Her one raised eyebrow told him he was being a jerk. What else was new?
She drew in a slow breath, staring at him, then exhaled, looking slightly perturbed. As if she had the right.
“You’re—” Her gaze lingered.
“I’m . . . ?”
She shook her head. “Let me see if I have something to write on.” She walked back to the car and pulled a giant bag out of the front seat. She started taking its contents out and putting them on the hood of the car.
He tried not to pay attention as she unloaded deodorant, two different tubes of lotion, hair ties, what appeared to be a scarf, a pair of socks, a wallet, and not a single piece of scratch paper onto the Jetta.
She reached back into the bag and pulled out a Sharpie. “Here!”
He frowned.
She walked back toward him with seemingly no awareness for personal space, then scribbled on the outside of his food bag. She leaned in so close, he could smell her shampoo.
It smelled good.
“That’s my name and number,” she said.
He glanced down at the bag. She’d written Charlotte Page in bold, black letters, along with her ten digits. He looked at her. Why was that name familiar?
Charlotte. It suited her. It had a sort of old-world elegance about it, and so did she.
“I guess just call me when you figure out how much it’s going to cost to fix this mess.” She looked back at the cars and her face fell. “I’m honestly not sure how to get my car out now.”
Her brow furrowed, and Cole studied her profile. He knew it was old-fashioned, but he’d been taught to help women out of situations like this—Charlotte Page didn’t likely need a knight in shining armor, but if she did, he was the only one standing close enough to step up and volunteer.
Something stopped him. Why was it so hard to be kind?
“I don’t want to make it worse.” She held her key toward him and shook it. “Do you mind?”
He studied her face. Wide eyes. Full lips. Perfect skin. Most men would ask her for her number. As it was, he had her number and had absolutely no use for it.
Didn’t matter that she was beautiful. Didn’t matter that he’d found her rambling kind of adorable. Things weren’t different, and he didn’t know when they ever would be again.
He set his food inside the cab of his truck, snatched her keys out of her hand, and opened the door of the Jetta. He tried to sit in the driver’s seat, but it was so far forward it almost folded him in half. Annoyed, he found the lever to move the seat back, started the engine, and inched the car out of the parking space, and out of his truck’s front end.
Once the car was free, he slammed it into park, got out, and started toward his truck.
“I’m really so sorry,” she called out.
“Maybe next time you should find a parking lot,” he said. It was rude. He knew it was rude. It was as if his anger had taken hold and he had no control over it.
Then, like a jerk, he got into the truck, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb, looking back just in time to see Gemma standing in the window of the diner, watching the entire exchange.
3
Charlotte stood on the street, mortified by the crowd of people that had assembled inside the diner to witness her stupidity.
What was she thinking trying to parallel park? She’d nearly failed her driver’s test because of this unlearned skill, and she’d never attempted it since. Her mother thought it was important that she learn in case of emergencies, which, it turned out, Charlotte was thankful for or she wouldn’t have had any idea how to run away from Chicago in the first place. But while she had her license, Charlotte almost never used it. Marcia always sent drivers or Charlotte walked.
The theatre was only a few blocks away from her apartment, as was the gym and her favorite coffee shop. Charlotte didn’t go anywhere else.
She looked at the rented Jetta and sighed. “Now what?”
“Now you come in for a cup of coffee and a plate of pancakes,” a voice from behind her said.
“Oh, I can’t eat pancakes.” Charlotte turned toward the voice.
The wild-haired girl smiled at her. “Everyone can eat pancakes.”
“Not me.” Charlotte heard the disappointment in her own voice. Did she want pancakes? She’d never minded not eating them before. Did she even like pancakes?
“Coffee, then,” the girl said. “You look like you could use it.”
“I think he was really mad at me,” Charlotte said, turning toward the girl. “Not the way I wanted to make my Harbor Pointe entrance.”
Once she recognized the man whose truck she’d crashed into, her mortification intensified. At some point, Cole Turner would realize that his sister’s friend was the twit who’d ruined what she thought might’ve been a precious vehicle.
She’d wondered if he might recognize her name, which was foolish and egotistical of her given that in all the years she and Julianna had danced together, she’d only met Cole twice, and neither time did he seem overjoyed to be attending a ballet. Both times, however, he’d made an impression on Charlotte.
In those days, boys like Cole didn’t come along very often. Julianna talked about him sometimes, and Charlotte never let on, but she thought her friend’s older brother was beautiful. She used to imagine what it would be like to go on a date with someone like that—tall, sturdy, good-looking, athletic. Cole Turner had been the subject of many a teenage fantasy.
Perhaps she’d built him up to be something he wasn’t. He’d certainly set her straight today.
“Coach? He’ll be fine. He’s just kind of moody lately. He’s been dealing with a lot. Now, come on in and have something to eat.”
Charlotte turned to follow the girl, who quickly stopped.
“You should probably turn your car off.”
Charlotte felt her eyes widen. “Oh my gosh.” She raced back to the Jetta, turned off the engine, locked the doors, and met the girl back on the sidewalk. “It’s been a tough few weeks.”
“Well, you can relax now,” the girl said, pulling open the door of the diner. “You’re in Harbor Pointe. That’s what people do here.”
“I’ve heard that,” Charlotte said, thinking of Julianna’s letters. While her only friend in the world seemed to live in an alternate reality, there was something intriguing about this town she’d written so much about.
It had been a month since the funeral, but that was the day everything had changed. Charlotte had slipped away from the cemetery and driven around Harbor Pointe, finally seeing the place Julianna had described so beautifully in her letters.
She understood why her friend was so charmed by this town, and for the first time, Charlotte imagined what it might be like to live a different kind of life.
Of course, it wasn’t practical. She was a ballerina—what did a ballerina do in a tiny tourist town? So, she returned to Chicago, to Marcia, to the ballet—but everything felt different.
It was almost as if for one glorious day, Julianna opened the door to her world and allowed Charlotte a peek inside.
That peek had been enough to spark something inside of her. So often, ballerinas are striving to make it in the big city—but Charlotte wondered if she could make it in a small town. She expected the feeling to go away, this pull toward something other than the only life she’d known, but a month had passed and here she was—crashing into the trucks of moody, handsome men.