to confess her love to Michael. They were curled up in his bed, warm under the covers, lips inches apart. She was just about to profess her love for him when she was preempted by Michael’s own confession. He was getting the impression that she wanted a lot more out of their relationship than he was equipped to give. He was too busy for a real girlfriend. It never worked out. Of course. It never worked out for Charlotte, either, just for different reasons.
“So? What’s your plan?” Michael asked.
If only he knew the true breadth of that question. Her hand instinctively rested on her lower belly. She had a lot to plan for, and a lot to accomplish. It all scared the crap out of her, especially the notion of telling Michael. If he’d managed to anticipate and fend off “I love you,” there was zero chance he was up for the challenge of a child. Even so, the baby seemed like the one truly bright spot on her horizon. Motherhood was going to be a lot of work, and she was in no way confident she was up to the task, but she liked the idea of finally having a deserving vessel for the love she was so eager to give. “My plan?”
“Yes. For selling your half of the apartments.”
She wasn’t aware she needed a plan outside of getting out her address book and calling her contacts, starting with the wealthiest ones. “I don’t really feel like I should share my strategy with you.”
“So you don’t have one.”
He was so arrogant it made her want to scream. And kiss him. Again, confusing. “That’s not true. My plans are just more fluid than yours are. It’s called being flexible and thinking on your toes. You should try it sometime.”
He shook his head, his signature dismissive move. “Being flexible isn’t a strategy, it’s a coping mechanism. You sell with a strategy. That’s the name of the game in real estate. Sell, sell, sell.”
Blah, blah, blah. If only he knew that his little lecture on business was like rubbing salt in the wound. She didn’t need constant reminders of how he lived and breathed his job. She was collateral damage from the importance of Michael’s career.
“You know,” he continued, “if you need some help networking, I host a party every year on December twenty-third. I invite other agents, potential clients. Usually some pretty big hitters. I always get a great turnout. I think people enjoy avoiding their families at the holidays.”
“Is that what you do? Avoid your family at Christmas?” Michael had never talked about his family when they were a couple, however hard she’d tried to get him to do it. She didn’t know anything more than he had a brother, and parents who he’d hinted were perfectionists.
“You might say that.”
She didn’t want to take his help, but it might be good to keep her options open. “I’ll think about it.”
Michael pulled up in front of the Grand Legacy and put the car in Park.
“It really is a beautiful building.” Michael rested his hand on the center console, leaning over her and peering up at the building. He was so close, she could practically count the hairs in his perfectly tended stubble. She had once loved to hold on to his face right before he kissed her. He had no idea, but it was her way of reminding herself that Michael Kelly actually wanted to make out with her. The man was an Olympian, as shrewd a businessman as there ever was and the finest male specimen she’d had the good fortune to take to bed. She’d wanted to mark the moment and thank the universe.
But that was in the past. And today was all about her future, as well as that of the baby, the two of them on their own. “It is. I love it. I absolutely love it. Which is why I’m going to sell my units before you do. I simply care more.” She reached for the door handle.
“Are you challenging me to a race?”
“No,” she scoffed, even though she knew very well that she would take extreme glee in selling her apartments before him. She might be forced to take out a full-page ad in the New York Times, or at least go to his office, blow raspberries at him and say, “I told you so” a few hundred times. “I’m a grown-up. I’m not racing you.”
“Right. I mean, how would we even decide what the prize is?” He bounced his eyebrows at her, his voice so low and husky that she worried she might pass out and knock her head into the dashboard.
“You do your thing. I’ll do mine.”
“Or I can just tell myself it’s a race. To stay motivated.”
“What? You can’t do that. You need someone else to race you. I refuse to be that person.” Except I already am that person.
“I’m pretty sure I can do whatever I want.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” It would be just like him to do this. The doorman appeared and opened Charlotte’s car door. “I’m going now.”
“You’re welcome for the ride, neighbor. Oh, and by the way, we’re totally having a race.”
Fine. I’ll just have to figure out a way to beat your sorry butt.
Charlotte stood inside the doorway of her brand-new luxury Grand Legacy apartment, mesmerized by muscles.
“Ma’am, where do you want this?” Chad, the head of the moving crew she’d hired, blew his sandy blond surfer-dude bangs from his forehead. His lightly tanned brow glistened with sweat. His biceps bulged through his black T-shirt, which was emblazoned with his company’s name: Hunks with Trucks.
Charlotte felt giddy. This was the most fun she’d had in months. “In the bedroom, Chad. Thank you. And please, call me Charlotte.” Her voice was high and girlie and exploding with flirtation, and she didn’t care in the least how goofy it might make her seem.
“Of course. Charlotte.” He smiled and winked at the same time, a talent Charlotte did not possess. Chad was getting a really good tip at the end of the day. As was Marco, the tall one with the megawatt smile, Phil, the one with the nerdy glasses whose side job was as a runway model, and James, the brooding serious one with the mysterious tattoo snaking up his arm.
“I can’t believe you hired this moving company,” Fran said under her breath when Chad was out of view. “But I’m not sorry you did.”
“I figure we’re entitled to a little fun. Plus, I hate moving.” Charlotte had moved thirteen times, more than once a year since she’d moved out of the house at eighteen. That was when her dad had announced that he couldn’t “deal” with her anymore—too much sneaking out of the house, and doing things that were unbecoming of a Locke, mostly staying out late and dancing. There was always a lot of dancing.
Charlotte’s brothers had done some of the same things, and although their carousing was never on a par with Charlotte’s, they were also never reprimanded for it. She despised the double standard and had been glad to go out on her own. She started her party-planning business the next day, and kept at it during her first two years of college, until she eventually flunked out of school and shifted gears out of boredom, the next phase being interior design. “And they’re doing a great job.” The bonus of hiring Hunks with Trucks was that as a pregnant single woman, these guys might be the only primo male physiques she’d see up close for the foreseeable
