The Charlotte Chronicles (Jackson Boys 1)

“He’s not a threat, you know.” She reaches across the center console and touches my arm. I force my tense muscles to relax. “He’s a good friend. He . . . provided a male perspective of things when I was busy being lost in my own head.”

“Intellectually, I get that. But I can’t deny seeing you with him, seeing you touch him makes me crazy. I don’t like you being around other dicks. I have about a dozen insane utterances I’m keeping to myself so that you don’t jump out of the Jeep.”

“When you meet him it will be different,” she assures me. “He’s a great guy, and I think the two of you will get along.”

Like hell we will. Unless you never utter his name again, I’m going to hate the dickbag. Out loud, I pretend to agree, “Sure, can’t wait.”

Apparently despite the long absence, Charlotte can read me better than anyone. She smirks and then laughs outright. At least she’s laughing. I grab her hand and place it on my thigh, as much for my benefit as it is for her. I need the constant contact.

We drive down a lane of expensive houses filled with equally expensive green lawns; the drought bans make watering lawns like these prohibitively expensive. She gestures for me to stop at one of the imposing structures. “Who’d you say this was again?”

“Baseball player. If you have a kid who can play all the sports, baseball is the most lucrative and longest-lasting career,” she answers.

Before she can climb out of the Jeep, I grab her wrist. “I regret not being there when you needed me. I dislike that this Colin guy was, but I’ll deal with it.”

With a small shrug, she says, “Our past is what it is. Nothing we can do is going to change it. I’d rather look forward, wouldn’t you?”

She hops out before I can reach her, and I’m left straggling behind. A bony blonde woman with a shit ton of makeup on runs up to Charlotte and hugs her. A lanky guy who I vaguely recognize from ESPN follows behind, carrying an equally blonde-headed baby. Charlotte holds out her arms and plucks the baby from the dad’s arms. My stomach clenches at the sight, and I grow half hard. I can hear Cabby standing beside me, mocking me.

It’s time to pack it up when you get a woody staring at a Norman Rockwell painting. You’ve lost your edge, gone around the bend—whatever you want to call it—but stick a fork in you, because you’re done.

So what? I want that. The family, the house, the kid. I want all of it with Charlotte. She’s right. Looking backward isn’t going to erase the past, but we can make our tomorrow exactly as we once imagined it could be.

36

Nathan

“This is the perfect house. Thank you for helping,” Charlotte’s client says. Her name is Peyton, like the legendary Bears running back, although that’s probably not who she’s named after.

“My pleasure,” Charlotte says, but her voice is muffled because her face is stuck in the belly of Peyton’s baby. I suppress the urge to pick her up and take her back to the hotel so we can start baby making again. I stick my fists in my pockets to keep from sweeping her up and carrying her away.

“So, man, I have to admit I don’t know your team,” Peyton’s husband says apologetically.

“No team. I’m in the Navy.”

Having assumed I’m neither famous nor rich, he dismisses me and turns to run his eyes over Charlotte. My pockets are doing double duty now. Keeping me from hauling Charlotte away from here and preventing me from decking her client. It’s a wild guess, but I bet she wouldn’t approve of that. Although . . . if he keeps staring at her legs he’s going to have a hard time seeing the batters after I gouge both of his eyes out.

“Ohh, a military man,” Peyton stage whispers. Her husband shoots her an annoyed glance. I wink at them just to piss off the husband even more. “How does he look in uniform?”

“I don’t know. How do you look, Nate?” Charlotte gives me a hungry look that causes my shorts to get a bit tight and the baseball player next to me to swallow his tongue. After that long, appreciative perusal, I’m not irritated with the guy next to me because I’m the one who’s going to be in Charlotte’s bed tonight. Not him.

“I look like a man in uniform.”

“Nate’s actually a Navy SEAL.” The words pop out unexpectedly of Charlotte’s mouth. I raise an eyebrow at her. I don’t care what these random civilians think of me. The wife’s expression says that she’d like to see me out of uniform, and the player is recalibrating his quick dismissal.

Then, because he’s an asshole, he asks the stupid question, “So how many ways do you know how to kill a man?”