Saving Charlie (Stories of Serendipity Book 9) (5 page)

A familiar mop of brown curls appeared, followed by Les’s massive torso squeezing out the window. Her heart lurched at the sight of him.

“Les?”

He turned at her voice, and recognition dawned with a broad smile. “Sweetness. You’re a sight for sore eyes.” She reached down to help him up, and when his large grip closed over hers, her breath caught in her throat. God what she wouldn’t do to have those rough hands on her body.

She pulled him up and he wrapped her in a massive bear hug, cracking her spinal cord with its intensity. “Jeez woman, I could kiss you.” He pulled away, and she was tickled to see he was actually blushing. Blush? Yeah, she shouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole. “I’m sorry. I’m just so glad to see anybody out here. It seems like I haven’t seen any cars since Lubbock; I was worried I’d be stuck out here for a while. And then, not only does someone show up, but it’s the most beautiful woman in the world.” His face dropped shyly. “Of course, not that I’m trying anything. I’ll stop talking now.”

That was so sweet. He was embarrassed. She tried to ease the awkwardness by changing the subject. “Where you headed in such a hurry?”

“I was headed to a wedding north of L.A., Santa Barbara, and my buddy said if I got there early, I could crash the stag party.” Now he was shuffling his feet like a seven-year old, and Charlie wanted to ruffle his hair.

“When’s the wedding?”

“Friday.”

“I’m heading to Oxnard for an auction on Saturday. I can’t get you there for the stag party, but I can get you there by Friday, for sure.” Today was Tuesday, that would work out well.

“Only if you’ll be my date to the wedding. Otherwise, I may as well take a cab to the nearest airport.” His words came out in a rush, like a seventh grader working up the nerve to ask a girl to a school dance.

“What?” Okay, she knew what he said, but lines were getting blurred and she needed the extra time to think.

“I’ll keep you company on the drive if you come to the wedding with me as my date.”

If she hadn’t been trying to break up with Justin for a week, she would have pulled the boyfriend card. Instead, she said simply, “I don’t really do relationships, Les.”

“Just a date. That’s all. I want to at least make them
think
I’m not the same guy I was fifteen years ago.”

There was a pathetic look about him, suddenly—a hang-dog expression on his face she couldn’t resist. His pouty lips did things to her that Justin’s never had. For one thing, Les’s pout didn’t look intentional. It was a subconscious expression, not manipulative.

She sighed heavily, the resignation mingling with a sense of anticipation Charlie didn’t like. “Okay. I’ll be your date. But nothing else. I meant what I said about the relationship thing. This can’t be the start of anything, and you need to understand that.”

They stayed there—he on his cell phone, she with her laptop—for another hour or so, until a wrecker arrived. When they managed to get his truck upright, Les climbed into the backseat and retrieved a hanging bag, a duffle bag, and a guitar case. Charlie raised her eyebrows at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.” So he played guitar like his namesake. She should have known. Charlie wondered what sort of music he played, but figured they would be in the car for the next week together, so she’d have plenty of time to figure it out. He tossed the hanging bag and duffel into the backseat of her truck, and laid the guitar case on top of his bags, after opening it to pluck some strings and make sure it was nestled safely.

Charlie went ahead and got into the truck to wait for him. She watched as he talked to the police officer who had been called by the tow truck driver. Seeing him tell his story of the accident with his hands, gesticulating wildly, smiling the entire time, sunglasses sitting on top of his head, she saw a hidden strength in his effortlessness. Then, again to the tow truck driver, marveling at the ease with which he held himself in comparison to the other men.

The police officer was stiff, as officers of the law tended to be, in Charlie’s experience. They had to exude authority with their every move, and this one was no exception. His smile was genuine, as he listened to Les tell his story, but it didn’t look comfortable on the man’s face. The tow truck driver was an older gentleman with tobacco-stained lips and a yellowed beard. He was the complete opposite of the officer—slouching so badly, he looked as if he could be poured out of his coveralls.

Les stood between them, all of five foot nine, looking bigger than the two of them combined with his presence alone. He gestured with an ease and comfort that told people he liked the skin he was in, and wouldn’t trade it for anything. Charlie envied that.

Finally, the tow truck driver and the officer went to their respective vehicles after shaking Les’s hand and waving him away. Les turned to Charlie’s truck with a bright smile and sauntered her direction.

What in the world was he so happy about? He just totaled his truck, almost died, and was stuck with an acquaintance at best for the duration of his drive. She smiled back at him, acutely unsure of what she was getting into.

He swung himself into the truck, and suddenly, the cab shrank exponentially. He was everywhere. His smell especially. Sandalwood and sawdust. Charlie’s mouth suddenly started manufacturing saliva, and she swallowed hard as she started the truck.

Charlie watched him slide his sunglasses down over his eyes and quirk a smile at her, oblivious to her discomfort. She offered a weak smile back, regretting her hasty decision to offer a ride, but what else was she going to do? They were going to practically the same place and they were sort of friends; she couldn’t leave him out here alone.

But she’d never really spent this much time with someone she wanted to avoid. And why avoid him? Because she couldn’t date him. And she didn’t know how to do anything else.

Eyes forward, she put her truck in gear and started driving. Easing onto the highway, she turned the radio on to fill the silence.

“Nope.” He reached over and turned it off. “I’m stuck in a truck with you for fifteen hundred more miles. The least I get is your name. I can’t call you Sweetness the entire trip.”

She’d forgotten. Throwing him her sweetest smile, she said, “My name is Charlotte Booke, but my friends call me Charlie.”

The look on his face, as his grin melted to shame, was priceless. She could see the memories flit across his face of every time he’d implied she was nothing more than hired help, calling her the secretary, calling her boss an idiot. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. Charlie couldn’t help but giggle, a sound she couldn’t ever remember making.

One out of three runaways are approached by a trafficker within forty-eight hours.

—www.refugeoflight.org

Les was going to lose his mind. He was such a freaking idiot. Thinking back, it was obvious Sweetness was Charlie; she ran the place. She made the deals. She knew where everything was. And he’d never met the boss man. How could he just assume Charlie was a man? He was better than that, wasn’t he?

He looked over at the woman next to him. Her shit-eating grin split her face open like a ray of sunshine. It was nice. Usually, her face held shadows of something darker. Something he couldn’t put his finger on, though it was familiar. Right now, the shadows were gone, and she looked radiant. Les had to admit he liked that he’d put that radiance there, even if it was through his own monumental stupidity.

“So, what got you started with Recycled Restoration?”

She exhaled like she was excited to tell a tale to a kindred spirit, and Les felt something swell inside him. He acknowledged he was already half in love with her because that was his modus operandi. She was single and gorgeous. He was Les. Of course he’d fall in love with her. But that sound she made had him feeling like he was looking over the precipice, about to jump in feet first. Bad idea.

“I’ve always loved the permanence of old houses. When they’re torn down or remodeled to be updated, it’s sad to me. So I started collecting the old architectural pieces for remodelers to use to put a little old-world charm in their newer buildings, or remodeling the old ones. It’s my way of keeping historical homes…historical, I guess.”

“Yeah, the builds and remodels that want that historical flavor are definitely my favorite to work on. I really enjoy bringing those details into a home with modern conveniences. And I’ve got a great supplier to work with.” He couldn’t stop the wink and smile that accompanied those words, even though she either chose to ignore them or just didn’t see.

They drove in silence for a little while, digesting each other’s words. Les was afraid he’d intimated too much with his last comment, but it was the truth. Charlie got great stuff, and he was excited about this trip because he’d get to see her in action.

“So, this auction’s in California? Do you drive cross country often?”

She shrugged. “I have a client who has been looking for some specific pieces, and there’s going to be one coming up at this auction. Stained glass.”

“Cool. He must be paying a pretty penny for you to drive this far.” Probably none of his business, but he didn’t want conversation to lag. He loved her voice.

“Yeah, he pays pretty well, but if I’m going to actually see a decent profit, I’ve got to be frugal in my travel expenses. You don’t mind rest stops, do you?”

“No, rest stops are important to stay alert. Keeps you safer.”

“No, I mean, I spend the nights there.” She looked at him sideways, gauging his reaction, which wasn’t a good one.

His voice filled with indignation, and he could hear it rising in the tiny cab of the truck in spite of himself. “Are you
crazy
? A woman traveling alone, sleeping at a rest stop? No way.”

“Well, I’m not alone now, am I?”

God, he loved beds. He couldn’t sleep in the truck on a week-long trip. Looking around the interior, he tried to suppress his distaste, lowering his voice in capitulation. “I’ll pay for a hotel. After all, you’re using your gas to drive me to Santa Barbara.”

“I would have to drive through there, anyway. I’m not letting you pay for a hotel.”

“I would have paid for one, anyway. No way do I sleep in my truck on trips like this.” He crossed his arms in a ‘so there’ gesture, but she ignored him.

“You would pay for yourself a hotel room, not one for me, too. And we’re not sharing. If you have to have a room, I’ll still sleep in my truck, although it’s not as safe in hotel parking lots as rest stops.”

“What makes you think rest stops are so damned safe?” He could not believe this. She actually didn’t stay in hotels? What was her problem?

“I’ve never been messed with in rest stop parking lots and I have in hotel ones.” Her tone brooked finality, and the set of her jaw told him she’d said her last words on the subject. He should just be grateful he had a ride.

“Fine. But I get the front seat. It’s bigger.”

“Whatever.” She turned on the music and cranked it up, presumably to end their conversation.

Les looked around the truck where he’d be living for the foreseeable future. At least it smelled good. It was odd—the truck was a big, masculine thing, top-of-the line, with black leather seats, a built-in GPS, and every amenity his twenty-five year-old diesel truck didn’t have. Looking at it, one would think a man owned it. Except for the toy dinosaur stuck to the dashboard, and the fruity smell wafting from little plastic things stuck in the air conditioning vents. The scent reminded him of her; she wore fruity scents, too. She must like them.

“What’s the story behind the dinosaur?”

She shrugged, her eyes cutting to the creature in question—a green, rubber baby dinosaur from some movie, he thought. Damn. The shadows came back across her face. They reminded him of the girls at the refuge; the same shadows marred their features. The dulling in her eyes, the set of her jaw, the way her mouth firmed down at the corners. He shoved that thought back into the recesses of his brain. No way was she like the girls.
Okay, so no more asking about the dinosaur
, Les made a mental note.

“Not really a story. I’ve just had it a long time.” The vulnerability crossing her features gave her an air of attainability, a rare vulnerability. The look softened her features remarkably, and he couldn’t let go of the feeling she needed him. He just wanted to hold her in his arms and erase that look.

He watched her singing along to some top-forty hit on her iPod plugged into the truck’s speakers. She was dressed comfortably—worn jeans, tank top with a plaid button-down top over it. She wore sneakers on her feet, which she had toed off to drive in her socks. Her blonde hair was piled on top of her head in messy waves.

Her tattoos on her arms looked like a mish-mash of images, instead of one large scene emblazoned on her skin. There were flowers, flames, angel wings, tribal figures, and what looked like a constellation or two. He assumed, like everybody else he knew, that each image held something personal for her, but after the dinosaur, he was afraid to ask. So he just kept looking at her, realizing he was enjoying it immensely.

Les couldn’t see the curves, hidden under her comfort clothes, but he knew they were there. He’d seen hints of them in her work clothes, but he’d seen the irrefutable evidence last week when he’d walked in on her and her boyfriend on her desk.