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“Nice to meet you,” he says, reaching to shake her hand.
“Likewise.” Skye looks him up and down with such open curiosity, I grab Charlie to save him from whatever inquisition is coming. She’ll probably offer him tea to read his leaves, or rope him into a tarot reading.
“Let’s get those… Supplies upstairs,” I say, shoving him towards the back stairs.
I glare at Skye over my shoulder as she beams in glee.
“You didn’t say he was so cute!” she whisper-shouts after us. I cringe, praying Charlie hasn’t heard.
“Straight ahead,” I tell him loudly. “You can’t miss it.”
Upstairs, Charlie looks around, examining every inch of my apartment, so I clearly did not think this plan through. “It’s, umm, sorry about the mess,” I blurt, whisking dirty laundry off the back of a chair, and shoving some dishes into the sink. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
He pauses by the TV stand, checking out the DVD I left there.
Oh god, the DVD!
“No!”I leap forwards, trying to grab it from his hands. But I’m too late.
“Popping Round for Tea,” Charlie says slowly. He turns to me with an expression I can’t place. Disbelief, certainly. “On DVD.”
“That’s just…” I begin, face sizzling with embarrassment. But there’s no explainingPoppingRound for Tea. It’s a weird British baking-slash-interview show from the 90s that puts me to sleep better than chamomile tea and melatonin. They would run it on late-night local-access TV when I was a kid, and what can I say? The intro music alone sends my blood pressure down a point or two.
It’s also the most uncool thing he could have possibly found. Porn would have been better. Just about. “Yeah, it’s um—a weird thing with me,” I stutter out. “A comfort watch. The only streaming service that has it is really expensive, so… DVDs.”
“Sure,” Charlie says, mouth spreading into a grin. “I pay for that streaming service fee specifically forPopping Round.”
I narrow my eyes. “Now you’re just making fun of me.”
“‘I’m Trudy Higgenbottom, and this isPopping Round for Tea,’” Charlie quotes, in a decent British accent. “Today, we’ll be making Battenburg cakes with John, a vicar from East Lanackshire.”
“Wait, what?” I stare at him in disbelief.
He laughs happily. “This is hilarious. I’venevermet someone else who watches this show. But it was always in late-night syndication on—”
“Channel Six,” I finish. That’s whatPopping Roundmakes me think of: All the nights in high school when I nodded off to the glow of the TV light. My parents were always exhausted dealing with Jordy, and they gave up on telling me when to stay in bed by the time I was nine. When I couldn’t sleep, I listened to Trudy’s calm voice instructing me how to keep my crumb firm and I was out like a light in no time.
Still, I find it hard to believe that Good Time Charlie even knows about us Higgenbottomheads. I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “You’re really not winding me up?”
“Cross my heart, and swear on Trudy’s stylish collection of embroidered cardigans,” Charlie says with a smirk. Our eyes catch, and just like that, I feel the pulse of heat I’ve been ignoring—back, and hotter than ever.
I’m almost relieved when my phone gives an insistent buzz, a longer tone than just a text arriving. I glance at it, realizing I have a voicemail.
“You mind?” I ask.
“Go ahead.”
I hit play, on speakerphone, letting the message run while I open up Charlie’s packages.
Although, obviously, not the ones I want to.
“Oh hi, Grace? This is Wendy at Gencorp…”
It turns out the call is from the first assistant to a major executive, who is looking to hire a second assistant. “You’d be doing the food runs and other pickups,” she says on the message, “Dry cleaning, that kind of thing. I heard on the grapevine you were in the market for a gig. We’d need you starting at five a.m. in case he has an early day. He likes his breakfast set up in his office, ready to go.”
“The guy can’t order his own bagel or pour his own coffee?” Charlie asks, looking unimpressed.
“Shhh.” I hush him to let the rest of it play.
