He handed her the pan he’d used to cook and looked at her like he had something to say.
I like you, Charlotte.
Maybe I could be your first date, Charlotte?
I really want to kiss you, Charlotte.
The possibilities raced through her mind, betraying her sense of logic. This was so silly. This man who liked nobody did not like her. And she did not like him.
You do not like him, Charlotte.
Her mind spun with questions.
If he didn’t like her, then why had he shown up on her doorstep? Why had he acted so nervous outside? Why had he made her dinner and why was he standing only inches away from her now?
“Charlotte?”
She looked up and found his dark eyes fixed on her. “Yes?” She wasn’t sure if she’d said the word aloud or simply thought it.
“I need to ask you something,” he said.
And her stomach flip-flopped the way she imagined teenage girls’ stomachs did when the boy they liked asked them to the prom.
Whatever it was, she would say yes. She’d regret it later, but she’d say yes. Because there was no way in this room, looking at those eyes, she could ever deny this man anything he asked.
And knowing that made her equal parts excited and terrified.
Because changing the way she thought about this high school football coach seemed like a very, very bad idea.
24
What was he doing? He should’ve come in, asked Charlotte the question, and left. Instead, he made her dinner (dinner, for Pete’s sake, who was he, Gordon Ramsay?) and was now standing in Lucy’s kitchen trying to work up the nerve to ask Charlotte this ridiculous favor.
And she kept looking at him, which was messing with his cool demeanor.
He wasn’t sure which part of this whole thing made him feel the stupidest—the idea itself or the fact that he needed Charlotte’s help in the first place.
He didn’t want to need help from anyone, but especially not Charlotte. Which he realized was a very old-fashioned and ridiculous thought. Women helped men all the time. He didn’t have to be the one saving her.
Never mind that he wanted to be.
At dinner, she’d opened up a little about herself, about this solitary life she’d had—it made him want to introduce her to the world. She’d missed out on so much. Never mind that her life had been a wholly different kind of adventure. There were little things she’d never experienced.
And his lingering question about her love life had been answered. She’d never even been on a date. It seemed impossible, but he could see by the look on her face that it was true. That look seemed to want to own the truth and hide it at the same time.
Like maybe it embarrassed her to admit it.
“What did you want to ask?” She stood in front of him now, wearing black shorts and a tank top and looking slightly tanner than she had the last time he’d seen her. Her big, blue eyes were wide, and he realized he was dreading every single thing about this question.
But it’s why he’d come here in the first place. He couldn’t leave without asking.
“The dance thing—”
Her brow furrowed. “The recital . . . ?”
“Yeah.” He chewed the inside of his lip. “I think I should do it.”
“Like, perform?”
The look on her face confirmed his greatest fear—he was about to make a huge fool of himself, which was the last thing he needed, given the fact that his wife had managed to do a bang-up job of that.
“What changed your mind?”
He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “My niece.”
She went still. “Amelia?”
He nodded. “What did Jules tell you about her?”
Charlotte closed the dishwasher and gave him her full attention. A soft smile played at her lips. “She told me that Amelia was like a younger version of her. They both had the same spunky personality. They both loved to dance.”
“Right,” he said. “And Jules loved watching her dance. I think Amelia’s pretty good for her age.”
“She is,” Charlotte said. “Jules and I mostly wrote letters to each other, but every once in a while, she’d send me a video. Twice, she sent videos of Amelia dancing. It really was like watching a young Julianna.”
Grief tugged at his heart. He hated that his sister was gone. He hated that her kids were going to grow up without her. It was unbelievable, really, even still. Most days, he expected her to show up at his door and force him to come over for dinner. He would never get used to the vacancy she’d left when she died.
“She’s not dancing anymore,” Cole said. “She’s hardly even talking. It’s like someone went in and yanked out everything that made her Amelia. Everything she loved is just gone.”
Charlotte crossed her toned arms over her chest and leveled his gaze. Man, she was pretty. “You’re worried about her.”
He nodded. “Julianna was a great mom. I know there’s no replacing her, but if I can do anything to help, I’m going to do it.”
She squinted up at him. He wanted to hide under her scrutiny. “And dancing in the recital will do that?”
He groaned. “I made her a deal. If she dances, I’ll dance.”
Charlotte smiled. For a second, time stopped. That smile could stop traffic.
“You’re making fun of me,” he said.
She shook her head. “I promise I’m not.”
“Then why the smile?”
“Because I just figured something out about you,” she said, still smiling.
“Is that right?”
Her expression teased. “Yep. I figured out that you’re nothing but a big softy.”
He couldn’t help it—he smiled too—and he felt a slight chink in the suit of armor he wore to keep him safe. “I’m really not.”
“But you are,” she said. “Why do you pretend to be so uncaring all the time?”
He didn’t want to talk about all the reasons why. “Will you help me or not?”
Her smile skittered away, and just like that, he’d done it again. Ruined the moment.
Idiot.
She picked up a towel and wiped the counter. “Would you be standing in for her dad? I heard they usually dance at every recital.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m hoping I can talk him into it, but I’m not holding my breath.”
“You saw how far I got when I asked him,” she said.
He shrugged softly in reply.
“So, you need me to choreograph something for you and Amelia?”
“And keep me from making a complete fool of myself,” he said.
She avoided his eyes. “That’s why you came here tonight—to ask me to help you with this dance.”
“Yeah,” he said, as if it were obvious. “It just took me a little while because this is kind of embarrassing.”
“Right.” She looked away.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“No, of course not.” She looked around at the dishes still littering the counter. “I figured it was something like that.” She half-laughed. “I mean, why else would you come here and make dinner and spend time with me and help clean up the kitchen?” She ran a hand over her hair, which was neatly gathered at the back of her head in a high ponytail.