The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

“I didn’t realize so much work went into not looking like you wore makeup,” I observe from my perch on the edge of the tub. I’m trying to maintain some distance because every time I’m within about three feet of her, I get hard. Her body needs a rest. I might break something if I keep pounding her.

“Oh yes, the infamous natural look. I saw that report online where something like nine-out-of-ten men like women without makeup followed by men voting a girl wearing makeup is more attractive than one without.”

“Why do you listen to anything we say?”

She drops her tube into a bag full of dozens of other sticks and tubes and bottles. “I have no idea.”

Out in the room, she shrugs off her robe and pulls on the blouse, skirt, and jacket. I like that I’m the only man to have seen her this way, in this intimate setting. The other dicks in the world only get to see the Charlotte dressed in her work uniform. I get to see naked, aroused, fucking sexy as hell Charlotte.

“How come you have to wear a suit?” In Southern California, shorts and T-shirts are considered formal attire.

“My clients like it. It helps for them to take me seriously. For some of them, the only people who wear suits are the guys who sign their checks. The suit conveys that I know what I’m doing and smart enough to handle their problems.”

“Like a uniform.”

“Exactly.” Her smile of approval makes me feel like I answered all the questions on Jeopardy correct.

When we arrive on the first floor, I start herding Charlotte down toward the lot where my Rubicon is parked. As the dark blue Jeep comes into view, I turn on my heel and usher her back toward the lobby entrance.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“I think we should take your car. What is it?”

“Honda Fit,” she says bewildered.

I nod to the valet. “We need her Honda Fit. Under Charlotte Randolph.”

As we wait, she gives me a long perusal.

“What?” I ask finally.

“I’m trying to figure out if you’re going to fit in my rental. It’s kind of small.”

“I’ll be fine.” The Rubicon is completely stripped down. The doors are off, and the soft top is gone. It’s great for off-roading, but it’s not the vehicle for Charlotte to travel around in with her nice clothes and her glossy hair. The image of my bare apartment and my even more bare refrigerator springs to mind. My vehicle, my apartment, and even my clothes all scream single bachelor. The only saving grace is that everything has been carefully cleaned and put away.

“Was the Jeep yours?”

She doesn’t miss a thing. When the valet arrives, she waves him off. “I don’t need it, but here’s something for your trouble.”

Grabbing my arm, she drags me back to the parking lot and my Rubicon. “Is that your Jeep?”

I nod reluctantly. From her bag she produces a scarf which she ties around her hair. “I’m not a delicate flower, Nate.” She sounds disgruntled. “I can ride in your Jeep.”

I stare at her, sitting in my Jeep looking prettier than a picture, until she bangs on the dash with impatience. With a wide-ass grin, I round the front and climb into the driver’s seat. “Just admiring the view,” I murmur and lean over to kiss off some of her lipstick. “The mall first?”

She shakes her head. “No, let’s just get going. You drive a stripped-down utility vehicle and wear cargo shorts and flip-flops. That’s who you are, and I’m fine with it. I’m not forcing you into a uniform on your vacation.”

The Jeep’s engine throttles noisily as I shoot out of the parking lot. “You weren’t forcing me into anything,” I say.

“We’re both different people today than we were years ago. If we’re going to make this work then we have to accept that and work with those differences. The car you drive, the clothes you wear—those things are the least of our worries.”

“Sounds ominous.” I try to be lighthearted, but she’s right. After a mile or so of silence, I ask about her well-dressed companion from yesterday. “Tell me about your friend from the restaurant. He looks familiar.”

Despite my attempt at studied nonchalance, the request comes out more like an order. She raises one eyebrow as if to say she doesn’t have to tell me shit, or maybe the expression is saying that if I had been more present in her life, I’d know exactly who this guy is.

“It’s Colin from Switzerland. He had cancer treatment at the same time. I wrote to you about him. We’ve kept in touch.” Her words aren’t meant to be accusatory, but like my earlier references, they are.

My mood darkens immediately as I make the connection. The least favorite period in my life was those months Charlotte was away from Chicago. I prefer to shut those memories out, as if that time didn’t exist. Revisiting the past was painful enough when I wrote the letter. Colin from Switzerland is an enemy, as is any other person who might try to keep us apart. I will find out everything there is to know about him and then eliminate any possible dangers.