What Happens Between Friends (14 page)

Jerk. And that was one thing she’d never, ever thought she’d call James.

Yes, she’d hurt him, but she hadn’t meant to. Didn’t that count for anything? Did it give him an excuse to treat her this way? To stay so angry?

He was the one who’d kept a secret from her. He’d made the choice to hide his feelings for her all these years. She may not have handled it well when he’d admitted those feelings to her, but he had his share in the blame for this.

Didn’t he?

“If we’re done here,” James said, “I need to get to work.”

“Please,” she said from behind a fake, toothy smile, “don’t let me stop you.”

He turned, only to stop and face her again. “If you do decide to keep the job, you might want to leave the dog at home.”

She checked on Elvis to make sure he wasn’t chewing—or peeing on—anything, but he was sound asleep next to the wall. “I don’t like to leave him by himself.”

“You’re getting pretty attached to him.”

Did he have to sound so shocked?

You’re not keeping him.
James had sounded so certain of that, as if the idea of her taking care of Elvis—long-term care, forever and ever, amen—was implausible. “Elvis gets anxious when I leave him. Whether he ran away, got lost or was left on the side of the road somewhere, his entire life changed,” she said, her voice shaking. “Everything he knew and understood and liked—loved—suddenly just...disappeared. It’s frightening.”

“Was that how you felt when you moved here?” James asked after a moment. “Afraid?”

Her mouth wobbled. She firmed it. He shouldn’t be able to read her thoughts, to see her so clearly when he’d completely cut himself off from her.

“The situations aren’t quite the same.” But she couldn’t meet his eyes. She had been afraid. She’d been terrified. Not because they’d moved, but because they’d stayed.

And the longer they stayed in Shady Grove, the more they got sucked into a provincial, pedestrian life. The more it seemed as if they’d lost her dad all over again.

“It’s a lot to process. For Elvis,” she stressed, in case James wanted to try to psychoanalyze her. “Besides, your dad said I could bring him along.”

Yes, she sounded like a bratty ten-year-old, but that was only because he was bringing out the worst in her.

James frowned, almost as if he was disappointed she hadn’t opened up to him, as if he hadn’t been the one to put up these new barriers between them. Barriers she could be thankful for in this instance.

“If Elvis is anything like Zoe,” James said, “he’ll go nuts when the machines run, and Eddie’s going to be starting the kitchen cabinets for Bradford House on Monday.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t thought of that. Elvis hadn’t seemed bothered by the thunder the night she’d found him, but that may have been only because he’d been so traumatized from being wet and cold and lost. “I’ll see how he does. If it bothers him, I’ll take him home.”

He shrugged and glanced at the clock on his phone. He had work to do, as did she. His mom would be here any minute to show her how to do the payroll, give her a list of her responsibilities as office manager. Sadie needed to let James go. He was still angry with her.

He might not ever forgive her.

But she couldn’t do anything that upset him, even when he treated her with such coldness, such...indifference.

That indifference was the absolute worst. She wasn’t sure she could face it day in and day out. Wasn’t sure she could be around him, even for a few minutes each day when her feelings were so conflicted. So confused.

“I want this job,” she blurted. “I do. But I don’t want it if it means making you unhappy.”

Didn’t want it if it meant losing him for good.

“Again, that’s your choice. But it’s not one I’ll make for you. Know this, though,” he said, leaning forward, so close she could pick out the sun-lightened strands woven through his dark hair, could smell the minty scent of his toothpaste, “it doesn’t matter to me what you decide.”

Her gaze fell to his mouth, to that full bottom lip. Remembered how it’d felt against her own mouth, on her breast. Her core. She swallowed. Raised her eyes to meet his. “James...”

It came out a question. An entreaty.

Shaking his head, he straightened. “Nothing you do matters to me. Not anymore.”

* * *

C
HARLOTTE
OPENED
THE
door to O’Riley’s, stepped inside and hid a flash of annoyance. It was packed and noisy—the jukebox playing some ancient rock song that battled with the crowd. Wasn’t nine-thirty on a Friday too early for a bar to be this busy? Then again, O’Riley’s always had been one of the more popular bars in town. Guess having a new owner hadn’t changed that.

Still, she’d been hoping for a little privacy. Had imagined her and James spending an hour or so cuddled together in a dimly lit booth, deep in conversation, lost in each other’s eyes.

She scanned the room. All the booths lining the walls were filled.

“We could sit at the bar,” James said from behind her.

A couple entered behind them, pushing James forward until his chest pressed against Char’s back, solid and warm. She waited one long moment before edging away. They couldn’t sit at the bar. If they did, there’d be no reason to linger over the drink she’d suggested they have after their dinner ended.

She rose onto her toes and spied two twenty-something women vacating a table near the back. “I see a spot,” she said.

He followed her as she wove her way across the room, touched her lower back as they stepped up to the table and then held out her chair for her.

She smiled up at him, giddy at that faint brush of his hand, that he’d finally made a move. Even if it was just a friendly, could-be-construed-as-only-being-polite move.

“Thank you,” she murmured, pitching her voice low, but instead of sounding sexy, it came out as more of a croak.

But other than her brief froggy imitation and a few slow moments in their conversation, it was going well. Really, really well, she assured herself as a short, middle-aged man and his shorter wife stopped to talk with James.

Char pushed aside a lipstick-stained glass. Wiped her fingers on her jeans. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t going well, exactly. But it wasn’t a total disaster, either.

That had to count for something.

She needed to pick up her game, that was all. If only she had more experience with this sort of thing, the whole...dating...thing. Not that she was a social leper. She’d had dates. Just not as many as most women her age.

A late bloomer, her mother had called her fondly. As if knowing something better might possibly be coming made it easier to deal with being a flat-chested, gangly, clumsy teenager with bright red, unmanageable hair and a face full of freckles.

It hadn’t. It had sucked, especially when her mother was petite and graceful and classically beautiful, her sister a pretty blonde who embraced her own sense of style and lit up any room.

Then, during college, it had happened. Char
had
bloomed. Thank God.

Even before that, though, she’d had a champion who’d assured her that though it seemed as if she was the only sixteen-year-old without a boyfriend, someday the boys would be lining up for her. And whomever she chose would be the luckiest guy of them all.

They weren’t exactly lining up, she thought wryly, but more than a few had been interested. James had been right. More importantly, he’d been sweet to her, his best friend’s little sister.

That was all it took, a casual comment made during her mother’s annual Memorial Day picnic—one of the few Sadie had attended since leaving home, one she’d invited James to—and Char had fallen and fallen hard. That bright, sunny day that everything became clear.

James Montesano was the man of her dreams. The only man for her.

“Sorry about that,” he said as he sat across from her.

She straightened. “No problem.” He was so handsome—though she preferred him without the mustache and goatee he’d grown about a year ago. Maybe, after they were officially dating, she could drop a few hints about him shaving it off.

A harried-looking waitress with a neck tattoo and asymmetrical, black hair stopped, grabbed the dirty glasses. “I’ll be with you guys in a minute.”

“No hurry,” Char said, but the waitress had already left. She smiled at James. “Busy place.”

He nodded. Linked his hands together on top of the table. “So...work’s going well?”

They’d already discussed both their jobs during dinner but, hey, she’d go with it. “It is. It really is.”

She racked her brain for a topic of conversation, something witty and interesting. They’d been fine while they’d been at the house, as he’d inspected it, he’d explained what he was doing, what he was looking for...cracks in the walls or ceilings, warped floorboards, something about moisture and condensation. Honestly, she’d zoned out a few times, but she didn’t think he’d noticed.

During dinner they’d exhausted local topics, had moved on to asking how each other’s parents were doing, then had ended up on the weather before the check arrived.

Conversation shouldn’t be this hard.

“I don’t think our waitress is coming back anytime soon,” Char said. “I’ll just go up to the bar and order our drinks.”

“I can get them,” he said, starting to stand.

She gestured for him to sit, then grabbed some cash from her purse and stuffed it into her pocket. “You got dinner.” Had insisted on paying. “I’ll get the drinks. What’ll it be?”

“Whatever they have on tap is good.”

She smiled, hoped it didn’t come across as strained as it felt. “I’ll be right back.”

Halfway up to the bar, she glanced back, hoping against hope that he was watching her. He wasn’t. He was talking to a man around his age, laughing at something the guy said.

This was obviously a mistake. Not being with him, of course. But suggesting they stop here for a drink. It would have been better, much better, if they were alone.

Yes, that would work, and the more she thought about it, the better it seemed. Reaching the end of the bar, she squeezed between the wall and a brawny woman in jeans and leather vest. Char leaned forward, raised her hand, but the bartender’s back was to her.

She fell back to her heels. They’d have a drink, then she’d ask James to her apartment to...to what? Check for intruders? Fix the toilet?

She studied James. She needed an excuse, that much was clear. Oh, he liked her well enough and they’d had a decent time so far this evening, but he wasn’t falling all over himself. He hadn’t even flirted, and she’d turned up her flirting skills by several degrees.

Men. Why did they have to be so difficult?

James was perfect for her. They would be perfect together. She knew it. And she was rarely wrong.

“Get you something?”

She tore her eyes off James and turned to face the bartender. Her scalp prickled, her mouth dried when she met his eyes, a cool green framed by dark blond lashes. The rest of him matched that deep, husky voice: a sharply planed face, tousled, golden hair, scruffy facial hair that made James’s seem downright conservative. His white T-shirt clung to his broad shoulders and his well-defined biceps, where she caught the edge of indecipherable tattoos on both arms.

Bad boy, she thought dismissively. Trying too hard to keep those muscles, that edgy, dangerous mystique so many women found appealing. Not her, of course.

But he was still so pretty, so...potent...she had to clear her throat before she spoke. “Two drafts. Please.”

He eyed her, his gaze steady and unreadable. “You got some ID there, Red?”

“Seriously?” she asked, fisting her hands so she wouldn’t reach up and touch her hair, make sure it was as in control as when she’d left the house.

“I never joke about possibly being cited for serving minors.”

“I’m not a minor.” Damn her freckles. And double damn the blush heating her cheeks. She probably looked like a tomato.

“I don’t care if you are. But if you want a drink, you’ll have to prove that.”

She could, easily. Except her purse was at the table. She glanced over her shoulder. And she didn’t want to go over and admit to James that she looked so young, rebel-without-a-cause here wouldn’t serve her. The age difference was already between them—and staring her in the eye every time she tried to think of a new subject for them to discuss.

She turned to the bartender, but he’d already moved on.

Asshole.

She waited, tapping her fingers on the sticky bar top. Because he wouldn’t look her way again—she’d bet he was doing it on purpose—she had to resort to standing on the rail and lifting her hand, then waving it to get his attention.

“Find that ID?” he asked when he returned.

Realizing her hand was still in the air like a grade-schooler, she lowered it. “I’m twenty-four. Promise.”

“I don’t need promises, Red. Just proof.” His gaze flicked over to James. “Maybe your date over there can run you home, let you get your license.”

Her date. At least someone realized what was going on between her and James, as James didn’t seem to have a clue.

“Hey,” Sadie said as she came up behind the bartender.

Charlotte smiled. Saved by her sister. She’d forgotten Sadie had told her she started work tonight. “Hey. How’s your first night going?”

“Actually, I just got here.” Sadie nudged the bartender aside with her hip. “Give me an hour or two and I’m sure boss man here will realize he can’t run the place without me.”

“You’re late,” he said.

“Five minutes isn’t late,” Sadie told him. Her gaze bounced between him and Charlotte. “Did you two meet?”

“No,” Char said, making it clear she had no interest in knowing this guy.

Sadie obviously didn’t get it—though, if the smirk on her boss’s face was any indication, he did.

“Lottie,” Sadie said, “meet the new owner of O’Riley’s and my boss, Kane Bartasavich. Kane, this is my baby sister, Charlotte.”

“Baby sister who is of legal age to drink?” Kane of the complicated last name asked.

“Twenty-four this past May.”

He nodded. “You take care of her then.”

“This place’ll close down in two months with that guy running things,” Charlotte muttered after he’d left to wait on another customer.