Page 10 of If My Wishes Came True
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. It’s aterribleidea. He’s my neighbor. If we get involved and things go south, I’ll have to relocate again.
And I’m sosick and tired of moving.
“Are you sure?” he asks, his dark eyebrows knitted together. “I don’t want to impose.”
Normally, when a man tells me he doesn’t want to impose, he’s simultaneously undressing me with his eyes. But not Charlie. All it takes is the earnest look on his face to strip away any doubt I had. I’m calm now, my heartbeat steadying. “Of course,” I say. “It’s the least I can do.”
He’s the first guest I’ve had since I moved in two monthsago. The first person to see where I live. And his reaction is—priceless.
“Wow,” he exclaims, his eyes wide. “It’s like an art museum in here.”
We put my supplies down in the foyer, and he gravitates toward the gallery wall I’m so proud of. I smile as he peruses his way from left to right. “These are great,” he says, his eyes on my two favorites: Picasso-style cubist portraits I picked up at a flea market in Pittsburgh. “Are any of them yours?”
“You mean…did Ipaintthem?” When he nods, I giggle. “Oh gosh, no. These are pieces I’ve collected over the years. I’m not much of a painter.”
It’s such aJennathing to say—bubbly and self-deprecating. Normally, I wouldn’t think twice about it. But the way Charlie’s looking at me, it’s like he can see right through the act.
“I think you’re being modest,” he says, confirming my suspicions.
The look in his eyes makes my knees weak, and my first instinct is to flip my hair—but I can’t, because it’s pulled back. It unnerves me.
“Either that, or I just aided and abetted an art supply heist,” he continues, nodding toward the foyer where my painting materials are lined up.
His joke disarms me, and I relax again. “You’re probably better off not knowing,” I say with a wink. His face flushes ever-so-slightly.
Oh no. I’m flirting with him.
“Well, you certainly have an artistic eye,” he goes on, steppingback to take in my gallery wall in its entirety. “What do you do for a living?”
“Interior design,” I say, biting my lip sheepishly when he turns back toward me. “And you’re right…maybe I was selling myself short before. Idopaint. It’s been a while, but I’m starting to get back into it.”
When Charlie smiles, his entire face lights up and?—
I think I just swooned a little. I lean on a side table for balance.
“I’m getting back into photography, myself,” he goes on to tell me.
And he’s an artist, too?!God help me, the room is spinning. I need to sit down.
It’s strange, because I’m usually so graceful. I never lose my balance. There’s a reason I was always at the top of the pyramid—single-leg stunts were my specialty. It’s how I qualified for that individual cheer competition during my junior year of high school. Andwon.
“It’s just a hobby right now,” he continues with a sigh as I make my way to the couch. “I have a business degree, but it’s not my passion.”
“I know how you feel,” I tell him with a growing smile. “I have an architecture degree, and it’s not my passion either.”
“Isthatright?” Charlie sits on the opposite end of the sofa from me. And this time, when he grins, I feel something I haven’t felt since the first time Hunter Reed’s lips brushed mine.
Butterflies.
Oh lord. If Charlie can make me feel like this sitting six feet away, what would it be like to kiss him? What would it be liketo?—
“Where did you study architecture?” he asks, stealing me away from my fantasy.
And what a crash landing back to reality it is to hearthatparticular question come from Charlie’s kissable lips. My heart sinks.This is it.
This is where everything comes to a screeching halt. Where Charlie shows me he’s no better than Greg—a guy who looks at me and only sees a blonde airhead. Thank goodness I haven’t heard from him since our disastrous date. Sure, Greg had already decided I was an idiot when he read my misspelled messages. But regardless of whether I’ve texted someone first, the typical response I get when I say I went to such a highly-ranked program is wide-eyed, open-mouthed shock.
I brace myself for Charlie’s reaction. “I went to the University of Michigan,” I tell him.
