Page 22 of Charm

She kisses me again, nipping my bottom lip with her teeth. “Let’s eat, so we can get to the good stuff.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Greer

I glancedown at the charcuterie board and what’s left of our late afternoon snack. We spent the last hour eating our way through most of it while talking about books, movies, and everything else two strangers might discuss while desperately trying not to strip naked to fall into bed together.

It’s not that I preferred the food over what I’d promised Joe, but we agreed to enjoy the spread he had prepared for us.

I did. I know he did, too, but just as we were finishing up, his phone rang three times. He ignored it the first two times it happened, but as it started up again, he cursed under his breath and told me he had to take the call.

Naturally, he bolted out of the room before he answered. I would have done the same if mine had started ringing. Fortunately, it hasn’t, but I’ve kept it close. It was in my hand until we sat down at the kitchen island to enjoy our food. Now, it’s screen side down next to me because I stole a peek at it once Joe was out of view.

“Sorry about that, Summer.” His deep, growly voice fills the silence in the room as he comes back into view around the corner. “It was a pressing work matter.”

Normally, this is where I’d ask what he does for work, but I don’t want to know. That knowledge would open a door that could tell me a lot more about him than I need to know.

When we say goodbye on Sunday, that’s a forever goodbye in my eyes.

“So, you’re not retired at thirty-five?” I tease.

His hand jumps to his hair. He rakes it with a push of his fingers through it. “I’m thirty-three, but I get it. The gray adds a sort of maturity to my look that I can’t say I mind.”

“I’m thirty-two,” I admit. “I’ve yet to find my first gray.”

He walks up to where I’m sitting before placing his phone next to mine. “You’d be just as striking with gray hair as you are with red.”

For the first twenty years of my life, I had a love hate relationship with my hair. I wanted to shave my head bald when I was a kid because of the nicknames my friends would bestow on me.

Red.

Fire engine.

Stop sign.

At some point before I graduated from elementary school, I was known by all of those.

Just as I was about to leave my college years behind, I began to appreciate the beauty in my hair. It speaks to how fierce I am. It’s bold in a way that reflects who I am as a woman.

I love it now. I wouldn’t trade it for any other color in the rainbow.

I tuck a strand behind my ear. “Thanks, Joe. The salt and little bit of pepper look you have going on suits you.”

“Little bit of pepper?” he parrots. “You’re being kind.”

“That’s not kindness. It’s honesty,” I correct him. “Your hair is more brown than gray.”

“My brother would argue that point with you,” he says, giving away a detail about his life.

I skip past the urge to ask if his brother is older or younger than him, because, again, this is not a ‘getting to know you’weekend. My goal for the next two days is to be fucked senseless as often as I can.

He gestures toward the almost bare cutting board. “You enjoyed my creative endeavor.”

“It hit the spot,” I acknowledge with a nod toward my stomach. “I’m all filled up.”

“More wine?” he asks as he picks up the half empty bottle he opened when we first sat down.

I wave my hand over the rim of my glass to chase away his intention to pour more for me. “I don’t want to get tipsy.”