The man actually bows. “Good evening, Mr. Constantine.”
I frown. “Good evening, uh…”
“Jasper,” he supplies for me.
“Right.” I nod. He nods in return.
Doja meows.
“And you are…？” I incline my head.
“The Lancaster family butler. I’ve accompanied Miss Charlotte here and hope to be of service to you as well.” He gently drops Doja onto the floor and she rubs her head against my shin, purring. “I see Doja likes you.”
I bend down and give her a quick scratch. “She’s cute.”
“She doesn’t like too many people. Only Miss Charlotte.”
Huh. “And you.”
“Yes, and me.” He pauses. “Do you need anything, sir? Perhaps a drink?”
Might as well take advantage of his question. The last thing I need is a drink. I need to sober up. Get my head on straight. “Got anything to eat in this place?”
“Not yet, unfortunately.” Jasper frowns.
“It’s cool. I’ll order takeout.” I glance over my shoulder at Charlotte’s closed bedroom door. “Do you know what she likes?”
“She’s not picky.”
“I’m thinking sushi. How does she feel about that?”
“Fairly open to it. Not a big fan of raw tuna though.”
I nod. “Noted.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then. Could you let Miss Charlotte know I’m retiring for the evening?” Jasper asks me.
“Sure.” I glance around the massive apartment before I return my gaze to the butler. “Where do you go for the night?”
I grew up with servants, so I’m used to this kind of treatment for the most part. Though I didn’t have one waiting on me whenever I needed him, we had housekeepers, cooks, and maids.
“I’ll be staying here in the servants’ quarters.” He smiles, his expression kind. I can tell Jasper is a good dude. And I get the sense he’s here to watch over Charlotte and protect her.
Wait a minute.
From…me?
Hmm.
“Good to know. Thanks.”
Once Jasper disappears, I settle onto the couch facing the windows, gazing out at the sparkling lights of the city. The hot shower sobered me up a little bit, so I have a clearer head.
Helps that I jerked off in the shower. To the memories of Charlotte’s scent. Her soft skin. The throbbing pulse at the base of her throat and that shaky inhalation I heard when I kissed her neck.
Nothing much happened, yet there was a definite shift between us in that brief moment.
How is she going to react when I see her next? Is she going to pretend that moment doesn’t exist?
Knowing Charlotte, probably.
I’m scanning a menu from a local sushi restaurant on my phone when I hear her bedroom door open. Doja meows and Charlotte murmurs something to her, her voice soft and low.
The sweet sound goes straight to my dick.
Considering I’m wearing black joggers, a hard-on will be noticeable and I readjust myself, thinking nonsexual thoughts.
Like about weddings and my family and my freaking mother.
Yeah. That’ll make a dick wither in no time.
I feel her presence before I actually see her and she comes around the couch so she’s facing me, Doja in her arms. “Oh.”
That’s all she says.
Is she surprised to see me? Did she think I was going to leave?
Hell no, not after that interesting little interaction we had.
I’m staying. Besides, this apartment is dope as fuck and relatively close to Halcyon. Why would I leave?
Deciding to pretend I didn’t kiss her neck, I ask, “You hungry?”
She nods, cuddling Doja close.
“You like sushi?”
“Yes. No sashimi though. Or raw tuna.”
“I’m going to order a couple of rolls. Want to choose?” I hold my phone out toward her.
“You go ahead. I’m not that hungry.”
I pretend to read the menu, my gaze on her the entire time as she moves about the living room, finally settling into the couch across from me, Doja in her lap. She looks so small sitting on the overstuffed couch, her hair hanging damp around her face, clad in a cream-colored sweatshirt with matching sweatpants.
She just took a shower too. Did she touch herself while thinking of me?
Huh.
Probably not.
I bet she thinks about me though. I know I think about her. What we’re doing. How it’s all going to work out—or will it? I think she’s cute. sitting on the couch, petting her cat, pretending she doesn’t notice me staring.
She has to feel it, right? Feel me?
Her gaze flickers to mine, a quick acknowledgement just before she starts sweet-talking the cat. Doja purrs, rubbing her head against Charlotte’s hand and I realize quick that I’m jealous over a fucking cat.
A cat who accepts me a lot more readily than her owner.
Determination sets in and I can feel myself tumbling deeper. Getting more involved. Winston used to tell me I care too much what other people think of me, and he’s right. It matters, what this woman thinks. About me.
Us.
I’m going to break through Charlotte’s walls.
Even if it fucking kills me.
Chapter Sixteen
Charlotte
I’m entering a wedding dress shop in Soho with my mother on a sunny October morning, the chic woman who greeted us at the door practically salivating over her.
Louisa Lancaster is well known. My entire family is—with the exception of me.
“Her gown is almost ready. We’re prepping it now in one of the dressing rooms,” the woman says with an enthusiastic smile, never looking at me once.
And I’m the freaking bride.
There’s not much I planned for my wedding, but I at least had a say in the gown. After giving up on the black-dress idea—Charlotte, we are Lancasters. You cannot get married wearing black. I won’t allow it—I went through one magazine fat with images, found the style I preferred, zeroed in on it enough to find three gowns I liked, went in and tried them on and made my decision.
All in about forty-eight hours’ time.
Mother was impressed, but what did she expect? This isn’t the dream day I imagined as a child. Plus, I didn’t want to overwhelm myself with too many options. I cut to the chase, so to speak.
“Would you care for a glass of champagne?” the employee asks, her delicate brows raised in question. She’s elegantly turned out in a sleek black dress that emphasizes her slender curves, and my mother is also dressed up in one of her designer dresses.
She came to pick me up at the apartment, took one look at my jeans-and-T-shirt self, and sent me back inside, with her accompanying me. She went through my closet, murmuring her displeasure at the options, until she finally found a simple black shirt dress that I brought with me from home on a whim. I paired it with black booties, some gold jewelry, threw my hair up into what Mother called an artfully messy bun and off we went to the dress shop.
Don’t really understand why I had to get all dressed up only to take it all off to put on the wedding gown, but whatever. This is how it’s done, my mother always said when one of us—usually me—protested having to go somewhere or do something.
“I would love a glass, thank you.” I’m jittery. Nervous.