Page 52 of The Billionaire's Second Chance
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and gave him the address of the school. I’d avoided it long enough.
He was there, waiting, in the empty, quiet library that still smelled like paper and carpet and sweat. I’d miscalculated: delaying our meeting until it was–I had checked my watch nervously in the car on the way over–seven fifteen only meant that the superintendent and the others who were supposed to join us had, apparently, come and gone. There were crumbs on the table, and Charlie had a coffee cup in front of him, and we were alone. I took a breath, letting it out slowly.
He looked up as I pushed open the door, and I watched the furrow between his brow smooth out, the tension in his mouth fall away. My eyes flicked from his face to the seat next to him, where a second cup sat on the table. My chest clenched tight.
“Sami,” he said, and stood up. “Where the hell were you?” Despite his words, he didn’t sound angry. More relieved.
“Sorry,” I said. “Work ran late.”
“Right.” He nodded. “Of course.”
I sat down in the chair next to him carefully, pulling out my silver pen, my notebook, opening it to the notes I’d taken during our last meeting as Charlie launched into a post-gala recap.
“...There are a few more prizes that still need to be picked up, but that’s mostly on the companies that donated them. And I told a woman named… Gustofsen? That the party planner would hand-deliver her coat to her apartment.” He grinned up from his notes, lifting one eyebrow. “Apparently it’s irreplaceable.Vintage mink.”
I nodded.
His grin slipped.
“Hey, Samantha. Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” I said. I didn’t hesitate. “Again, I’m sorry I was late. I was held up at the agency.”
“You didn’t get the call, did you?” he asked. “You would tell me if you got the call.”
“What call?” I asked.
“Now Iknowsomething’s up. The call from NY Lit, letting you know you won Agent of the Year. The call you’re waiting for.”
“Oh.” I shook my head. “No. Not yet.” There was a pause, broken only by the rhythmic tapping of Charlie’s finger on the edge of his keyboard. It drilled into my brain.
“Sami–”
“I’m trying not to think about it, Charlie, please,” I said. My words came out a little harsher than I intended, and I pressed my lips together tightly.
“I wasn’t going to ask about that. I was going to ask…” He tipped his chair back on two legs and looked up at the ceiling. “Did I do something? At the fundraiser? Fuck, I sound like a teenager.”
“Youlooklike one too, when you do that.”
The chair fell back to earth with a thud, and he looked around the school library. “I find it hard not to act like one here.”
“I don’t,” I said. “You just never grew up.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t think I did.” And when I looked at him, he hadn’t. He was the same Charlie he’d always been, in a battered old Oxford shirt. Tousled hair. Green eyes.Hey Sami,he’d said, landing in the seat next to mine, smelling of grass and cologne and always with that damngrinthat made my stomach twist.Sense and Sensibility? I think I read that one for Freshman Lit.
They didn’t read Jane Austen in Freshman Lit.
“I can’t do this anymore,” I said.
“Well, good news,” he said, turning back to his laptop. He typed fast and confident, his fingers landing on the keys with intention. “The launch gala is over, so your duties are now confined to reading picture books to kindergarteners.”
“No, not that.” I hesitated.Us. “Sleeping together.”
He blinked, staring at his laptop screen. “What?”
“We shouldn’t keep doing this.”
I wasn’t expecting him to laugh. “Yeah,” he said when he’d caught his breath. “Yeah, no shit, Samantha.” He tipped his chair back again, letting his head fall back and running his hand through his hair.
