Page 34 of Business Casual
“Approved.”
“All right.” I don’t ask any additional questions. “Alex, did you get food and drink set?”
He places his book to the side with obvious reluctance. I get a brief glimpse of a woman on the cover in a blue dress, her skirts hiked up as she dashes away. He notices me looking and quickly flips it over.
“Halfway there. Most people are happy to participate. It’s just formalizing things from a potluck to actual booths with food availablefor purchase. And convincing Cindy Croswell she can’t serve chili out of a crockpot.”
“Man, I love her chili.” Gus frowns. “What’s wrong with the crockpot?”
“She can’t serve her chili out of a crockpot in her minivan. That’s what’s wrong with the crockpot.”
Gus opens his mouth to argue, but he’s cut short when the door to the back room swings open. It slams into the table, making him shriek.
“Sorry about that.” Charlie’s low voice is colored with hesitation. He takes two steps forward, the warm light from the bookstore spilling in with him. “Is this—” He leans back to look at the sign on the door that saysDO NOT ENTERwith a tiny skull and crossbones. Some of my finest work. “Is this the harvest festival committee?”
“Sure is!” Montgomery manages with his head buried in the last remaining pizza box. “We were just debating chili.”
“We were not debating chili,” I say. Charlie’s head snaps in my direction. He looks more like Investment Banker Charlie tonight, a light blue chambray shirt tucked into navy slacks. The top two buttons undone. A caramel-colored coat with the collar up. His whole face brightens like he’s just been handed his very favorite toy.
I frown.
“Hey there, Nova. I didn’t know you were on the harvest festival committee.”
The door slips shut behind him and he attempts to climb around Alex. I don’t know why we insist on meeting in the back storage closet of the bookshop. It’s not like we’re doing anything clandestine. There’s not enough room for three people back here, let alone five and some pizzas.
“Alex is also on the harvest festival committee,” Alex says as Charlie lifts the back of his chair so he can get around him. Charlie’s arms flex beneath the line of his coat, and I have to stare down at my notepad. “Gus and Montgomery too.”
“Yeah, I see you.” Charlie glances at Alex’s book. “Kleypas? Nice, dude. I told you you’d like it.”
I don’t know what to do with the information that Charlie recommends historical romance to his friends. He finishes climbing around Alex and grabs the only available seat in the tiny room. It screeches as he drags it across the floor, right next to me.
“Hiya, Charlie. You want a slice?” Montgomery extends a half-eaten piece of cheese pizza in his direction, but Charlie doesn’t spare him a glance. He’s too busy grinning at me, slipping that soft-looking coat off his shoulders.
“I’m good. Thanks, Monty.”
Monty shrugs and takes a bite. “You taking over Stella’s spot on the committee while you’re overseeing the farm?”
“Yep.” He collapses in his chair, his thigh pressed tight to mine beneath the table. I try to move away but there’s nowhere to go. He ducks his head so his mouth hovers at my ear, his arm stretched over the back of my chair as he arranges himself. He is way too big for this tiny room. “Catch me up on what I missed?”
I stare at him, mind blank. The only thing we’ve talked about is pumpkins and chili. None of it is relevant and I’m too busy staring at all the minuscule differences in his appearance. Farm life has been good to him. His hair is ruffled from the wind, a slight curl behind his ears, where his hairline meets his collar. He hasn’t shaved in a couple of days and scruff shadows his jaw. A slow smile works its way across his mouth the longer I look, his eyes crinkled in amusement.
“Well, we were—” My words are swallowed up when he reaches for the collar of my oversized sweater, adjusting it so it’s flat against my collarbone. His thumb gently traces the edge of an inked flower petal before he drapes his arm over the back of my chair again. Half a second, barely a touch, and my bones feel like they’re buzzing. I swallow and try again. “We were—”
“Nova was yelling at us,” Montgomery says. “She says we can’t serve chili out of the back of a van.”
“That makes sense,” Charlie replies, eyes still stuck on me. Specifically, the tattoos that dance along my collarbone and curl over my shoulder. He swallows and turns to face the rest of the room. “Is that an integral part of Cindy’s recipe? The van aspect?”
I snort. I sometimes forget how much Charlie knows about Inglewild. He might live in New York, but he certainly has his thumb on the pulse of town happenings.
The rest of the room dissolves into conversation about meals served out of vehicles, and my mind drifts, pen doodling at the edge of someone’s résumé. I’m painfully aware of Charlie next to me. The heat of his body and the smell of his cologne. It smells like something clean. Soap and cedar. Fresh laundry and the woods right after it rains. Leaves beneath your boots and wind in the trees. Every time he shifts in his seat, his thigh nudges mine.
I am distracted.
A running theme with Charlie.
“Nova?”
I blink and glance up. Everyone is looking at me, various degrees of amusement on their faces. Montgomery cocks a smug eyebrow. “Look who isn’t being productive now,” he mutters.
