You're to Blame(42)

“Earth to Duke.” She waves her hand in front of my face.

“Sorry, what?” Focus, Duke.

“Why are you on campus?” Charlotte holds the cup to her mouth. She stills. The perfect curve of her lip distracts me.

Earlier this morning, I ran into Rachel outside of my ‘too early for a Tuesday’ ethics class. She spilled Charlotte would be around campus, catching up on work for the newspaper.

“I was actually looking for you,” I admit, glancing away. “And what interview? I thought you already interviewed Derks.” I’m blunt and crass most days, so this playing dumb about Ari is painful to me.

“I did, which reminds me, I shadow him tomorrow.” She pulls out her phone and clicks her fingers against the screen, glancing up at me every so often. “This interview is for Ari St. James.”

“I’m surprised he agreed to an interview.” Of course, he agreed to one. He’s like a cat chasing a mouse. Charlotte will be batted around the yard before he goes in for the kill. “There has to be someone better to interview. You’re trying to tell me there is no other alumni who stayed around and done good?”

Charlotte shrugs, unsure of where to go with our conversation. “You said you were looking for me?” she asks, retracting to my previous comment.

“I need your help.” No, I don’t. “Furniture. I need new furniture.” What the actual fuck am I talking about? I don’t need new couches. I have new couches.

She laughs uncomfortably. “And you want me to help you lift it?”

“Hardly.” I squeeze her arm. “These twigs couldn’t lift a couch if your life depended on it. What I need is a female’s touch.” Her eyes widen, and an adorable pink hue creeps onto the apples of her cheeks. “A female’s perspective. Opinion. Whatever,” I stumble. “Fuck, maybe I need a woman’s touch. Lack of sex is making my head full of mush.”

“I have plenty of opinions, so I’m your girl. For the furniture. Not the sex.” She walks in the opposite direction.

“I wish,” I mutter under my breath. Fuck, I need to quit thinking these things. Maybe Charlotte and I are spending so much time together, it’s clouding my judgement.

“Where are you going?” Charlotte’s already twenty paces in front of me.

She turns around and walks backwards. “My car’s this way.”

“My truck is this way.” I refuse to let her drive.

“Are we really going to do this?” she questions, her hands extended. “Too big of a man to let a woman drive?”

I’ll show you what kind of man I am.

“Oh, see, now that’s not fair.” Two steps, and we’re eye to eye. “If I put my foot down and demand to drive then I’ll appear to be a misogynist, but...” —I hold up a finger— “if I don’t drive, I’ll be a complete pussy, riding shotgun in what I assume is a reliable, sensible vehicle.”

She smirks, holding back her laughter. “It’s a Corolla.”

“See.”

“Don’t be such a guy, Duke. I need to stop by the apartment before we go anyway, so just let me drive.” She tilts her head back toward the parking lot behind her. “And plus, delivery’s free at Central Furniture.”

“How do you know where I plan on shopping?”

“Female opinion you were looking for.” She raises her hand. “Central has the best furniture if you are interested in anything other than a futon.”

“Fine, just this time.” I follow her out into the parking lot. Of course, she drives a Corolla. They’re reliable, much like herself. The taillights blink, and I slide into the compact passenger seat.

“So, Lydia has been giving me trouble about you. She has a theory.” I glance at Charlotte.

“And what is this theory?” With her hand on the gear, she reverses into the parking lot and pulls out into traffic, while I stall.

This is the moment of truth. Lay it on her and hope she doesn’t freak the hell out because Lydia’s theory is one hundred percent accurate. Charlotte and I both know it. Take a deep breath. Twelve-year-old boys are more mature than I’m being right now. Fuck!

“She thinks I’m intrigued by you,” I speak fast. The car jerks, and my body flings forward. My hand catches me before I slam into the dashboard.

Charlotte corrects her foot on the brake as we approach the red light. “Intrigued by me? Why?”

“Because I am.”

“Oh, I see.” Her voice hitches, and the urge to backpedal kicks into overdrive. I’m such an asshole. Her boyfriend, my frat brother, is in a coma, and I have the nerve to say shit like this to her.

“It’s just...” I narrow my eyes on the side of her face. Her lips are pursed in a perfect O, and she’s in the middle of some sort of meditation to regulate her erratic breathing. Her chest rises and falls in a slow rhythmic dance.

“We’re sort of an unexpected friendship, so I get it.” She drives into her apartment complex but avoids looking at me. “Rachel’s been giving me hell, too. Accused me of ogling you at the bar.”

I slip out of the car, a smile hidden from her view. “Ogling me, huh?” I smirk and wiggle my eyebrows, taunting her relentlessly over the roof. Charlotte crosses her arms over her chest, unamused by my antics.