What the fuck are you doing, Enzo? Why did you email her, then?
There’s a knock at the door. I call out for them to come in, and the door opens. I have my answer almost immediately.
It doesn’t matter that she’s wearing a long black coat. I catch the caring eyes of a woman I’ve known since childhood. I can see enough to know one hundred percent why I sent that email. I stand, thanking Mr. Jim, who escorted her up. One of the most expensive buildings in Tribeca comes with an attendant for just about everything, including the elevator.
He leaves, and from the way Chari’s gripping her bag, and the fact that she didn’t give it over to Mr. Jim, I can tell she’s nervous. There are benefits to going on a date with someone you’ve known for years, I realize. Although there’s a gap in my knowledge of her, I can tell the core of who she is hasn’t changed.
I’m not sure whether the same is true of me.
“Let me take that.”
I grab her small duffle bag and hold out a hand for her jacket.
“We have a few minutes before dinner.”
I pretend to be totally unaffected as I help Chari remove her coat, revealing a shimmering black cocktail dress. One side is off the shoulder. My eyes are immediately drawn to the exposed skin there, but I train them back to her face.
She’s already looking past me, at the apartment.
“Go ahead, look around.”
I put her bag and coat in the oversized coat closet as I make my way to the bar just off the kitchen.
“Can I get you a drink?”
I pour myself an Angel Red, in the mood for wine tonight, and pull out a glass for her.
“You know I’m a beer girl,” she says, standing in front of the window across from me. “This view. Holy shit, Enzo. It’s insane.”
I do know that, and I reach into the refrigerator. “Angel Pale Ale or something else? I’ve got Premiere and Dogfish.”
Chari turns toward me. “You have other brands?”
“Not usually. But I picked up some of the usual suspects. I know what you like.”
That comes out more suggestive than intended, and I’m aware it’s not entirely true. What I wouldn’t give to know exactly what this woman likes, in every respect.
“I drink yours too,” defending herself.
“Listen,” I say, because I need to get this off my chest. “I tell everyone. You don’t have to drink Angel just because it’s mine. If you’re driving, it makes sense. But you don’t need to do it on my account. Plus we don’t have the range of other beers.”
If people like our product because they genuinely enjoy it, great. If not, it’s up to our team to figure out how it could be better. But everyone likes to mix things up once in a while. I do too.
“I’m serious,” I say in response to her skeptical look.
Chari smiles, running her finger along the windowpane. What I wouldn’t give to be that windowpane right about now.
“I’ll have an Angel Pale, please.”
I bring her the drink, trying to see the apartment, and the view, from her perspective. Trying to see it for the first time.
“When we first came to New York, it was only supposed to be for a long weekend. After two days of meetings, I stood over there.” I gesture in the direction of Hayden’s first apartment. “And thought to myself, I could never live here.”
I glance at her, but the sight of Chari’s mouth on the rim of that bottle is way too distracting, so I look back outside.
“And yet, here you are,” she says softly.
“Yep, here I am.”
“So do you like it now? Do you ever miss PA?”
That’s a loaded question.
“I love it here. All of the things I thought I’d hate—the people, the noise, the constant comings and goings—they’ve grown on me. It’s home now.”
“And Bridgewater?”
I think about last weekend. My family. The pizza shop. The lake. My old friends.
“Also home. But one from a different life. I could never manage the business from there now. Every contact I’ve made is here.” I gesture toward the bar. “Want to sit?”
She looks back out, and I get it. Even after all this time, it’s a pretty spectacular view.
“I’m okay.”
When I turned toward the bar, I intentionally moved a bit closer. I can smell her now, and it’s an entirely different scent than last weekend. This one is vanilla. With a hint of coconut. And suddenly, an image of the two of us sitting on a beach sipping piña coladas makes me want a vacation. With her. We could get away from it all, Devon included, and figure out this thing between us.
I glance back at my open laptop. “If you told me in college I’d be working every weekend, living in New York City, and . . .” I hesitate, not wanting to sound presumptuous.
“Sending cars for your . . .” She stops, not knowing what to call herself. And I can’t help her. The word date sticks on the tip of my tongue too. “For your friends? I mean, Devon’s told me the whole story, of course, but I’d love to hear it from you.”
And even though I’ve told this story a million times, I’m happy she asked. Or at least happy because of the way she asked. It feels . . . intimate.
“I knew it was something big, almost immediately,” I say, skipping over the part about the experiment that went wrong before I got it right. “When my professor confirmed my findings, he helped me set up trials. But it was Hayden who made the whole thing explode. If it weren’t for his dad’s backing, for the initial capital investment, I probably would have ended up selling the idea.”
“Instead, you get to live like a king,” she says, a corner of her mouth tipping up.
“A king who goes to sleep with that every night.” I gesture toward my laptop. “But it doesn’t feel like work to me. We’ve grown every year, and that feels like a new victory.”
“Eye on the prize.”
I turn fully toward her. “Exactly.”
But the prize isn’t more money. Or new products. Or new markets.
Not tonight.
I want to put down my glass, reach both hands behind her neck, and pull her to me. Kiss her senseless until she begs for me. Until I give myself to her, completely.
But here’s the thing: I know what it’s like to joke around with Chari Atwood. To play kickball with her. To swim up to her in a murky lake, pretending to be a fish, and listen to her squeal in fright when I emerge from the water.
But I don’t know what it’s like to kiss Chari Atwood. To reach underneath her dress and run my hands up her thighs for proof that she’s as turned on at this very moment as I am.
My usual confidence has abandoned me. If this were any other woman, I’d say fuck it, and pull her into my arms this very second. Dinner be damned.
But it’s not.
So I don’t.
“We should leave for dinner,” I say. “Our reservation is for seven thirty.”
Her face falls, and I can tell she’s just as disappointed as I am. But I have every intention of making it up to her.
10
Chari
If I thought the ride to New York was nerve-wracking, having Enzo next to me in the back seat is at least ten times more so. From the moment I walked into his apartment, I’ve felt like a kid turning the crank on a jack-in-the-box, waiting for something to happen. Anticipating it. Fearing it. The tension is so thick between us, there’s no doubt it needs to break soon.