Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 116232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116232 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
As soon as she started it up, Stella’s voice rang from the speakers, and it was so loud, I couldn’t hear myself think. I was grateful when she turned it down to a volume we could talk over, before backing out of my driveway.
As she drove, she filled me in on her day, talking about her cleaning channel and the brand she was trying to build. She didn’t need to tell me it was going well, because I kept tabs on it and had been watching the growth. My interest was just a side effect from years of analyzing the markets, I told myself.
I didn’t watch her videos because I wanted to see her, and I was indifferent to the tight, flattering clothes she wore during them. And I definitely hadn’t considered coming home early one night to catch her when she was cleaning my place and see where the conversation would lead.
Because I wouldn’t allow it.
Without prompting, she told me about her vision for her fledgling business. How she wanted to collaborate with other influencers, and to be sponsored by big brands, and maybe someday sell her own merchandise.
But she spoke like these were fantasies, with no hope of them being anything more than dreams.
“All the admin,” she said, “and the business stuff? I’m just terrible at it. I don’t have a clue what I’m doing.”
“Really? It seems like you’re doing great. Every video you post is better than the last, in my opinion.”
The second the words left my mouth, I cringed internally. Did that make me sound like a creep?
Charlotte glanced at me with surprise. “You watch my videos?”
I gave her a lopsided smile. “Think of it as a testament to how good they are, because I hate cleaning.”
She grinned, and I shouldn’t have liked how cute that made her look.
So I found somewhere else for my thoughts to go. “What’s the stuff you’re struggling with?”
For a moment, it seemed like she wasn’t sure where to start. “Okay, so I’ve got this list of companies I want to reach out to, but . . . I don’t know. I don’t know how to ask stuff.”
“You mean, cold calling?” My mouth ran away with itself. “I could help with that, if you wanted.”
What the fuck, I yelled inside my head. I was already stretched thin between Warbler, my day trading, and helping my parents. When would I have time?
“Yeah?” There was so much hopefulness in her voice, I knew I was screwed. I couldn’t walk the offer back. She adjusted her hands on the steering wheel and looked pleased. “Awesome. I could use all the help I can get.”
Well, great.
With that settled, I turned my gaze out the window and watched the landscape whip by. She was driving fast, even for an interstate. I’d discovered most Nashville drivers seemed to have difficulty finding the accelerator—but not Charlotte.
She also drove like she was required to keep the front end of her Yaris only a foot behind the car in front of her. The proximity made my blood pressure climb, and when the BMW in front of us flashed its brake lights, I tried to push the invisible brake pedal on the passenger side.
Why hadn’t I offered to drive?
I liked being the driver, so this was hard for me, and I aimed for a joking tone. “Question for you. Have you thought about not driving up this guy’s ass? Could be fun. Maybe you should give it a try.”
She laughed, amused. “So sorry, Dad.”
Instantly, her father’s image flashed in my mind. “Don’t call me that.”
“Okay . . . Daddy.”
Fuck, there it was again, that strange, exciting thrill. The effect of it was so strong, it barely registered she’d done what I asked, and the BMW pulled ahead, giving us breathing room.
But there wasn’t much air left inside the cramped confines of her Yaris. Her daddy comment had charged the space, filling it with a sexual tension that was as unwanted as it was hot.
The longer we sat in silence, the worse it became. I needed something to distract us both. “So does this ‘Zach’ know I’m tagging along?”
“Nope. He doesn’t even know we’re coming.”
I pulled my shoulders back. “What?”
“He hasn’t responded to any of my texts, and it’s been weeks.”
As she took the offramp, I strangled back my unease. “What if we get there and he’s not home?”
“Oh, trust me,” she said. “He’s home. Thursday nights he goes to the bars with some of his friends from Sigma Phi Alpha, so he’ll be at his place pregaming right now.”
I was about to make a remark about college kids, when I remembered that she was the same age as college kids. Plus, I didn’t know what kind of breakup they’d had. If he wasn’t responding to her texts, it probably hadn’t been good.