Betting on You(59)

I rolled my eyes. “You sound like a mobster.”

“Thank you.”

“Not a compliment.”

“Says you.” He took a gulp of his coffee, set down his cup, and said, “Let’s talk about our fake dating.”

“Yeah, I suppose we should,” I said, nerves fluttering in my stomach at the prospect. I sipped at my drink and asked, “Do you have a plan?”

“Not a plan, per se,” he said, “but an idea.”

He leaned closer, and it occurred to me that Enthusiastic Charlie was one of my favorite versions of him. His eyes were practically dancing as he said, “Here’s what I’m thinking. When Scott accepts that I’m here, we return to the condo. Shortly thereafter, when he’s dealing with the unfortunate existence of my presence, we hold hands. That will send up all the what-the-fuck flags, and that’s probably good for tonight.”

I was horrified, and terrified, but he somehow managed to make me cough out a laugh as I pictured Scott’s reaction. “I kind of feel bad for poor Scott.”

“Poor Scott indeed,” he agreed, his mouth in a big grin. “Unless—do you think we should do more?”

“More?” I asked, my laugh settling into a smile as I let my eyes drink in Happy Charlie.

“More,” he said, his eyes locking into mine, his mischievous smile morphing into something more intense, “than hand-holding.”

I don’t know what got into me, but I lifted my chin and asked, “What kind of more are you thinking?”

“Bailey Rose,” he said, his voice lowering to a hot rumble as his mouth stayed in a sexy smirk. “Are you asking me to list the types of PDA we can throw at Scotty?”

My phone buzzed, making my heart leap in my chest. Dear God, what in flirtation was that? I pulled it out of my pocket and yes—it was my mom.

I talked to Scott, and he’s okay with Charlie being here IN CONCEPT, but we’re going to have to lay down some ground rules.

Relief rolled through me, relief that they weren’t going to make Charlie drive back alone or stay at a motel by himself for the weekend.

“Look,” I said, holding out the phone, trying to read his mind as he read the text. He didn’t look like anything other than normal Charlie, so perhaps the moment I’d imagined was just him clinically considering our next steps, PDA-wise.

“I almost feel sorry for them,” he said, the smile returning to his face. “They think we’re only friends, but they still need to guarantee—because they’re responsible adults—that we’re painfully aware that we can’t sneak into each other’s bed and bang one out in the Rockies.”

“Oh my God.” I laughed, horrified as always by the shocking pictures Charlie liked to paint.

He was a damned artist that way.

He continued, grinning like a fool. “They’ll lay down those rules, we’ll agree, and they’ll feel great about themselves. And then… dun dun dunnnnn—they’ll witness us holding hands and snuggling on the couch. They’re going to lose their shit.”

I laughed, but snuggling on the couch? The thought of that made my palms sweaty and my stomach light. Charlie’s hands on me? My body curled against his body?

Gah—snuggling with Charlie Sampson seemed dangerous, like an activity I should avoid at all costs.

But that was just me—I wasn’t cut out for fake dating. I was the kind of person who didn’t even like hugging family members, so how on earth was I going to snuggle with Charlie?

“Right?” he asked, looking at me expectantly.

“What?” I realized I’d drifted away into my own thoughts, so I gave a tiny nod and said, “Yes. Right.”

He smirked like he knew what I’d been thinking, which was impossible. He couldn’t have known, yet the glimmer in his eye made me wonder if he’d been thinking about couch snuggling as well.

“Grab your coat, then,” he said, and I realized he must’ve asked me if I was ready to go.

We walked back to the condo, neither of us in a hurry for “ground rules” discussions, and I took a deep breath before opening the door.

“Quit worrying,” Charlie said. “It’s vacation time, Mitchell.”

I looked over at him, seemingly unconcerned about anything, and I let out my breath.

He was right.

I was on vacation, and I was going to have a great time.

Even if it killed me.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT Bailey




“Scott?” I yelled.

“Yeah?”

“Do you want spaghetti or fettuccini?”

I heard him mutter something to my mom—they were in the living room—before he said with a smile in his voice, “Spaghetti, please.”

“Told you,” Charlie said, grabbing a box of pasta from the cupboard.

“I really would’ve pegged him as a fettuccini man.”

“When he’s alone,” he said in a quiet voice, “I bet he’s all about the elbows.”

“That sicko,” I said, sticking a spoon into Charlie’s sauce to slurp off another sample before dropping it into the sink beside my other four sampling spoons.

When we’d gotten back to the condo, Scott and my mom greeted us at the door with a list of ground rules. He didn’t look mad, though, which really took me by surprise. Of course, when he said Once it’s lights-out, you’re not allowed to leave your room and Charlie snorted, that made him glare, but he still seemed pretty stuck in the “happy vacationer” role.