The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

I pound on the door a few more times and then rattle the doorknob. “I’m going to stand outside until you let me in.”

“Sir. Sir!” A maid rounds the corner with her cleaning cart. “There’s no one there. It’s empty.”

“Empty?” My mind doesn’t process her words well.

She nods. “Si, the lady checked out today. Room is vacant.” She pulls a key card from her pocket and opens the door. “See.”

I do see. The room is completely empty and but for a coaster on the coffee table, it is hard to tell that anyone was staying here.

“Thanks.” I slip the maid a tip and run toward the elevator calling Cabby.

“I need a pick up.”

“She already turned you down?” He sounds impressed.

“She’s not here. She left.”

“I’m on my way.”

It takes Cabby ten minutes to turn around and pick me up.

“You look like someone is going to have a bad day,” he says when I hop into the passenger seat.

I grunt, not looking up from my phone. I’m waiting for Nick to call me back.

“Where are we going?” Cabby asks.

“Not sure. Drive toward . . . La Jolla.” La Jolla is one of the wealthiest places along the coast. Charlotte’s used to living well, and if she isn’t going to stay at the Del, then my guess is she’s headed to La Jolla.

My phone vibrates, and I answer before the first ring fully plays. “Hey, Nick.”

“You owe me so hard,” he growls. “I had to talk to Lainey, who hates me and thinks I’m a walking, talking penishead. Her description, not mine.”

Lainey is probably right. My brother is a dog with a capital D. I don’t know why, and my parents aren’t very impressed with his inability to settle down, but Nick’s always been one to sample the world. As a pro quarterback, the world has offered itself to him too. I guess it’s a perfect match. Me? I’ve been a one-woman man all of my life. “She give you the info?”

“No. So I was reduced to stealing her phone and reading her text messages.” His voice sounds weird. I can’t figure it out, but I’m too worried about Charlotte to spend time deciphering his tone.

“So where is she?”

“I’m texting it to you. I can’t keep doing this for you, so either close the deal or leave her alone because Lainey isn’t going to let me near her phone again.”

“Did you break it?”

“I threw it into the toilet and then had to fish it out to read it.”

Ah, that explained the weirdness.

“Thanks, bro.”

“I’ll be thinking of how you can pay me off.”

“It’s yours, whatever you want.”

“Oh, really? Like the signed ball from Walter Peyton?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation.

He laughs. “I don’t want it then. I want what I can’t have. Isn’t that a pisser?”

He hangs up before I can ask what the hell that was all about.

“She’s at Tower23 off of Grand Avenue,” I inform Cabby.

“ETA would be five minutes then. Want me to stick around?”

I twist my mouth and reluctantly agree. “Yeah, just in case my intel is wrong.”

But my intel isn’t wrong because as we pull into the hotel property, I see her crossing the street. She’s wearing a short sundress, so short I wonder if it’s just a shirt and she forgot her shorts in her hotel room. On her feet are straw-colored shoes with thick wedges. Her legs seem endless, and for a moment, I’m struck dumb by the vision of them wrapped around my waist.

“Goddamn.” Cabby whistles. “I’ll be in my bunk.”

Fucking Cabby. I get out of the car before it rolls to a full stop. She sees me immediately and glares, which does nothing to diminish her jaw-dropping, knee-bending beauty. I suck in a breath and hold it, trying to gather some control.

“What are you doing here?” she asks accusingly.

I say the first thing that comes to mind. “I’m here for you.”

She opens her mouth to spit out a response when we hear her name called. Relief wipes away her glare, and she turns toward the voice.

I see some guy looking expensive. His white shirt is unbuttoned down to his waist, and underneath he’s wearing a wife beater. He makes shorts and sandals look like a magazine come to life on the street. His gaze flicks to me and then back to Charlotte’s drawn expression. And like a light switch, something shifts on for him. Holding out his arms, wide, he says in a loud, almost shout, “Charlotte Randolph, as I live and breathe. How the hell are you? Jesus Christ, is it possible that you’ve gotten more beautiful?”

She turns slightly and in the small space she makes in the movement, his arm slips in. As deftly as any SEAL, he cut me out. She moves into his embrace, burrowing her face into his chest as if she is freezing and he is her only source of warmth. Another two steps and they are in the street. He holds up his hand like a traffic cop, and everyone obeys him. I’m slack jawed and frozen at this spectacle, just like the cars. I give myself a hard shake and put my feet in motion only to get my toes nearly run over by a passing car. Because he’s done holding traffic back. Before I can take another breath, they are in a sports car that costs more than Cabby and I will earn from our U.S. government paychecks in ten years, combined.