Carly
He said no.
Well—he didn't say it like that. He said "we can't." Which is worse, really.
Because it wasn't rejection.
It was hesitation, it was restraint. It was him trying to protect me from himself.
Which means?
He wants me and that's the first step.
I roll over in his bed—our bed—and inhale the scent on his pillow.
Clean, spiced and masculine.
Like expensive cologne, leather seats, and the smirk he gives waitresses when they flirt and he pretends he doesn't notice.
He notices.
Charlie Trentford notices everything.
Except me.
Not the real me. Not the girl who's loved him since we were eight and he helped me hide my ugly haircut under his stupid Red Sox cap. Not the teenager who drove three hours just to sneak into his hotel during prom weekend so he wouldn't hook up with that cheerleader from Eastwood High. And definitely not the woman who's been slowly taking over his life since the night I moved in.
But he will.
Oh, he will.
I stretch lazily, the morning sun spilling over my bare legs. I'm still in the same tank top and shorts from last night—his gaze lingered on them more than he meant to.
I saw it. I always see it.
That's what makes me dangerous.
I'm not just hot.
I'm brilliant.
Not to brag (okay, definitely to brag), but I graduated top of my class, got my master's before I turned 24, and now control the financial lifeblood of Dorrington Mechanics, my father's empire. I can read a balance sheet blindfolded, destroy a merger with one line of fine print, and break a man's career with a phone call.
But Charlie?
He's the one variable I haven't conquered yet.
Until now.
He thinks I'm just being impulsive. Emotional. Some poor little girl nursing a breakup and a family fight.
But I don't act without calculation.
Every move I've made since stepping into this penthouse has been deliberate.
Wearing his hoodie around the house?
Comforting nostalgia.
Leaving tiny traces of me in every room—lip balm on the nightstand, earrings on the coffee table, my shampoo in his shower?
Territorial claiming.
Sleeping in his bed?
Oh that was a masterpiece.
"You used to bathe with me," I said with a pout.
He stammered. Blushed. Fought it.
Then gave in.
I always win, Charlie.
And last night?
Last night was the first time he saw me.
Not as the messy-haired tomboy with a toolbox and a temper.
But as a woman.
One he wants.
One he's scared of wanting.
And that… is my favorite kind of power.
I slide out of bed and pad barefoot into the kitchen. His voice echoes faintly from the guest room—he's on the phone already. Probably trying to distract himself with work. Probably hoping I'll act like last night never happened.
Cute.
I brew coffee—his favorite, with a dash of cinnamon—and start breakfast. Eggs. Toast. A little fruit. He'll walk in soon, flustered and guilt-stricken, and try to act normal.
I'll smile. I'll wear nothing but one of his button-downs.
And I'll play nice.
For now.
Because patience is another weapon in my arsenal.
People underestimate me because I'm beautiful.
They assume the curves mean softness, that the smile means sweetness.
They forget beauty is a tool.
And I'm a damn engineer.
By the time he walks into the kitchen, I'll have already planned out my next six steps:
1. Get him used to me being everywhere. His space, his time, his bed.
2. Slowly make myself indispensable. Manage his schedule. Improve his workflow. Be helpful, but never distant.
3. Remove distractions. Subtly. Carefully. No violence—just misdirects. Erased contacts. Cancelled reservations. Accidental text mix-ups.
4. Reinforce shared history. Inside jokes. Childhood memories. Stories only we know. Bond him to me like a safety net.
5. Seduce. Not aggressively. Not yet. But often enough that he aches when I walk away.
6. Let him break first.
He will.
Because Charlie Trentford may be a powerful CEO…
But I am the woman who built his trust brick by brick since we were in diapers.
I own him.
He just doesn't know it yet.
And when he finally does?
When he finally gives in?
I'll kiss him slow, bite his lip and whisper in his ear.
"Told you so."