Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(65)

“I find you attractive!” she hollered as she jumped off the table, her hands stiff and fluttering around her head like she was batting away mosquitos. The way she spoke gave me the sense the statement was an accusation, but she was the guilty party.

“Ditto,” I croaked, taking another step back. I watched her button the shirt—my shirt—starting with the very top button while my rambling statements from seconds prior caught up with me.

We’ll do whatever you want.

I just need to make you feel good.

Whatever that means for you.

Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.

Christ. Had I just . . . begged?

“No. I find you very attractive,” she ground out, continuing as though this was unfortunate news. The worst news. “I like you a lot. I’d very much like for you to be in my life. I want to be with you. But that’s impossible.”

My stomach did this swooping thing at her tone, lifting then diving, making me slightly nauseous. It’s the club. If I sold the club, if I made myself respectable, would that make things possible between us?

The urge to offer her whatever she wanted, to be whatever she wanted, still hadn’t fully subsided and I didn’t recognize or particularly like this desire in myself, this desperation. I said nothing, not trusting myself to speak.

“It’s impossible and it doesn’t matter. I’m not in a place right now—and will never be again—where I can name a time to meet someone for—for—for positions. Or a future.” Her chin was tucked to her chest, her eyes on the placket of the shirt, her fingers fumbling on the buttons. “In fact, I don’t want to, not really. I mean, I do. But I also don’t. It wouldn’t be fair to you, or good for me. Not with anyone.”

When her meaning finally landed, I flinched as I absorbed it. “Not with anyone.”

She nodded jerkily. “That’s right. I’ve officially retired from having a sex and/or love life. Not with a butcher, not a baker, not a candlestick maker. Or a bouncer at a club either. Or the club’s exceptionally stubborn, sexy, smart, sweet, and surprising owner. No matter how much I . . .” She seemed to be gulping in air again, her eyes closing.

Once more, her chin wobbled. Once more, she firmed it. “I’m so sorry.”

I winced. “Stop apologizing.”

She gave her head a stiff shake. “I never should have kissed you back,” she whispered, the words slow and measured, even as emotion strained each syllable. “It was a mistake and I regret it. An incredibly irresponsible and reckless mistake. I have no excuse other than I really, really wanted to kiss you, and I still really, really want to. And I shouldn’t. I can’t. It’s selfish. And I am sorry, but mostly for myself.”

Before I could unravel this last part, Charlotte grabbed the towel I’d wrapped her in earlier and sprinted out of the club, leaving me in Satan’s laundromat, buried under a mountain of confusion. Despair—she thinks kissing me was a mistake, she doesn’t want to be with anyone—and hope—but she still wants me—warred with each other while I stood perfectly still, my ears ringing, my stomach at my feet.

However, try as I might, I felt no regret.

Not for kissing her. Not for turning down sex when she offered. Not even for begging.





CHAPTER 17





HANK





“For it is in your power to retire into yourself whenever you choose.”

MARCUS AURELIUS, MEDITATIONS





“You’re in a bad mood.”

I shot Beau a glare. It was Wednesday morning. I didn’t need my best friend telling me I was in a bad mood. I knew I was in a bad mood. We were fishing, or trying to. I couldn’t concentrate and had lost two of my best lures because—Charlotte.

“Are you trying to scare all the fish away with your loud talking?” I snapped.

“No.” He gave me a good-natured side-eye. “But I think you are with that thundercloud on your face. What’s wrong? Did something happen yesterday at the hen party? Your G-string too tight or something?”

Grunting, I made no effort to adjust my scowl, a virtually permanent expression since Charlotte left the club on Sunday after telling me she was ‘retired.’

Neither of the bachelorette parties had been especially rowdy this week. The matron of honor last night had seemed pleased and had tipped generously both before and after our live performances. But I hadn’t been in the right frame of mind to entertain for either of them. I’d forced it, using a trick I’d been taught during my first few months as a dancer in Boston.

Most of us dancers, in order to get through any particular shift, pictured someone else’s face and body in place of whichever customer stuffed bills in our underwear or sat still for a lap dance. This was standard. A simple coping mechanism. I’d done it loads of times. Every dancer I knew did.

But for the last two nights, for the first time in my life, instead of some random celebrity or actress, and despite repeatedly telling my brain to stop, the woman I found myself imagining was a real person. My chest tightened just thinking about it.

Every woman who’d touched me had been Charlotte.

Every woman who’d watched me with a hazy expression had been Charlotte.

Every woman I’d winked at and made laugh and blush had been Charlotte.