Charlie’s head almost flies off his neck with the speed he turns to look at me. “You think I’m handsome?”
I fix him with a beady stare, hoping it communicates what I really want to say;roll with it, dickhead. “I mean, it is slim pickings in the office.”
That has Cameron and Bruno laughing while Charlie and his glossy eyes still look like they haven’t quite caught up with me. Jesus Christ. Time to get him an orange juice.
“I still think you’re very brave.” Cameron brings his wine glass to his lips. “We saw you already met our mother. I don’t suppose she hid her feelings about Charlie being here with a woman.”
I see this family really don’t like to mince their words. Good job I know how to be just as direct and firm.
“We had… a conversation.”
This jolts Charlie into action all of a sudden. “Mina put her right in her place. It was amazing. Mum didn’t know what to say or what to think.”
“I probably won’t be getting an invite for a Sunday roast any time soon,” I mutter as Charlie bounces around on the spot.
“Consider yourself lucky,” Charlie declares as he turns towards me. “So handsome, huh?” he asks again and I feel the length of his arm line up against mine. When my skin fires up with an unexpected heat at the touch I find my eyes travelling down to my arm, as if to find a mark.
“I think we’ll leave you both to it,” Cameron says with a light laugh before he steers his husband towards the bar.
“Really, handsome?” Charlie moves so he’s facing me and I’m relieved that the heat from where we were touching is gone, even if my arm now feels a little cold. “And kind? And cheerful?” He stretches his mouth to its limit with his Cheshire cat grin, eyelashes fluttering.
“Annoyingly cheerful,” I confirm. “And too kind for his own good. The amount of time you waste making tea for other people in the office, I’m surprised Garrett doesn’t dock your pay.”
“But I look handsome while I do it, don’t I?” Charlie cocks his hand on his hip and I can’t help it, I smile.
“Listen, you know you’re a good-looking bloke.” Placing a light punch on his shoulder, the movement rattles all my silver bangles and bracelets.
“I like that noise,” Charlie says, watching my arm as it falls by my side again. His voice is quieter, softer, and his expression more settled, less animated.
I don’t know why but it makes me want to freeze, to not even risk making a noise. It also makes me run out of words, my tongue heavy in my mouth. Much to my dismay, Charlie also falls silent and we both bounce our eyes around, not letting our gazes settle on each other.
God, why is he acting so weird? Why amIacting so weird?
“Shall we get another drink?” he suddenly asks.
“Are you sure you need another drink?” I ask as he downs what remains in his glass.
He glances at his Smartwatch and pulls a face. “I have another three hours of this party to survive, I haven’t drunk anywhere near enough.”
“Actually, isn’t that a good reason to stay relatively sober?” I offer. I agreed to do Charlie a favour by coming here as his fake date, but what I didn’t do is sign up for babysitting a drunk white man with Mummy Issues.
“I didn’t realise you were one ofthosesober people?” He slurs and I roll my eyes at him.
“I’m not,” I say. “I don’t mind people drinking and believe me, I would if I could, especially on a night like this.”
“Why don’t you drink?” he asks, swaying side to side slightly.
I chew on my lip again as I debate how to answer his question. So far I’ve managed to keep my migraine disease a secret at work. That doesn’t mean I haven’thadattacks at work, or called in sick because of one, or that I’ve not made my life infinitely harder in the office by avoiding or removing triggers. But for some reason I choose not to define, I have gone a long way to keep my condition something only my closest friends and family know about, and Charlie does not fall into either of those categories.
“Was that too personal a question?” Charlie asks when I don’t reply. “Tell me to fuck off, if you want.”
“Fuck off, Charlie,” I say.
“That’s fuck off, Handsome, to you,” he teases and his eyes twinkle in the low light, actually twinkle like stars. I decide to blame his bright blue eyes as the reason I open my mouth and speak my truth.
“I have migraine disease and alcohol is a trigger,” I say in a rush.
Charlie tilts his head to the side again. He does this a lot, and I can’t help but think how puppy-like it is of him, how so much of what he does is puppy-like.
