Page 23 of He Has Charm

She snorts. “Me too. You have no idea.” There’s less sorrow than frustration in her voice. But she doesn’t expand on her answer as she picks at her salad. I finish the last of the pasta and take the extra piece of bread lying untouched on her plate.

“Eat the spumoni before it melts completely and finish your story.”

“What makes you think I want dessert?”

“I know you do. I can see it in your face, that sparkle in your eye when your glance grazes over it, stopping for a half a beat like a stutter, a distraction you can’t stop.”

She raises her middle finger at me and scoops a spoonful into her mouth.

“Finish your story,” I repeat, wiping my mouth. No dog ever held onto their bone more tightly than I do.

“Story is finished.”

“No it’s not. I know it isn’t, the same way I knew you wanted that spumoni.” She laughs for a beat but then gives me a wary look, so I explain. “There’s some baggage about your father. I can tell by the way you referred to him, the tone of your voice, a hint of displeasure, like maybe he didn’t leave your mother taken care of when he passed?”

“Understatement of the year.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” She shakes her head, folds her arms across her chest and just when I think she’s shutting down, she talks. But she keeps her voice as detached as if she’s reading the dictionary and her expression firmly back in all-business mode.

“My father left my mom and younger brother with no money. With a second mortgage on the house and with serious debt.” She stops, her eyes gleaming, full of fierce challenge in her otherwise passive face.

“Let me guess. Gambling debt?”

She nods, then stands. “You want to know the worst part?” I don’t say a thing because the empty despair in her voice catches me by the heart and squeezes. “We never even knew he gambled.”

She turns away, trying to cover the crack of vulnerability.

Seven

Harper

“Fuck.” He rakes one hand through his tousled mane of gorgeous dark hair and I almost drool with envy because I’d love to run my fingers—stop that. No daydreaming about your professional meal ticket in that very unprofessional way.

No matter how much current circumstances have blurred the line of professionalism, I know where the bright red line is and that’s squarely in front of any physical contact. Correction, I shouldn’t even be daydreaming about physical contact. Let’s double the width of that red line.

“I’m sorry,” he says.” I nod and shut down the discussion, closing myself off so tightly I’m not sure the sound of his voice could penetrate the barrier if he spoke another word. He’s finished with lunch, which means he’s eaten every last morsel of food on his plate and whatever was left on mine, not that I mind. He dismisses himself to take a nap, refraining from quipping the innuendo I can see and feel is perched on the tip of his tongue. But true to his promise to behave, he shuts his mouth and shuts the bedroom door behind him.

I wish I could say his removal from the room eases my tension, but he’s right about the weight of my family’s financial problems straining me.

Retreating to my bedroom, I slip my phone out and stare at it a minute, torn between the need to check up and the fear about what Mom might say. In the end, I hike up my big girl panties and hit the icon for Mom’s phone number.

“Are you coming home for your brother’s graduation?” Shit. I hesitate, not sure what to say, but surely the Brawlers’ season will be over by then, right?

“I think so—when is it?”

“In mid-May. A kid only graduates high school once, Harper. You have to be there. Charlie would be so disappointed.”

“I’ll do my best. You know that. It’s just that I have this assignment and it’s really big and I stand to make a bonus—enough to pay off the debt once and for all.” There’s silence on the other end of the line and I don’t have to see my mom to know that abject sorrow drains her face of all joy at the nasty subject. No sense in asking the next question on my mind about what Charlie’s going to do after high school. It’s all but a foregone conclusion that he’ll have to work instead of going to college because we can’t afford it and the guilt tightens my gut. Loans are out of the question because the debt killed our family’s credit rating. He’s a long shot for a hockey scholarship and we’re all hoping, but we can’t count on that.

“If we’re successful—and I know we will be—I’m all but guaranteed a promotion too and then Charlie doesn’t have to worry about college—”

“Let’s not jump the gun, sweetheart. I know you’re trying hard. We all are. I’m putting in extra hours and Charlie is working hard too. A little hard work never hurt anyone. But still, you need to take time off to come home to your brother’s graduation. No matter what.” She’s right, of course.

“I’ll be there, Mom. Promise.” It’s not the first time I’ve made a rash promise, letting my heart lead and overtake all reason. But I can do it. What’s the worst that could happen? I miss a game? My family lives in Connecticut, so I can drive there and get back in a matter of hours. I could pull it off if I had to. Shit. Don’t borrow trouble, Harper. Chances are graduation will be on an off day and if I have to, I’ll take Maddox with me. The idea causes all kinds of excitement to race along my nerve endings and I snort out loud at how ridiculous I’ve become about the man. Another good reason to look forward to the end of the season. The end of my family’s debt, thanks to a raise and promotion. And the beginning of a new work-life balance where I date. Nonclients.

Taking a deep breath, I plunge into my next phone call in a reasonably confident frame of mind.

“Mr. Vizzy, thank you for taking my call.” I explain to the CEO of Mamma Regina’s that with Knight’s new team, the Boston Brawlers, I’m personally handling all his social engagements, including good works and charitable causes.