Page 41 of He Has Charm

“There’s nothing to talk about. We have a strictly professional relationship with no hanky-panky allowed. We—”

“No one will know, Harper.” Shit. He’s calling me Harper now and somehow that makes this all seem too real and too serious.

“Don’t call me that.”

He laughs and I pull back from him. “Okay, sugar buns,” he says, tongue-in-cheek now and less serious than before, relieving some of my tension because he’s back to toying, playing games and not serious. “If you don’t mention it to Ham I won’t mention it to Delaney if we happen to slip on the hanky-panky promise. Just a little.”

“What do you mean?” Why the hell did I ask him that? I know exactly what he means, don’t I?

“I mean we’re two grown adults and it’s kind of ridiculous to be held hostage by a crazy agreement and an accidental sex video.” He backs me against a shelf of cleaning products and wraps an arm around me, cushioning me from the metal digging into my back. The jerk is far too thoughtful sometimes. “Besides,” he says, his voice deepening to that impossibly sexy growl I recognize from the shower. My heart thuds so loud and hard I feel my blood rush to my v-jay so fast it pulses with fury and longing. “You want me to kiss you.” He moves his mouth close to mine, but not touching. I don’t move.

“No I don’t.”

“Liar.”

I laugh with nerves and because even I don’t believe the lie. He must hear my heart thumping and feel the furnace of my hormones erupting through my pores like little volcanoes across my skin, too many to withstand. His lips hover, waiting for permission, so close that the taste of his citrusy ice water he was drinking makes my mouth water—or it could be just him. I stare at his lips and a sound escapes my throat that might have been a plea. He doesn’t wait for his next breath to press his lips to mine and the connection dizzies me.

Like a lightning strike, the kiss is fast and electrifying. And over. Before I can blink twice, he backs away from me, in the dim light I see the expression on his face too much like I feel: disturbed, unsettled, shocked. But most of all I’m horrified that I’m going to need more. Maybe not this second, but I will eventually, at some point in the next three months and three weeks, throw myself at him to get more of… whatever he has that my body craves against all rational reason.

Unless he throws himself at me first. He sears a dark look at me, accusatory and almost confused, snapping me from my stupor. Without a word, no apology, no thanks for the kiss, it was great or any comment at all, he opens the door behind him, and I follow him out of the closet.

“You return first,” he says. “I’ll go back to the table in a few minutes” He’s all business now. I nod, repentant for my lapse and determined to double down on professional behavior. At least for tonight. I can do it. One day at a time. More like one excruciating minute at a time. I walk away, but turn back to see him push through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

Later he returns and stops at Nora’s table for a minute and I wish to hell I could hear that conversation. It ends with a polite smile and a nod by both of them. When he rejoins us he tells us about his chat with chef Jason Santos, claiming that’s where he got held up. My excuse wasn’t nearly as inventive or interesting. I claimed to stop and chat with a Brawlers fan. I’m not sure if anyone believes either of us, but they’re willing to give us the benefit of the doubt. Sitting in between Zoey and Rafe feels odd, but I find my professional poise, a familiar role, take over for the rest of the meal. We talk, loudly as promised, all about the upcoming promotion and visit to the children’s hospital.

Knight doesn’t talk to me directly at all and I shouldn’t mind, but it’s such a change from his usual acute attention. Maybe he’s upset about the children’s hospital promotion. Or maybe the kiss guilted him into behaving. Or maybe he didn’t like kissing me after all. Maybe I was a big disappointment. Or maybe he got me out of his system and he’s onto the next... Shit.

Most likely it’s all of the above and none of it feels good.

Fourteen

Harper

Next morning.

Waking early, I go out to do some grocery shopping while Knight sleeps in and I cook breakfast to have it ready for him when he gets up. Nothing crazy, I tell myself. His favorite is French toast according to social media and I’m too much of a stickler not to notice and do my best to please the client. Plus it’s easy enough to make. I’d do it for any of our clients. It’s strictly part of the job. So what if I’m wearing an apron like I’m playing house?

We said a very formal good night last night and I feel good that we’re finally on professional terms where we should be with all the game-playing behind us. I call Delaney and send her some photos from the restaurant and explain to her about Nora’s photo. She agrees with my hunch about the reporter’s motives and the strategy we brainstormed last night.

At eight a.m. the movers come. An hour later they’re gone, leaving a couple dozen boxes in the front hall. I vow not to unpack them, but it’s hard to let them sit there like unchecked items on a to-do list. When one of them catches my eye, labeled Memorabilia I shut down the call of curiosity that piles on top of the need to have things orderly and get things done.

After brewing coffee on the stovetop in an old-fashioned coffeepot I found in the kitchen, I soak in the heavenly smell as I whip the eggs, sugar, and milk for the French toast. Nerves clang through my belly at the thought of how he’s going to behave when he gets up. Will he be the same old smiling, flirtatious Maddox, or will he be the distant, polite version that he was last night after our closet encounter, the one I’d supposedly been hoping he’d be to match our business-only expectations?

If truth be told, I can’t escape my secret desire for him to keep his sense of humor and the fun, albeit nerve-sizzling familiarity of his charming personality. Because that’s who he is, of course and I can’t expect him to change his actual personality for me in his own home, can I?

His post-kiss behavior last night worked because we were in public. Then when we got home, of course we were tired, so it made sense that we went straight to bed—separately. I stop whipping the egg mixture not a second too soon and scowl at the bowl of frothy liquid that was in danger of turning into meringue if I’d kept going.

Okay, so I admit it. Living with Maddox if we were to be strictly professional business partners would suck and wouldn’t make me any less nervous around him. I chalk it up to being spoiled by his good cheer and easygoing ways more than the flirtation. Mostly. He’s harmless, right? That’s what I told Delaney and I meant it. Even the kiss was… just a kiss, right? Staring at the bowl of almost-peaking egg froth doesn’t give me an answer.

All I know is there has to be a way two rational adult human beings can have a professionally, friendly, nonsexual relationship for a few months. And I’m—we’re going to have to figure out how to do it.

Mom needs my help to pay dad’s gambling debts. It’s not fair for her to be left to take care of that financial burden all on her own. What’s also unfair is that I got to go to college and Charlie might not be able to if I don’t chip in.

And where is all this money going to come from? Bonuses from promotional deals if I can land them and a promotion. Also, that big fat bonus Jett promised me if I stick with this assignment. Maybe I should be thanking stupid Godfrey Collins for abandoning his responsibilities and leaving me with Knight to handle.

I dip the fresh baked bread from the divine bakery down the block into the mixture, lay the thick, soaked slices into a baking dish, sprinkle on cinnamon, and then shove it into the oven. Pouring myself a cup of that fresh coffee, I sit at the counter and look at my phone for the time, though there’s a giant round clock taking up most of one kitchen wall.

It’s almost ten a.m. and I’m wondering how late hockey players sleep when they’re sleeping in, when the rumble of his voice vibrates through my chest as if my heart’s engine has just roared to life. God, he’s so sexy. That’s my first errant thought as I look up at his rumpled hair and bare chest. I force myself not to look any lower, aware that he, thank god, is wearing sweats.