I'm Not Charlotte Lucas(50)

“Sooner rather than later, I hope,” he said. He scrubbed a hand over his stubbled chin. “Actually, I’ve got a lot going on over the next few days with work, but I would love to take you to dinner.”

“I’m not sure I should be looking for a rebound right now,” I said, screwing my face into an apologetic grimace that probably wasn’t even a little bit cute.

He didn’t even flinch. “That’s fine. What about a friend?”

Friend? Friends were good. There was no pressure with friends. We’d already established that I was far less awkward when there was no pressure.

His smile grew as I nodded. “Good. I’ll text you later with details. I’ve got to do some research first to find something friend-appropriate.”

I pretended to sigh in relief. “Good idea. You don’t want to pick anything too romantic and give me the wrong idea.”

Liam laughed. “Yeah, definitely don’t want to do that.” His grin belied his words.

I turned for the stairs. “Care to take the door out? Or did you want to climb back down the trellis?”

“I really don’t want to hurt the clematis. I should probably go through the door.”

“My mom would appreciate that.”

I walked down the stairs, Liam on my heels. When we reached the front door, I immediately thought of the time he’d dropped me off after our date to the charity ball, and I’d thought he was going to kiss me. My cheeks flooded with heat, and I stepped away, opening the door and gripping the handle as if it was slipping me some extra strength. “Goodnight, Liam. Thanks for bringing me tacos.”

He hesitated in the doorway, his blue eyes trained on me, creases forming beside them.

I was dangling over the ledge, eager to hear whatever he was hesitating to say.

Reality crashed over me like a bucket of ice water when he pressed his lips into a firm line and turned away. I hung onto the door, watching Liam slide his hands into his pockets and walk away from me. The view wasn’t bad, but I’d much rather he come my way instead.

I really should’ve left the doorway, closed the door. What would he think if he turned around and saw me watching him?

But I couldn’t. I was drawn to Liam the way I was drawn to paintings, as if they had a magic ability to lasso me around the waist and slowly reel me in. I wanted to study Liam the way I studied art, to examine the planes of his face and the shadows falling on his bunched muscles when he moved. To take the man I was coming to know and immortalize him on canvas.

Breath caught in my throat, forcing me to gasp quietly. Liam glanced over his shoulder once he reached the sidewalk and offered me a smile—but I didn’t care. I didn’t care that he had just caught me watching him.

Because for the first time in years, I wanted to paint.





Chapter Twenty


The front of Aunt Fern’s aging Victorian house was covered in foliage and many cement steps—far too many for a woman of such uncertain footing to take on her own. Aunt Fern was known to fall at the worst possible times. I didn’t want one of those falls to be while she was under my care, so to speak, during our weekly trek to the salon for her to get her hair rolled and set. So as a result, each time I chauffeured Aunt Fern to or from her appointments, I made a show of needing to see her into the house, to make sure I was nearby to safely get her up those tall, unforgiving stairs.

“You’ll be around next Monday, won’t you?” Aunt Fern asked as I led her to her door and waited for her to take her keys from her purse, the telltale rattle piercing the air as they shakily made their way into the lock.

“Of course.”

She smiled at me. The woman was seventy and incapable of driving herself anywhere. Not because of bad eyesight or trembling hands, but merely because she’d never learned. She’d lived seventy years on this earth and didn’t once take herself down to the DMV to secure herself a driver’s license. But with nieces willing to chauffeur and companies willing to deliver groceries or takeout right to one’s door, who needed a license anyway?

She lifted a thin, white eyebrow. “Four-thirty, Charlotte. I can’t be late.”

“We never are,” I said, smiling at her. She never left the salon without that extra floral scent of whatever products they put in her hair to make it retain its helmet appearance for the entire week between appointments, and I wanted to escape the cloud of floral before it clung to me as well.

She let herself into the house. I was free to go, and I skipped down the steps and jumped into my car, extra antsy. It turned out that Liam’s busy few days at work had turned into a week-long trip down to SoCal to get some things in order at his charity’s main office, and he had only flown home late last night. Which meant it had been just over a week since our taco and Pride and Prejudice night. You’d think that extra time was enough to settle my nerves, but all it really did was amp them up.

Not that any nerves were warranted. Liam and I were just friends.

We’d spent the week texting, which wasn’t weird. Friends texted each other all the time. Tonight, once I got home and changed out of my work clothes, we planned to meet up at Carrow’s for milkshakes. That was a normal friend thing to do too. No fancy dinner or expectations, just good malts and diner food.

It was totally not weird and completely normal that I spent the day counting down the minutes until I got to see him again. Because that was fine. I had just made a new friend, and I couldn’t wait to eat a chocolate malt.