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Charlotte rolled her eyes, clicking through to the tab under which we were tracking smaller pieces of furniture. My mouth curled into a satisfied grin when she found the line.
Her expression turned flinty.
She shoved the laptop back at my chest. “I hate it when you’re right.”
I settled a hand over my heart. “Please stop. My heart can’t handle such sweet, sweet words coming out of your mouth.”
“Fine. It can go in the ‘for sale’ storage unit, you stubborn ass.” Charlotte threw me a dark, malevolent look and marched from the room.
I was still grinning when the front door slammed.
Daphne chuckled. “You certainly do bring out a different side of her.”
“What happened this week?” Richard asked.
I blew out a breath. “Don’t think we have enough time to answer that question, Richard.”
“The builder isn’t due here for another hour,” he said.
“Exactly,” I answered with grim honesty.
Without asking anything else, they moved the table down the main staircase and loaded it into the back of my rented truck—the vehicle bound for the final trip to the “for sale” storage unit. Into her car, Charlotte was loading the last of the items headed for the “keep” storage unit, which was far fuller than I’d hoped.
Once the table was safely inside, I covered it with a moving blanket and made sure it was secure under a tightened strap. With that done, I closed the bed of the truck just as Charlotte reappeared from the carriage house with the last piece of artwork that needed to go into storage.
Her hair was tied back today in some curly ponytail thing that bounced vigorously with each angry step. Her eyes—when they met mine across the front yard—promised vengeance when we were alone later. Every time her foot struck the ground, her facial expression had me thinking she was imagining my balls underneath her. I lifted two fingers to my temple in salute, and I was pretty sure I saw her mouth something foul underneath her breath.
Frustration bled through every interaction we’d had for the last two days. It clawed fiercely at my insides too, but I’d yet to figure out a healthy way to get rid of it.
Daphne sighed. “You know that little boy on the playground who tugs on all the girls’ braids?”
I glanced sideways. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it?” She shook her head. “You’re pushing buttons and you know it, young man.”
“She started it.”
Daphne looked heavenward. Hopefully she was praying for Charlotte’s attitude to change. “She’s so nice when you’re not around.”
“So everyone keeps saying.”
“What’d you do to her?”
“Nothing,” I barked.
But that wasn’t entirely true. For either of us.
The week had started out well. We were focused. Agreeable. Building spreadsheets and cataloging furniture and not constantly bickering.
Maybe even friendly?
I’d watched her start and stop drinking her coffee seventeen times. It was amazing, really. After observing her the last week, I wasn’t sure Charlotte had ever finished a full cup in her entire life.
When she watchedAntiques Roadshow—which happened to be every frickin’ night—she spoke to the cast like they could hear her.
She was organized. Sort of. But only in a way that was indecipherable to others. No one else would ever be able to make sense of her systems.
During the steady days of dusty, tedious work, I’d stopped beating myself up over the fact that I was noticing every little thing about her and simply accepted it as an inevitable truth.
