I'm Not Charlotte Lucas(38)

Todd shot me a wink, and I did my best not to gag.

“See you Monday,” I called when he left the building. I shared a look with Marissa, and she smiled sheepishly. What she saw in that pig was beyond me. We didn’t get a short skirt—or any skirt, for that matter—in the building without Todd analyzing every square inch of the woman wearing it.

I lifted my Yeti containing Diet Coke in something of a cheers, and Marissa just glared playfully.

“Hey, Charlie,” Fernando said, coming up to sit on the edge of my desk. His sudden appearance startled me, and I sloshed Diet Coke down the front of my blue button-down shirt, the cold liquid shocking me as it slid down my skin.

“Sorry!” he said, jumping back.

I kicked away from the desk, my chair sliding backward as I jumped up and fanned the shirt—as though that would stop the cold. It only made it worse.

“I really didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” I said, waving Fernando away. He stood helpless beside my desk, his dark, thick eyebrows drawn together in concern. I kept fanning out my blouse, waiting for the man to return to his side of the small branch where the personal bankers’ desks were gathered.

I had no idea if this blue mimicked a white shirt at all, but I was afraid the cola had rendered it see-through, and the last thing I needed was to give Fernando a show.

“Charlie, I really—”

I speared Fernando with a look, and he quit trying to apologize, turning for his desk and shuffling away. I headed straight for Marissa when a group of customers walked in.

Spinning to face away from the incoming crowd, I pretended to check out the coffee cart we kept on the far wall, sweeping a ripped-open Equal packet into the garbage and straightening the containers holding stirrers and stacked cups.

Hazarding a glance south, I cringed. The Diet Coke covered a hand-sized section of my shirt, clinging to my skin all the way down to where it tucked into my pants.

I had to change so I could look professional enough to deal with customers. My bank took professionalism to another level—take our matching uniforms as proof—and I didn’t want to be written up. But Todd was gone, and I was in charge . . . a lightbulb dinged over my head—metaphorically—and I wanted to praise the heavens for reminding me of the emergency bag my dad made me pack when I went on a road trip a few years ago with Beth and that I now kept snug in the trunk of my car. The door opened again as more customers came inside. Somehow I needed to get past them, make it to the parking lot, and get the emergency sweater from my trunk.

At least I hadn’t been drinking regular Coke, or this would be both sticky and wet. I would take just wet any day.

I heard the door open again. The after-work rush of people wanting to deal with their money before the weekend began was upon us, and I needed to step behind the counter to help Marissa out. But first, sweater.

Skirting around the line that had formed, I grabbed my keys from my desk and made a beeline straight for the door, watching the floor and avoiding both Fernando at his desk and the growing line of customers. I made it into the cool evening, the air prickling my clammy skin where the wet shirt clung, and sucked in a fresh breath of northern California air.

“Charlie?”

I stilled. Oh, no. No, no, no. My body completely froze on the sidewalk, halfway to where I’d parked my car to the side of the bank. I knew that voice. It haunted my dreams—sometimes literally—and belonged to precisely the last person I wanted to run into while sporting a Diet Coke–covered shirt.

My car was so close I could see the corner of it. If I walked another ten feet, rounded the corner, I would have the sweater in hand. Sure, it probably stunk from sitting wadded in the backpack unwashed for the last few years, but it beat wearing a Diet Coke-covered shirt at work. It meant I wouldn’t get written up.

I stepped forward. It was fine. I would just pretend I hadn’t heard him.

“Charlie?” Liam called again, this time closer. Was he jogging? I started to turn my head to find out but snapped it back in place. If I looked, he would know I heard him.

I was so close now. Five more feet. Round the bend.

“Why are you ignoring me? I think I’m the one with a right to be angry right now.”

Liam approached, rounding the sidewalk to pause in front of me. Between me and my sweater.

Folding my arms high over my chest, I shot him a bright smile. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

He clamped his mouth shut, his eyes sparking. “You didn’t hear me call your name from two feet away?”

“I guess I was lost in thought.” Thought of sweaters and dry clothes.

His gaze traveled down before snapping back to my face, his mouth fighting a grin. “Spilled?”

Good. If he was smiling, then he couldn’t be that angry. “I’ll have you know that I was startled, actually. Normally I can drink perfectly fine, and it all makes it down my throat.”

He was chuckling now, and I stepped around him. “It’s not funny! We’re swamped in there.”

“Hey, whoa. Sorry for laughing,” he said as he continued to laugh. “But the teller seems to be doing well. I was in and out in under five minutes.”

He was in the bank? I had no idea. That’s what I got for avoiding the customers to sneak outside. I unlocked the trunk of my car, angling myself away from him as I dug through the junk to find the old backpack. It was useless now. The water and food had probably expired, and the batteries in the flashlight were likely eroded and melted all over the interior. I unzipped the dusty pack and rummaged inside, locating the large gallon Ziploc with a change of clothes and pulling out the black sweater.