She felt like such a fool, but she had to go through with buying the unit. Her brother knew Charlotte as the woman who made bold, sweeping promises and later changed her mind. Plus, she couldn’t stand the thought of Michael being one sale ahead of her.
“Dude. You’re killing me with this.” Michael jammed the heel of his hand into the car horn again. “Just go.”
“See? This is why I didn’t want a ride from you. It’s more relaxing having a complete stranger take me somewhere.”
Michael zipped into the next lane without using a blinker or even looking. “You’re in excellent hands.”
She slumped back in her seat, unable to ignore the conflicted feelings pinging back and forth between her head and her heart. She hated Michael. Or at least she was trying very hard to. Every logical brain cell in her head knew the reason why—she’d tried harder with him than she had with any other guy, and she still wasn’t enough. So why was there some fragment of her that was happy to be in the car with him, even when she also despised his driving? Who had decided that this irrational part of her brain, hopelessly turned on by the vision of his hand wrapped around the gearshift, should have a voice?
She’d spent an awful lot of time during those five weeks in England talking with Aunt Fran about Michael, about the differences between men and women, heartache and the ways in which Charlotte was regularly sabotaging herself. It was good to be open and optimistic, Fran had said, but it wasn’t so smart to dive in headfirst every single time. Well, she hadn’t quite put it that way. Her exact wording was, Charlotte, stop picking out your children’s names on the first date. Call it what you will—jumping the gun. Running away with the circus. Going overboard. It was Charlotte’s greatest inclination. She knew this about herself.
By all reports, she’d been that way since she was a little girl. Her brothers teased her mercilessly about her endless string of crushes, all of which she’d been stupid enough to identify by name, starting at the age of four with the first boy she ever kissed, Darren Willingham, on the playground in preschool. As the story went, Charlotte had announced her engagement to be married to the unwitting Darren at the dinner table that night. She had no way of knowing if Sawyer and Noah were making up the part of the story where Charlotte produced crayon drawings of her wedding dress, the flowers and the church. The only other witness to the conversation had been their mother, and she’d passed away before Charlotte could ever ask her about it.
Despite the regular razzing from Sawyer and Noah, Charlotte remained undeterred on her quest for love. By the time she was sixteen, she’d figured out that the affection she wasn’t getting at home was easily obtained by sneaking out of the house, taking the train into the city and partying all night. It wasn’t love, but it was an acceptable substitute, and after a few drinks obtained with a fake ID, a handsome guy flirting with her on the dance floor, wanting to kiss her and hold her and take her home, it sure started to feel like something real. Love had always been Charlotte’s drug of choice. She’d wanted it more from Michael than she’d wanted it from any other man.
What a shame she’d invested so much time and effort into the Michael project. She’d killed herself trying to be the perfect girlfriend, making him meals that took hours to prepare because everyone knew what a horrible cook she was. She’d tried to get him to open up about work problems—she could see how stressed he was—but he wasn’t big on talking about any of it. Charlotte had been so sure that whatever was wrong, she could make it better. None of her efforts seemed to make much of an impression on him. Maybe it was because he was used to women fawning all over him. Even if that was the case, it still hurt. Of course, cooking and listening had become the least of her worries when she’d finally decided that the best approach with him was a direct one.
She’d planned a romantic evening at his place, bought a gorgeous silk nightgown and had his favorite meal brought in. They’d had dinner that night, they’d made love and Charlotte had waited for the perfect moment 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