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I lean back and peer at the customer that made the request and almost scream when I recognize the tall, dark-haired man standing on the brightly-colored carpet, his hand resting on the tall lacquered counter. Trying to duck back around the wall, I silently pray he didn’t see me.What is he even doing here?
“Hello, Charlotte,” he says, and my eyes widen.
Nervously, I shove the skates onto the shelf, not even checking to see if I put them in the right place, and gather up my shredding confidence to greet him.
“Hi,” I stammer, before glancing around to see if anyone is within earshot. It’s Wednesday, and we just opened fifteen minutes ago. With the exception of some homeschooled kids and a few regulars, there won’t be any actual customers here until tonight.
“Please call me Charlie.”
“I was joking about the skates,” he adds with a hint of a smile on his face. “I won’t be skating.”
A forced, awkward laugh bubbles up from my chest as I approach the counter. There goes any hope of trying to act natural.
Seeing his face stirs up memories of my dream and how I was clawing for his dick like a sex-crazed nympho. I cover my cheeks, hoping to hide my blush.
“How did you find me?” I ask.
He holds up his phone, showing me a photo of me in a group of skaters, dancing on the floor in a colorful outfit during our Neon Nights event. “Instagram.”
“Oh.” Could this be any more mortifying?
He must be here because he realized his mistake writing that check he gave me yesterday and he’s here to collect. I’ve already cashed it and made an extra payment on my school loan, so this is about to be an awkward conversation.
“Listen…” I say carefully.
“Do you have a moment to talk?” he asks, cutting me off.
“Of course,” I stammer.
Turning around, I look for Shelley, the owner of the rink and an old friend of my mom’s, but she must be in her office or out back having a cigarette. Instead of going on break, I gesture toward one of the old plastic booths against the wall. He nods and takes a seat, and it’s hard not to laugh at the sight.
Beau’s dad is huge, bigger than I noticed yesterday. He must be six-three with wide shoulders and a broad body. Like a…muscly dad bod. If that’s even a thing.
He also looks ridiculous in the booth because he must be a bajillionaire who hasn’t stepped foot in a roller rink or sat in a booth in his entire life. I’m sure if he takes women on dates, it’s on a yacht or to Montenegro, not to a cheap roller rink to eat pizza and drink beer. That’s far moremyreality, which is fine. I mean…dates to Montenegro wouldn’t be terrible, but it’s just a sliver out of my league.
“What can I do for you?” I ask as I take the seat opposite him.
He opens his mouth and then shuts it, and it dawns on me that he’s about to bring up something that could be mildly uncomfortable, and I’m already dreading that it’s going to be about what happened yesterday. Especially after looking through everything on his website.
I quickly save him the discomfort. “If this is about yesterday, it’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. It’s fine.”
“It’s not about yesterday,” he replies. “At least, not really.”
“About Beau then?”
His attention piques and it feels like our conversation takes a hard left the moment his son is brought up. “Have you spoken to him?”
My shoulders fall and I tighten my lips. “Mr. Grant, I told you. We broke up. I’m not going to talk to Beau anymore…”
It feels like a harsh line to deliver, but I think he needs to understand that Beau is out of my life for good. I can no longer be a lifeline to his son.
Something in him deflates, and his brow furrows as he leans back in his seat. Then he just comes out with it, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “Ms. Underwood, I’d like to offer you a job.”
For a split second, I get excited. A job? A real paying, adult job. Something I would actually want to put on a résumé. No more corn dogs or antibacterial shoe spray.
Then I remember what I found last night—what he thought I was there to do, and heat floods my cheeks. “Oh…”
He clears his throat. “It’s a secretary job, Ms. Underwood. Aregularsecretary job.”
