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NOAH

Halloween

If this sorry excuse of a man opens his mouth one more time, the remaining ounce of my control will break. Scratch that—it’ll shatter into eight billion pieces because there’s no way Jonathan said the words “Charlie has to learn when she’s hit her limit” after forcing fourteen shots of vodka down her throat.

My gaze fixates on the bathroom door Charlotte disappeared through, her disco ball costume scattering light around the room as she went.

Is she okay?

Jonathan mumbles another idiotic, unintelligible comment, the smug look on his face begging to be beat right off. Although, considering I’m a black belt in Taekwondo, they’d probably deem my fists lethal weapons, and I’m really not in the mood to go to jail. Again.

I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches. Nothing angers me more than a man, or in this case a little bitch boy, who disrespects their partner.

Elijah, my backup quarterback and best friend, nudges me, our eyes connecting as he shakes his head in warning.

He’s right. Some bottom-feeding fuck boy won’t be the reason I mess up my hand and risk my entire career. Pretty hard to throw a football with broken knuckles. Not to mention, I’m still relatively sore from getting the shit knocked out of me in the game earlier tonight.

A few girls exit the bathroom, laughing, and the door swings shut. No sign of Charlotte.

Screw this.

My desperation to check on her overpowers my desire to deck this douchebag, so I drag myself away, heading toward the women’s restroom.

What the hell are you doing, Caruso?

Reaching out, I grip the door handle.

She’s not your problem.

Slipping inside, I ignore the girls primping, although they certainly notice me, and scan the ground for Charlotte’s tall sparkling boots. Scattered geometric light reflects under the handicapped stall, and a bear-like growl paired with a half sob reinforces my suspicions.

The door is partially open, and I peek hesitantly inside. It’s her. Releasing a breath of relief, I join her, flicking the lock. Crouching down, I place a hand on her back. She sighs, gripping the toilet bowl as I rub soft circles, unsure of what to say.

Hey. Your prick boyfriend wasn’t going to come, and I didn’t want you to be alone. So here I am.

We sit in silence, nothing but the— Oh fuck. She’s doing it again.

I gather her brunette hair together, but it’s a lost cause. This little disco ball needs a shower. Stat. My eyes drop to the pinkish linoleum stained with dirt, the remnants of spilled cocktails, and who knows what else. A shudder racks through me. On second thought, I need a shower myself. Immediately.

“Jonathan,” Charlotte groans, and I freeze. “Take me home.”

She thinks I’m her shitbag boyfriend. Of course she does. Because he should be the one here making sure she’s okay. Not me. Not the guy who’s barely spoken to her— but been obsessed —since her arrival at Camp Dickson this past summer.

Charlotte was new. I’d never noticed her before. Not around Crystal Bay University, and certainly not around the training camp. I was halfway to asking her name when Mr. Fuck Face came up, scooping her into his arms. It was clear she was taken.

But that was fine. I didn’t need the distraction.

“Please?” she adds, and her tone alone makes me sick.

I clear my throat. “I’d be happy t?—”

Her gaze jerks toward mine, brown eyes wide. “Noah?” Her hands fly to her hair as she brushes through it, peering down at herself. “I’m sorry I?—”

“Don’t apologize,” I interrupt.

“Honestly,” she slurs, releasing a slow, shaky exhale, hands dropping to her lap. “I don’t care.” She scoots back, leaning against the wall beside the toilet. “But I wanna go. Can you get Jonathan?”

Fuck no. “Okay.”

Reluctantly, I exit the bathroom in search of him, hands only unclenching when I realize he’s nowhere in sight. Elijah and his girlfriend Sophia, who’s one of Charlotte’s best friends, are near the bar, faces flustered.

“Where’s Jonathan?” I ask begrudgingly.

“He left,” Sophia supplies with an eye roll.

“Without Charlotte?” I press, not shocked by the news.

“Yep,” she snarks, tipping a glass toward me.

Elijah raises his brows with a shrug. “Trash took itself out.”

“She okay?” Sophia asks, setting her blue drink down on the bar. “I should go check.”

“It’s your birthday,” I remind Sophia. “I’ll make sure she gets home safe.”

“You really don’t mind?” Sophia presses.

“Not at all.”

“Okay.” She smiles gratefully. “Thanks.”

After pulling out my phone, I order an Uber to Charlotte’s place so we can leave as soon as possible.

Estimated arrival: twelve minutes.

“See you,” I tell them and head back to the bathroom.

Charlotte’s shimmering body remains slumped against the wall, her eyes shut. Crouching down, I place a finger under her nose, verifying proof of life, and conclude she’s utterly wasted. After sliding an arm around her back and another under her legs, I lift her off the ground.

Please don’t puke on me.

When I nudge the stall door fully open, she awakens slightly, nuzzling her face into my chest. I’ve got you. I ignore the onlookers all the way to the Uber.

Twenty minutes later, we’re before Charlotte’s door, her body tucked bridal-style in my arms. She slept most of the way, but I did wake her up to obtain a room number and key. The same key I’m awkwardly unlocking the door with while trying not to drop her. No, Charlotte. I’m not sure how you got that bump on your head. It clicks open, and I bring us inside, then nudge it quietly shut with my foot. I flick on the light with my elbow, revealing a quaint little space. There’s a small kitchen, living area, and three separate bedrooms. Given one of the doors is adorned with a big letter C, I assume it’s Charlotte’s and head straight for it.

My assumptions are confirmed upon opening the door. Photos of Charlotte and two little kids, presumably her siblings, adorn the nightstand, along with a few others of her and Sir Fuck Face. I choose to ignore those, making my way to her bed and gently setting her atop the pink comforter. The shower will have to wait because she certainly can’t stand, and stripping her down and helping her—although I’m not against it—seems like crossing a definite line.

My eyes trail her body— she’s so beautiful —finally landing on heeled glitter boots that wouldn’t be very comfortable to sleep in. Gripping the top of the boot, I slide the zipper down and tug it off. She wiggles her toes, and I chuckle, knowing she’ll thank me for this in the morning.

Hopefully… if she remembers.

Her boots land on the floor with a thud, and I grab a small trash bin from next to the desk and place it on her nightstand. My eyes fall to chestnut hair fluttering across the pillow, her chest gently rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern.

Her shoulders jerk, and my heart rate spikes. Is she having a seizure? She shoots upright and flies off the bed, sprinting to the bathroom.

It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

Charlotte takes deep breaths, back flat against her bathroom wall. She’s bounced between there and hugging the toilet bowl the entire night. I’m on the opposite side, eyes shut given it’s six in the morning and we’ve barely slept.

“How did I get out of the bar?” Charlotte asks, and my eyes pop open. It’s the first time she’s spoken in hours, but that question sounds deliberate. Like she’s been ruminating a while before surrendering and asking me. Her soft brown eyes meet mine, lips pursed. “I don’t remember.”

“Yeah, you were pretty out of it,” I say gently. “I carried you.”

“You carried me?” She groans and slowly rests her head back against the wall.

“Yep.”

“Why?”

My brows squish together. “Because you were asleep?”

“Sorry you had to do that,” she murmurs, eyes dropping to her hands as she picks at her fingernails.

Someone had to. “I didn’t mind.”

“Jonathan texted me that Sophia kicked him and Seth out. So thanks for coming to my rescue.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Yeah, that’s why he wasn’t there.

“No problem,” I grumble, trying to keep the bite out of my tone.

She blows a raspberry. “Hopefully no one posted photos of you carrying me out.”

My eyes find hers again. I hadn’t even considered that.

A headline flashes before my eyes: “Star Quarterback Drugs Cheerleader and Kidnaps Her,” paired with a photo of the cute little disco ball passed out in my arms as we left the bar.

Then they’ll dig into my past, and while certain files are sealed… if there’s a will, there’s a way.

“Why?” I ask, rubbing my knuckles against my stubble, heart rate picking up to a gallop.

“Because my mom would have a meltdown.”

“Your mom?” I assumed she was worried Jonathan would see and be pissed I was holding his girl.

Maybe he shouldn’t have left her.

“Do you know who Georgia Benson is?” she asks, voice scratchy from the night’s events.

“The one running for Governor?” My mind races at the realization. Charlotte Benson. Georgia Benson. Of course. “Isn’t your family, like…?” I feel like it’s a rude question, and my words stumble.

“Mega uber rich?” she supplies, pausing and closing her eyes. She swallows hard, and after what I assume is a wave of nausea passes, she says, “Yeah.”

“But you seem so normal ,” I say, despite having no authority to judge. I’m well aware people aren’t always what they seem.

“Because I didn’t grow up mega uber rich,” she says. “My family didn’t have access to the Benson wealth until a few years ago.”

“I’m surprised no one realizes you’re part of that family.” I sure didn’t.

“It’s purposeful.” She shifts in place. “I want to have a normal college experience like everyone else. If people realized I was that Benson, they wouldn’t look at me the same.”

“I get it.” And I do. Because if people knew my family history, they’d certainly stop thinking I’m this perfect pretty boy who gets everything handed to me on a silver platter. But to be honest, I prefer their assumptions over the reality. “That explains why you’ve never mentioned your mom before.”

Her eyes narrow on mine. “I didn’t realize you’ve been paying attention to the things I do or don’t mention.”

Shit . Be cool, Caruso.

This woman doesn’t need to know just how much I’ve paid attention when seeing her around at camp, and practice, and parties, and in line at Crystal Coffee while she chats with her friends about topics I definitely shouldn’t be privy to.

“I’ve seen you around,” I say coolly.

“Apparently more than I realized.”

A fluttering feeling settles in my gut. I bring a hand to the back of my neck and rub against the tight muscles. “So, back to your mom.”

She slumps against the wall. “Do we have to?”

“No, but I’m a pretty good listener.”

“Fine.” Charlotte sighs. “She tries to control every aspect of my life. And getting shit-faced at some crappy college bar would not be on her list of approved extracurriculars.”

“You’re eighteen. Shouldn’t she?—”

“Nineteen,” she corrects. “Didn’t you learn that during your extensive research?”

My cheeks flush, and I glare at her. “Looks like the alcohol’s wearing off and your sass is back.” She sticks her tongue out at me. “Well, since you’re nineteen, shouldn’t she be okay with you having some normal college experiences?”

Her teasing grin turns to a frown. “She doesn’t care about me getting any of those. My job is to graduate, go to law school, play the part of the All-American daughter, and keep my mouth shut so she can win this election.”

“That hardly sounds fair.”

Charlotte shrugs. “Such is the life of a politician’s daughter.”

Her nonchalance, like she’s already accepted her fate, has a stinging sadness surrounding my chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” She picks up the water bottle beside her and takes a long pull before setting it back down with a clunk .

“Why does she even want to be in politics?” I ask.

“What, are you writing an article?”

“No,” I say, holding up a hand. “What I mean is, considering how wealthy your family is, why bother?”

“She was in politics as long as I can remember. But after getting the inheritance, she started making bigger plans. More money, more power, I guess. My grandma had only been dead a month when Mom announced her run for governor.”

“Were you and your grandma close?” I ask, absentmindedly touching the gold chain around my neck and toying with the little ring and cornicello pendant.

“Not really, but we had some good memories.” She smiles softly, her eyes meeting mine. “Enough that I miss her. Not enough that it broke me.”

“I get that.”

“So, what’s your story?” she asks, apparently ready to be out of the hot seat.

“My story?”

“Yeah.” She forces a teasing smile. “Who is Noah Caruso, team captain and CBU football royalty?”

I huff a laugh, pride filling me at her mention of my captain title. “Is that how you think of me?”

“Me?” she scoffs, placing a hand over her chest. “No. But it is how girls on campus talk about you.” Her voice rises an octave. “Did you see Noah’s new haircut? He’s sooooo hot. I’d choke on his meatballs anytime.”

“What?!”

“Pretty sure it was some Italian reference regarding your?—”

“Got it.” I cut her off, the need for us to discuss my Italian balls highly unnecessary. “Well, football royalty seems a bit exaggerated.”

“Oh god.” She groans. “He’s humble too?”

“What can I say?” I flash a grin her way. “I’m a team player.”

“Okay then, Captain Caruso. What’s your story?”

My chest tightens. “I don’t have one.”

“Bullshit.” She narrows her eyes on me, and for a moment, it’s as if she can see straight through me. Directly through the perfectly put together, always in control mask I wear so no one will discover the real me. “Everyone has a story.”

Sure, but a drunk heart-to-heart at dawn is hardly the time. She doesn’t seem to be taking no for an answer, so I do what I always do and default to my comfort topic. “I’ve been obsessed with football my whole life. Decided one day I’d go pro and wouldn’t let anything or anyone get in the way of that.”

“Why’d you pick CBU?”

“My mom lives in Tampa.” I twist the cornicello pendant between my fingers again. “I wanted to be close if she needed me.”

“ And you’re a mama’s boy?” She huffs a laugh. “I’m not shocked.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just everything about you is Mr. Perfect.” She thinks I’m perfect? “Of course you’d want to be near her.”

If only she knew my need for proximity is vital, not a virtue.

“You have a lot of preconceptions about me, considering we’ve barely spoken.”

“I already told you.” A sweet, teasing grin graces her lips. “The cheerleaders love talking about Football God, Legend, and Mama’s Boy Noah Gabriel Caruso.”

My mouth falls open. “How do you know my middle name?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” She cocks a brow. “It was in a Sports Illustrated article last month.”

The corners of my lips quirk into the smallest of smiles. I am definitely flattered. “You read the article about me?”

She rolls her eyes. “Maybe not so humble after all.”

“So I’m Riemann’s quarterback?” I ask, referring to the math problem that’s never been solved, unable to wipe the satisfied grin off my face. “You admit you’re trying to figure me out?”

Her cheeks flush. “That’s not what I said.”

“Fun fact: you can win a million dollars if you solve an equation with Riemann’s hypothesis.”

She buries her face in her hands and grumbles, “I will give you a million dollars to stop talking about math.”

“Keep your money, rich girl,” I say, and she glances up, shooting dagger eyes. “We’ll circle back in a few days.”

“Can’t wait.” She cracks a smile, gaze holding mine, and sighs. “I suppose I should say thank you.”

“For?”

“All of”—she waves a hand at the room—“this.”

“It was nothing.”

“It may have been unexpected… but it certainly wasn’t nothing.”

I shift against the hard floor. My ass is so numb at this point, I barely feel it. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

Given her soft expression, I consider changing my question, but the exhaustion and emotions of the night loosen my tongue. “Why are you still with that guy?”

She frowns, eyes hardening. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Try me.”

“He’s just…” She wraps her arms around her legs. “I love him.”

“Even though he treats you like shit?”

Her head snaps toward me. “What would you know about how he treats me?”

“He did leave you wasted at a bar.” Anger thrums through me. She mutters a curse, pushing to stand, and I follow her lead as she rushes out of the bathroom and into the living room. “Not top-tier boyfriend material,” I press.

She spins to face me. “Sophia made him leave, remember?”

“Jonathan’s an adult, and Sophia’s not his boss. If he wanted to take you home, he would have.” My jaw clenches. “But he didn’t. He left.”

“Easy for you to say,” she says with an eye roll.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m sure no one’s ever thrown you out of anywhere.”

“Yeah,” I scoff. “Because I’m not an asshole.”

She flings an arm toward the front door. “You should leave.”

“I wasn’t trying to upset you,” I say, lowering my tone, stepping towards her, and she retreats.

Noted.

Rule number one: don’t touch Charlotte.

“No, but you are trying to tell me how to live my life,” she huffs. “Like everyone else does.”

“I’m trying to make you realize you deserve better than that shitbag.” So much better.

Her face flushes, muscles tense. “Jonathan is a good person.”

I snort a laugh. “Yeah, if the scale is from asshole to serial killer, sure, he’s a good person.”

Her mouth falls open. “You know wh—” A pounding at the door cuts off her retort. She stares at it, as frozen as I am.

Another pound is paired with a muffled, “Charlie, it’s me.”

“ Porca troia ,? 1 ” I mutter under my breath. The perfect addition to this conversation has arrived.

“Great,” Charlotte grumbles, walking to the door and swinging it open.

Jonathan rushes inside. His eyes meet mine, and he halts in place. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he snaps.

“Apparently, your job,” I reply, arms folded over my chest, trying to suppress the hatred inside me.

“Excuse me?” he asks, coming closer.

“Jonathan!” Charlotte snaps as he stands right before me, seething. “Calm down.”

“Calm down?” Jonathan asks, turning his attention to her. “I drove across the state to spend a night with you, only for you to spend it with”—his gaze finds mine again, and he pokes my sternum—“this guy?” He’s quick to anger. Is he worse to Charlotte when no one’s around?

“This guy”—I nudge him away from me—“wasn’t going to leave a drunk woman on the bathroom floor of a bar. She needed someone to help her.”

“She’s not yours to take care of.” His face flushes, and he shoves my shoulders. “She’s mine.”

“That’s funny. Because I was the one who carried her home last night.”

“I bet you were thrilled to swoop right in, weren’t you?” Jonathan snaps, starting towards me again, and my body courses with heat.

“I see a fumble, I take possession.”

“Stop it!” Charlotte shouts, pulling him back by his shoulder.

“Why?” he barks at her. “So you two cheating motherfuckers can return to whatever the hell you were doing before I showed up?”

He better watch his damn tone.

“Cheating?!” Charlotte shrieks and grabs her head, wincing. “Nothing happened between us,” she says quieter, with a sigh.

“Bullshit,” Jonathan mutters.

“Think whatever you want,” I say, shaking my head. “She was puking all night, and I stayed to make sure she didn’t suffocate in her own vomit. You’re welcome.”

“Well, I’ll take it from here,” he says with a smug smile, putting an arm around my shoulders and dragging me towards the door. Rage rolls off me in waves, and I shake him off, my attention turning to Charlotte, our eyes meeting.

“Do you want me to leave?” I ask her.

“Get. Out,” Jonathan snarls, the door creaking open behind me.

My gaze doesn’t leave Charlotte as my pulse pounds in my ears. “Are you okay with him?”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Jonathan demands. “Of course she is.” He looks to Charlotte. “Tell him, babe.”

She shifts from one foot to the other. “I’ll be fine, Noah.” My eyes bounce between them, and she softly adds, “You should go.”

Bile rises in my throat at the idea of leaving her alone with this guy. I don’t know him. What he’s capable of. All I know is he’s a prick and has a temper. But Charlotte needs to see when she speaks, I listen. Even if I don’t agree.

Reluctantly, I slide on my shoes, grab my phone and keys off the counter where I left them last night, and turn to her.

“If you need me, you know where to find me,” I say, hoping my eyes express everything I can’t. That conversation wouldn’t go very well right now.

“She won’t,” Jonathan says as he shoves me out, and slams the door in my face. Within seconds, yelling begins on the other side. I lean my forehead against the door, blowing out a breath.

Is she safe with him?

Would he raise his hand to her?

Would she tell anyone if he did?

I remind myself not everyone is like my father.

And as Jonathan said, she’s not mine.

So why do I care this fucking much?