Page 20 of Wild Child
Charlie leans on the counter next to me, and I can tell without even looking at her that she’s laughing. Darn woman finds everything funny. But this is serious. I cannot share a room with Charlie.
“Is there another room available?”
The woman shakes her head. “I’m afraid not. We’re all booked for the festival. The entire town will be.”
She looks generally concerned, and I don’t want to make her feel bad, but this is bad. I run a hand through my hair and turn to Charlie.
“Looks like you’re stuck with me, sergeant.”
Thoughts of sleeping in the same bed as Charlie flood my brain. Her body entwined with mine, her hot breath on my skin…
“Is there a twin room we can swap with?”
At least separate beds would be something.
The woman shakes her head, and her look of sympathy makes me feel like an ass for making such a fuss. “I’m afraid not. The only twin is taken by a pair of elderly sisters, and I’m reluctant to move them.”
“Of course.”
Charlie snatches the key out of my hand. “Come on, sergeant. I promise not to steal your virtue in the night.”
But the twinkle in her eye tells me she finds this amusing.
Charlie grabs her bag and heads up the stairs. I watch her go, and my eyes are drawn to her incredibly tight pants and perfect round ass.
My dick stirs to attention, and I swallow hard.
“Will it be a problem?” the woman asks, concerned at our predicament.
Yeah, it will be a big problem. A big hard-on sized problem. But the woman’s been nothing but kind, and I don’t want to make her feel bad. Besides, what other choice is there?
“No, it’s fine. Thank you, we’ll come down soon for dinner.”
She looks relieved, and I give her a curt nod before following Charlie up the stairs to our room.
I don’t know how I’m going to survive two nights in the same room with Charlie without doing something we’ll both regret.
11
CHARLIE
The woman’s voice soars over the rumble of diners chatting and pierces my very soul.
She sings about loss and heartache, and I feel it right in my bones. She plays a baby grand piano that sits on a raised stage in the corner of the inn’s dining room.
Standing next to the stage with crossed arms is a gruff-looking man whose scowl could rival Quentin’s. He watches the crowd with his beady eyes as if she’s a famous songstress at a stadium concert and not playing to a dinner crowd of thirty in a cozy inn.
The song finishes and I applaud loudly and put my fingers in my mouth and whistle. The woman looks my way and smiles. As she turns I glimpse a scar on her right cheek, the side she kept hidden from the audience. It only ads to her mystic, the beautiful singer in the small inn on the edge of town. It makes me wonder what her story is.
“She’s fantastic.”
Quentin sits next to me at a small round table. Not wanting to have his back to the singer, he shuffled his chair around so that he’s next to me. The occasional brush of our thighs under the table sends a zing of energy up my body.
“She’s all right,” he mutters.
Quentin’s still grumpy about having to share a room and a bed with me. But there’s nothing we can do about it, so why worry?
I find the thought of sleeping next to the man thrilling. Maybe it’s the universe giving us the push we need to get close to each other.
