I'm Not Charlotte Lucas(54)
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Placing the tinfoil-wrapped lasagna dish on a cookie sheet, I piled garlic bread and the ingredients for a Caesar salad to the side. Mom had run to the boutique bakery in town and bought Vera a box of cookies the woman would likely never eat, but the thought was sweet.
Mom rushed past me, grabbing her keys from the counter and a water bottle from the fridge. “Make sure to serve her dinner right away or put it in the oven to keep warm if Vera isn’t hungry yet.”
“Okay.”
“And if you’re hungry, there’s another lasagna in our oven staying warm, but it shouldn’t be in there beyond an hour, or it’ll dry out. Can you pull it out then? We won’t be home until late.”
Mom’s voice floated from the laundry room, echoing down the hallway before the door to the garage shut with a heavy thunk and she was gone. I opened the oven door and peered at the melted cheese layer on top of the lasagna, then checked to make sure the oven was off.
Letting myself outside, I balanced the uneven tray with a bag containing Vera’s cookies and everything I needed to make a chocolate malt.
But Vera’s front door was closed, and I didn’t have a free hand. I stared at the handle for a minute, debating my options. Using my elbow, I bent, trying to manipulate the handle open, but it wasn’t budging. Vera usually left the door unlocked for me, but now it was hardly moving before snapping back into position.
With her broken leg, I wasn’t about to ring the doorbell so she could let me in. I could set the food on the floor and open the door like a normal person, or . . . glancing over my shoulder, I did a quick sweep of the street. It was empty.
Slipping my foot from my sandal, I lifted it to the handle and tried to get the door open with my toes. But it still wouldn’t budge. It was way more difficult than an interior door, and I couldn’t get it to unlatch. My frustrated groan ripped through the air, and I rearranged the tray in my hands, squared my legs, and tried again. The handle began to turn just the slightest bit, and then it gave, opening quickly under my foot and causing me to fall forward with the door.
Liam stepped through, taking me under the elbows and keeping me from falling flat on my face—and losing Vera’s dinner in the process.
“Are you feeding an army?” he asked, eyes dancing over the massive tray and bag of food.
I was ultra-aware of the heat in my core from Liam’s firm grip on my arms. I screwed up my nose and slipped my foot back into my sandal, and his arms dropped.
I brushed past Liam and shot him a smirk over my shoulder. “Nice dad joke. Aren’t you supposed to be coming over after dinner?”
Good job, Charlie. Awkwardness always wins over the guy, doesn’t it?
Chuckling, he followed me, the deep sound of his laugh enveloping me tightly. “Spike had to be at the school for something, so I’m off the hook tonight.”
I set everything on the counter and turned, leaning back and folding my arms across my chest. “So you came early, hoping to snag some of your grandma’s dinner?”
He leaned against the island counter across from me, mirroring my crossed arms. His blue eyes were a dark, deep ocean I could drown in if I let myself. Something about the smile stretching over his lips pricked at me, like he was holding a secret he badly wanted to share.
And I badly wanted him to share it. I was just waiting for that one sign that he was into me like Darcy was into Elizabeth. Or maybe more like how Mr. Collins was into Elizabeth—that unmistakable, won’t-be-insecure-because-she-knows-deep-in-her-gut feeling that this guy likes me.
Oh, heavens. Did I really just compare Liam to Mr. Collins? I deserved going to bed early with no dessert for that thought. Liam, with his broad shoulders, sly smile, and eyes that refused to leave my face, was nothing like the Bennets’ sniveling cousin. Seriously. Did I have a new zit forming or something? He was staring.
His gaze flicked to the brown paper bag on the counter. “Malt stuff?”
“Malt stuff,” I confirmed, glad for a momentary reprieve from his attention.
Liam stepped forward, and I thought he was going to look through the bag, but he paused in front of me instead. “Is Mariah feeling better?”
“The ice cream helped.”
He reached behind me and pulled the bag over, peeking inside. “Vanilla ice cream? Aren’t we doing chocolate malts?”
“I can’t give away all my secrets, Liam.”
His voice lowered. “But what if I want you to?”
Was this my sign? His hand rested on the counter near the bag, his arm brushing my own. Heat seared me, and it was all I could do to keep my breathing normal. “Curiosity killed the—”
“I’ve always hated that saying,” he said, still whispering, still standing right in front of me. “Asking about you isn’t going to get me killed, is it? Is your ex-boyfriend secretly a member of the mafia?”
“We live in Northern California,” I said wryly. “We don’t have mafia here.”
“Good. Then I’m safe. I just want to know all about you, Charlie Lucas. I want to know everything.” He brought his other hand up, resting it on the counter and boxing me in. Now I really couldn’t breathe. I hoped the guy knew CPR, because if he leaned in and closed the distance, I would probably go into cardiac arrest.
“There’s not much to tell.”