harold. That’s an inside joke,” she said, shaking her head.
“Well, then, what’s he called?”
Charlie wondered if Darius’s left brow could climb any higher. “He’s called… Harry,” she declared with something close to confidence.
Darius’s eyes went wide with excitement. “Ooh… Like Prince Harry?” His gaze turned smoky. “Or Harry Potter? Why does he say ‘trust me’? Does he want to give you a ride on his magic broomstick?”
Darius clutched an imaginary broomstick between his legs and wiggled his behind.
“Darius!” Charlie smacked him on the elbow.
He straightened and pretended to dust off his sleeves as though vulgar behavior was far beneath him. “When will you be seeing him again?” He smoothed his non-existent hair over his ear.
“I-I won’t,” she stammered.
His theatrical look of shock would normally have made her laugh, but not today. He put a hand to his chest and let his cheeks hollow while his mouth remained closed. “And why not?”
Charlie shook her head. “It’s just not going to work.”
Darius rolled his eyes and tipped his head toward the enormous arrangement of flowers. “This ain’t the gesture of a man who seems incapable of making it work… or working it for that matter. We’ve established he has money. Does he also have the face of an ostrich?”
“No.”
“Rodent?”
“No.”
“Does he spit when he talks?”
Now Charlie was laughing. “Darius, no. He’s gorgeous.” She let her eyes drift back to the flowers. “And he’s kind… and he pays attention.”
“Ooh, girl. You got that dreamy look in your eye. I think Harry’s got a better shot than you say.”
Charlie shook her head. “No, no. We want different things.”
“These flowers and the look on your face tell me you want the same thing,” Darius said with certainty.
Charlie didn’t want to talk about this anymore. She rounded the corner of her desk. “No. My job needs to come first, and he doesn’t get that.”
She sat down and logged into her laptop, ready to get back to work, but Darius just stared down at her, his expression confused and a little… concerned. Concerned was an unusual look for Darius, and it left her rattled.
“What?”
“That don’t work.”
“Huh?”
“That all-work-and-no-play bullshit.”
“Who said anything about no play? I play,” Charlie said, but even she heard the wavering in her voice.
“You can dance and suck down a margarita, I’ll give you that,” Darius conceded. “But if you think you can be your best here without having a personal life to go home to at night, you wrong.”
Charlie blinked at him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, honey lamb, that everyone here has a family or a sweetheart or a cocker spaniel they go home to at the end of the day that makes it all worth it.”
“You don’t.” Her tone wasn’t cruel, only confused.
Darius shook his head as though she were daft. “I have Tasha, my exquisite Himalayan, and we are just waiting on the perfect beau to make us one happy family.”
Charlie frowned. “So everyone here is paired up? All happily ever after?”
Darius huffed. “No, sugar, of course there are a few of us singles and a couple of recently divorced. Monica in sales just ended it with her husband after nine years, but she has her two kids. My point is that the job is never everything. And it should never keep you from living the rest of your life.”
She could only stare. This from Darius? Who would’ve thought?
“Where do you think Kurt goes every Thursday at four o’clock?”
Charlie shrugged.
“He picks up his daughter from ballet while his wife gets a manicure. And I promise you, if he’s in town, he takes his wife out every Saturday night. I know because I make the reservations, and I book the babysitter.”
Charlie looked back over her shoulder at Kurt’s office. Kurt? Really?
“I ain’t gonna lie. The job demands a lot. But if you let it take everything, you’ll have nothing left to give. And everyone at Prestige respects that, so you better give Harry Potter another chance.”
Charlie sighed. If only it were that simple. “Thanks for the lecture, Darius. I’ll keep that in mind.”
He swiveled on his heel and then looked back at her over his shoulder. “Just listen to Uncle Darius, sweetheart, and you’ll be fine.”
She watched him sashay back to his desk before she let herself look at the card again.
Just trust me.
How could she trust him when this could never work? And even though she knew that, she couldn’t help but relish the quickening in her stomach. He’d sent her flowers. Amazing, beautiful, meaningful flowers.
Yes, a part of her was shocked he would do something so bold — so brazen — while at the same time asking her to trust him. But another part of her just wanted to thank him.
Charlie was grateful Kurt had assigned her to write a press release. One of Prestige’s clients, a young Olympic hopeful in tennis who was looking for sponsorship, had just organized a fundraiser through her sorority for children with autism. The girl was attractive, squeaky clean, and she liked helping kids. Corporate sponsors would go wild about her — if only they knew her story. This was where Prestige came in. More specifically, where Charlie came in.
She was about halfway through the piece when her desk phone rang.
“Charlie Woodruff,” she answered without taking her eyes from the screen.
“Did you get them?”
Her eyes shot to the digital display on her phone. It read “PRIVATE NUMBER,” but Charlie didn’t need the caller ID to know exactly who was on the line. Hutch’s voice was unmistakable, the melted butter of his Midwestern drawl had echoed in her ears long after he’d left the night before. It poured into her now, leaving trails of heat all the way down her neck, spurring the beat of her heart.
But she couldn’t let him know that. Not when he was clearly above crossing every line she drew in the sand.
“You’re calling me at work,” she said, leaving no room in her own voice for the joy she felt at hearing from him.
“I am, and nobody knows it but the two of us… So, you got them, right?”
“Yes.” She sighed. “And they’re gorgeous… Thank you. No one’s ever sent me flowers, much less two dozen.”
He chuckled. She loved the sound. “I had to make sure you noticed.”
“Noticed? They’re crowding my desk and practically blotting out the sun. Everyone on the floor’s noticed.”
It was true. Other than Darius, the guys in her office had walked by her desk and given her an appreciative smile or a nod at the outrageous bouquet, but three women had stopped on their way to the breakroom to ooh and ahh over the blooms. She’d said as little as she could about who they were from, and the admirers were surprisingly easy to redirect after Darius’s interrogation.
“And, yet, no one knows they’re from me,” he said, smugly.
Charlie coughed her indignation. “Only because you were smart enough not to use your own name.”
“Exactly. We can see each other if we’re smart. If we’re careful. No one else needs to know.”
She ignored his argument. “You can’t call me at work.”
“You left me no choice. You didn’t give me your number last night.”
“That’s because we’re not going to see each other again.”
“We are. We’re seeing each other on Friday.”
She tsked. “That’s different. That was going to happen no matter what.”
“Again, you’ve made my point for me. We were going to meet no matter what, and if that didn’t happen until Friday, I’d have just been trying to get your number a few days later.”
“And I’d have just had to tell you no.” She spoke softly, not just so that her words wouldn’t carry in the open office, but so they wouldn’t carry a rejection she didn’t feel.
Hutch was quiet for a moment. “Yeah, but, did you think about me today?” She heard the smile in his voice as clear as a birdsong, but she heard, too, the ache hidden beneath it. An ache that matched her own.
“Of course, I thought about you today,” she said in a hushed voice. “You sent me a boxcar of flowers.”
He chuckled again, low and smooth. “Nah, I mean before that.”
Only about thirty times. “Yes,” she whispered, unable to lie to him.
“Good, because last night — after I left — I turned around and walked back to your gate three times before I could pull away and make it stick.” The smile had left his voice. He was totally serious. “I’m not a stalker, Charlie. I’ve never been like this with a girl, so please don’t be scared—”
“I’m not scared,” she insisted. And she wasn’t. A part of her was relieved. It would be easier if Hutch would walk away, but at least she wasn’t alone in how she felt.
“Can I see you tonight?”
Her breath left her. “No,” she said, surprised she could get the word out.
“What about tomorrow?”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it.
“At least you’re laughing,” he muttered, chagrin there in the words.
“What else would I do?”
“You could hang up — not that I’m suggesting that,” he added quickly. “Don’t hang up.”
“I wasn’t going to, but I do need to get back to work.”
“Five more minutes.”
She sighed. This was torture. How would she ever be able to get her head back on the press release after this? “Three.”
“Okay. Three’s good. I’ll take three. Are you running tonight?”
Charlie hesitated. If she said yes, would he show up in Golden Gate Park and tail her again?
“I won’t follow you. I promise,” he said, reading her mind.
“Yes,” she admitted. “I run every day except Mondays.”
“Rest day?” he asked.
“Yeah. I usually go long on Sundays.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Training camp doesn’t start until late July, but I need to keep myself in shape until then. I’d love to go on a long run with you one Sunday.”
Charlie forced herself to ignore the suggestion. “So, if camp doesn’t start until late July, what are you already doing here? And why San Fran? Why not Oakland?”
“Have you been to Oakland?” Hutch asked.
“No.”
“Let’s just say San Francisco is worth the commute across the bay,” he said diplomatically. “And why now? I had to get out of Ohio. Ever since I signed with the team, folks in Peebles just wouldn’t lay off about it.” The heaviness in his voice told her there was more, and she found herself needing to hear it.
“What do you mean?”
He blew out a breath. “It’s like… I don’t know. I haven’t changed, but overnight, everyone I knew my whole life totally did.” An edge of shock lined his words.
Charlie didn’t expect him to continue, but he did.
“Girls I’d gone to high school with who weren’t the least bit interested in me back then suddenly wanted to go out… and that’s not the worst of it.”
Charlie frowned. “What’s the worst of it?” she asked, her voice sounding soft in her own ears.
The line went quiet. Hutch cleared his throat. “Not one, but two girls I was friends with — girls my buddies and I hung out with and goofed off with all through high school — made moves on me when I went home the weekend after the draft…” His voice trailed off, but not before Charlie heard the hurt and confusion.
“Oh, wow…” Her pitiful words couldn’t touch the sense of betrayal he must have felt. She’d known him less than twenty-four hours, but Hutch Barlow struck her as the kind of person who’d surround himself with lifelong friends — who’d be a great friend. Someone who deserved better.
“Yeah. That was in April. The morning after that night, I found a realtor online, and I started looking for a place,” he said, sounding resolved. “I moved a couple of weeks ago — right after graduation.”
“I don’t blame you,” she offered, wanting to comfort him.
“Yeah, so meeting a girl who doesn’t want to go out with me is actually kinda refreshing,” he teased, the playful note back in his voice.
“Oh, I see,” she teased back. “You only want what you can’t have.”
He laughed, protesting. “Hey, that’s not how it works. I just want someone who’s into me for me.”
Charlie felt cornered. She couldn’t deny being into him, but she couldn’t encourage him either. She let the silence hang between them for a moment.
“I think your three minutes are up,” she said gently.
“That can’t be right,” Hutch said, pretending doubt. “Were you counting?”
She had not been counting, but it had been a good three minutes. Maybe more. But his hesitation to let her go felt like a touch, one she that moved deep beneath her skin.
“I need to go, Hutch,” she whispered, enjoying the pleasure of speaking his name. She might have heard him groan, a muffled and plaintive sound. He didn’t say goodbye.
Neither did she.
“Tell me something.”
“What?”
“I know you’re not going to give into me — not yet anyway — but throw me a bone. Name one thing you like about me.” Charlie had a flash of déjà vu. When she’d denied him permission to kiss her the night before, he’d asked to know more about her. Now, in the face of her denial, he was asking again. For the second time, she marveled at his confidence. He wasn’t sure she’d acquiesce, but he was willing to risk a rebuff to get closer to her.
That hopeful confidence — which wasn’t tainted at all with the overpowering musk of bravado — was hard to resist.
Charlie leaned forward to the exquisite roses that reached out for her and inhaled their perfume. “You’re very thoughtful,” she said on a sigh.
“You think so?” If smiles could be audible, his was a full-scale orchestra playing “Ode to Joy.”
“Yeah,” she said, grinning helplessly.
“I can’t wait to see you Friday,” he whispered, and chills cascaded down her spine. The feeling threatened to drown her, so she forced her eyes on the computer screen in front of her and gave a nod of resolve.
“I have to get back to work. Please don’t send anything else and please don’t call here—”
“So you’ll give me your number?”
“No,” she said firmly, hoping he couldn’t hear the smile playing concertos in her voice.
“You’re no fun,” he muttered.
She let a moment pass. She lifted her fingertips and cupped the rose blossom that dipped closest to her, feeling its silken petals. “Thank you for the flowers,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome, Charlie.” His voice was a rich rumble she longed to nuzzle up against.
“Goodbye, Hutch.”
“Bye, Charlie. Have an amazing day.”
She smiled. “I already am.”
And then she made herself hang up. She held the phone to her ear and bit her lip until the ache in her chest eased enough for her to set down the receiver, take five deep, almost painful breaths, and then she got back to work.
Hutch didn’t call back.
And he didn’t send flowers or candy or balloons to the office.
The rest of Wednesday and all of Thursday were completely normal days. Too normal. Charlie half regretted telling Hutch not to call. The flowers had only grown more gorgeous with each day, opening to their full glory and attracting the attention of everyone in the office. Every time she looked at them, she felt a little stab of longing.
On her runs, she’d found herself looking for his flying blond mane even though he said he wouldn’t seek her out. Every time she walked through her front gate, she pictured him turning back to it three times before he could will himself away. And when she thought of that, her knees would go weak.
She was thinking about this as she climbed the stairs to her apartment Thursday night after her run, her legs already weak enough from the exertion. So she almost missed it. The folded sheet of paper fluttered down to her feet as she opened her apartment door, and she bent to retrieve it, already knowing what it meant.
Before she opened the note, Charlie scanned the yard and craned her neck to look back at the street to see if she could spot him, knowing that if she did, she’d chase after him this time. But her yard and street held no sign of Hutch Barlow, so she unfolded the little yellow sheet that looked like it had been ripped from a memo pad. The friendly scrawl — not illegible, but far from neat — had her smiling immediately.
I couldn’t stop thinking about you today. I’ll get to see you tomorrow, and still, here I am. If my guess is right, you’re running, and if I waited here, you’d come up these steps and find me. And maybe you wouldn’t be so happy about it. But Charlie, I can’t explain it. Something’s telling me I shouldn’t fight this. So, unless you say I have to leave you alone for good, I’m not going to fight this. Here’s my number. You can call me and tell me to piss off. Or call me and tell me to come over. (I really hope it’s the second one.)
— Hutch
P.S. Please don’t tell me to piss off.
Charlie pressed her back into the door for support. His handwritten words were somehow more intimate, more urgent than flowers and phone calls. She stared at the number, willing herself not to memorize it and memorizing it anyway. If she called him, she’d never be able to tell him to stay away for good. But she needed him to stay away for good. If he did, maybe she’d stand a chance against her attraction to him.
With a hole opening where her heart used to be, Charlie plugged his number into her phone before she typed out the text.
Charlie: I’m sorry. I need you to leave me alone.