“What was true?” I ask, as I unlock it to let her in.
I step out of the way and she barges inside, hefting her bag over her shoulder. “Is this Drew guy really as tall as they say? Maddox never lets me go to the gym.”
I chuckle, closing the door behind her. “He is.”
“And he’s covered in tattoos?”
“Yes.”
“And your dad had a pair of scissors?”
I wave her off as I head over to the kettle and put it on. “No, that was Uncle Max. Dad had a knife.”
She jumps up onto the side, swinging her legs. “Do you like him?”
I pause from bringing the cups down. “He’s a really good guy. He’s helping me through some stuff.”
“I meant like him, like him.”
I set the cups down on the counter. “We are friends now, I guess. Nothing more. I mean, can we really be friends without claiming each other as friends?”
She laughs. “Charlotte, we aren’t in school. You don’t need to ask permission. If you spend time like that together, you’re friends. Now, if he flirts or tries it on, that’s a different story.”
“He doesn’t flirt or try it on,” I argue.
Her brows pull together and she jumps off the side. “Hey, who got you petunias?”
“I’m not sure,” I tell her, busying myself with pouring our drinks.
I’m not sure what Mum and Dad told other members of the family, whether it was the short version or not.
And I’m not sure how to bring up my paranoia over them when it may be nothing. But that chill that slithered down my spine while reading that note… I knew it wasn’t a love note or any kind romantic declaration.
It wasn’t jealousy.
It was anger and resentment. It was anger so far rooted it poured onto the page.
And it was aimed at me.
“Whoever bought them clearly knows fuck all about flowers because these symbolise anger and resentment. Are you sure you don’t know who they are from?”
Breathing heavily, I rush over to her, snatching the pot out of her hands. I don’t want her asking more questions.
“I’m sure,” I tell her, before dropping them into the bin.
“Charlotte, I know they aren’t the best but they are still flowers,” she cries out.
I bite my lip and quickly grab them out of the bin. My nose stings as I eye the broken petals. “Sorry, I don’t know why I did that.”
Her blues eyes burn into me. “Charlie, what the heck is going on?”
I brush my fingers through my hair, moving stray strands away from my face. Tears gather in my eyes. “I’m sorry. I really don’t know who they are from. Someone sent flowers to me on the same night everything happened with Scott, and now these. I think I’m going crazy. I’ve stopped seeing joy, stopped feeling it, and I don’t know why.”
“Charlotte, calm down,” she demands, coming to a standstill in front of me.
“I need my joy back, Madison. Why am I constantly thinking of the negatives? Why can’t I just receive a pot of flowers and not feel dread in the pit of my stomach?”
“What makes you think the flowers are negative? Maybe someone sent them as a kind gesture.”
I pick up the card I dropped when Madison scared the bejesus out of me, and hand it over to her.
Her brows shoot up as she scans the card. “What the actual fuck? Who the fuck sent you this? This is fucked up.”
I shrug. “No idea. But this is what caused the argument between Scott and I. He thought some other guy sent them to me,” I whisper. “But the poem, it’s not like the other one, or at least, I didn’t read the first one the same way.”
“What Scott did has nothing to do with the flowers unless he sent them himself,” she explains, but pauses, hesitating for a moment. “Have you spoken to him?”
“Of course not,” I tell her, hurt that she thinks I would after he hurt me.
“I’m sorry. I just don’t want you to be pulled in again,” she assures me, but it still stings that she even asked that question. “If they aren’t from Scott, who do you think did send them?”
“I really don’t know. I’m not lying.”
“Maybe we should find out because this is some sick shit.”
“How?”
She picks up the card, turning it over. “It doesn’t have a logo but leave it with me. There are only so many flower shops around here.”
“What if it is him?” I ask, biting my bottom lip.
“Then we can hand his arse over to the police,” she tells me, pulling me in for a one-armed hug. “We’ve got you.”
“Want to watch The Conjuring to cheer me up?”
“Fuck no. The last movie I watched to cheer you up, I had nightmares for months. Let’s watch Who Wants to be a Millionaire and see how many questions we can get right.”
“We would so ace that show,” I declare.
“Remember when Uncle Max signed up to enter the show?”
I wince at the reminder. “They arrested Dad, thinking he was Max.”
Her eyes widen. “That’s right. They wanted him done for harassment.”
I nod and lean forward, grabbing a liquorice off the side. “Dad never forgave him. He lost his chance of being on Deal or No Deal.”
She laughs. “Didn’t Uncle Max start a protest to make it right, only it ended up becoming a riot?”
I grimace when I think of how that day ended. “Yeah, then he left before anyone could put the blame on him.”
“Come on. We can send him video clips to make him mad.”
I grin. “I’ll bring snacks.”
“I’ll finish the tea.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DREW
I wince as Charlotte’s back hits the mat for what feels like the millionth time tonight. I keep my weight off her, yet the need to press against her is high.
It’s coming to the end of our session and although I’d like to say she’s doing good, she is too tense and hesitant to pick it up. It’s going to take time for her to get used to the moves and then gain the confidence to use them.
And I’m tense because every time she falls, I have to watch the bounce of her tits as she hits the ground. And the small sports bra she’s wearing leaves nothing to the imagination.
She’s driving me crazy.
More than once tonight I’ve had to remind myself of who she is and what she went through. She doesn’t need to feel the hard-on I’ve struggled to hide all fucking night after the crap her ex pulled.
She’s the sweetest temptation.
I get up off the floor, needing to get away from the delicate scent of vanilla. She reminds me so much of cupcakes. The impulse to taste, to savour, capture…
“Maybe you need to be, like, skilled at this,” she huffs out. I chuckle as I reach down and give her a hand up. She breathes out and runs a hand down her stomach, grimacing. “Eww, I look gross.”
She really doesn’t.
If anything, the sweat shimmering across her stomach and along her spine just makes her that more appealing.
I’m a sick, sick man and I’m going to hell.