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“Where are we going?” I ask, curious.
“How about a deli?”
“There’s a great one in the lobby, but it gets crowded at lunch, so we probably won’t find a table.”
“I don’t want to stand and eat. There’s a deli a few blocks from here that I’ve eaten at before.”
“Deli on Madison? That place is great.”
Fifteen minutes later, we sit down, placing our sodas and order ticket on the table. He bought lunch, claiming it was because he showed up uninvited. I’m thinking he doesn’t see how happy I am to see him again. “So what brings you to this part of town, Charlie?”
He plays with the straw’s wrapper before wadding it between his fingers. When he looks up, he says, “You do.” He shrugs. “I missed you.”
He always makes me smile, but I laugh lightly, too, because I like that he missed me. “You missed me?”
Leaning forward after looking around us, he whispers, “Yeah, I missed you. Is that so strange?”
No. Not strange at all. I’d been thinking about him since we parted after dinner yesterday.
“What?” he asks. “Are you laughing at me because I can admit I missed you?”
“I think it’s great you can admit you missed someone, and I wasn’t laughing.” I giggle.
“That. That right there is laughing.”
“No, that’s giggling.”
“Aren’t we too old to giggle?”
“Speak for yourself, old man,” I tease.
He laughs now, but turns away when our number is called. Tapping the table once with his palm, he says, “I’ll be right back.”
I watch him as he walks toward the back of the small restaurant to claim our order, enjoying the view. Dammit! I look out the window when I’m busted for staring at his ass. When I look back, he’s gloating—I mean smiling—all the way back.
I try to tamp the heat I feel that wants to redden my cheeks, giving my guilt away, but I think it’s too late.
“Here.” He sets the food down in front of me. “Eat and maybe that will distract us enough not to talk about the fact that I just caught you ogling my ass.”
“I wasn’t ogling.” I feign annoyance at the accusation, although I totally was ogling.
“You were sooo ogling.”
“I hate you, Charlie.” I laugh, joking with him.
“Yeah, I hate you, too,” he teases with a smug smile set in place.
I seriously love our friendship.
Chapter 17
Charlie B
What is it about Charlie that makes me happy and provokes daydreaming? I think about this while doodling on a Smith & Allen pad of paper. I wish I wasn’t smiling. I must look insane, but just thinking of him makes me smile.
A tap on the shoulder startles me right out of my thoughts. I turn around and see Rachel standing there with a cocked, all-knowing eyebrow. “That bad, huh?” she asks, sounding sympathetic.
I laugh lightly before answering. “Bad? No, not at all. Good. Too good, in fact.”
She smiles. “Walk with me to the kitchen.”
I follow her down the corridor and around the corner where the kitchen is located. Although neither doorway has a door, it feels more private than our cubicles. I stand and wait. I know it’s coming. I was busted fair and square with my head in the clouds.
“Café mocha or hazelnut today?” she asks.
“Ummm, mocha. Thanks.”
She operates in silence, but when she hands me the flavored coffee, she says, “You like this guy, don’t you?”
So many thoughts—maybe they’re excuses—flutter around my brain. I’m not sure how to answer, so I respond as honestly as I can. “I do, but not in that way. We’re friends. That’s all.”
“Really? Just friends? Because I don’t remember the last time you doodled Rachel on a notepad with swirly bits and hearts around it. You have it so bad.” There’s a playful lilt to her words.
I roll my eyes and laugh. Yep, she caught me, but I’ll argue to keep my goofy pride intact. It’s embarrassing being caught acting like a high school girl with a crush. “First of all, I don’t have anything ‘so bad’ except an over-sweetened coffee in my hand. Second—”
“Why are you blushing, then?”
I sip my coffee as a distraction and to give myself a few seconds to clear my head and allow the pink cheeks to dissipate. “As I was saying, Ms. Interruptus, we are friends. Only friends. Nothing more. I’m just happy when I spend time with him, but that’s where it ends.”
She saunters past me, shaking her head. “Keep telling yourself that, dollface. Keep telling yourself that.”
I slump against the soda machine after she leaves, wondering if the drawn hearts are more telling than I’d like to think. I like drawing the curve of them, but maybe . . . just maybe . . . nah. I shake myself out of this notion and toss the coffee.
I return to my desk and grab my phone. Walking down the hall toward the bathroom, I stand near a window in a spot that a small fake tree blocks from prying eyes. I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t stop myself. I press the button, then duck down and put the phone to my ear.
