Carly
I canceled his date.
Again.
Third one this week.
I did it from his tablet while he was in the shower—used his assistant's tone, dropped a line about "family obligation," and ended with a polite emoji she'd definitely never use.
Was it wrong?
Probably.
Would I do it again?
In a heartbeat.
Because today is Saturday.
And Charlie?
He's not spending it with some Tinder girl in heels who spells "your" wrong in every sentence.
He's spending it with me.
Alone. In this penthouse.
No distractions. No calls. No fake-blonde marketing exec trying to use him for a free car.
Just us.
---
It's almost noon when he finally walks into the living room, barefoot and shirtless, his sweats hanging low on his hips like some kind of Calvin Klein ad. Hair messy. Jaw tight. And that little confused furrow in his brows that tells me he just found out his afternoon "plans" mysteriously cancelled themselves.
He looks at me over the back of the couch, holding his phone like it personally betrayed him.
"Did you see a message from Rachel? I was supposed to meet her for brunch."
I look up from my laptop, innocent as a saint.
"Rachel?" I blink. "The one who thought Tesla was a skincare brand?"
He sighs, already annoyed. "Yeah. That one."
I shrug. "Maybe she bailed. Can't trust flaky people, Charlie. You should know better."
He narrows his eyes. Suspicious. He's starting to connect the dots.
But not fast enough.
Good.
I close the laptop and stretch out on the couch, making sure my sleep shirt rides up juuust enough to expose one thigh. "Guess that means it's just you and me today."
He mutters something and walks to the kitchen. I follow of course.
He opens the fridge. "You didn't cook?"
I lean against the counter, lips twitching. "Why would I cook when you bailed on brunch plans I didn't even know were canceled?"
He pauses.
I smile.
Checkmate, baby.
---
Ten minutes later, we're on the couch. He's sipping black coffee, clearly stewing. I'm curled beside him, half-scrolling, half-watching. He's trying to work, but something's bothering him. I can tell by the way he keeps flipping between spreadsheets like they owe him money.
"Want help?" I ask.
He grunts. "Not unless you're secretly fluent in market projection ratios and vendor churn."
"I am, actually."
He looks at me like I just claimed I can levitate.
"Carly, you're a CFO. For Dorrington. Not Trentford. Our models are different."
"Not that different. Lemme see."
He hesitates. Then hands it over like a dare.
Challenge accepted.
I scroll through the numbers, tapping through formulas. Spotted the issue in seconds.
"Your projection model is pulling old Q1 data from last year. Your churn rate's off because you're still referencing the pre-promotion cost margin."
He blinks. "That's… that's not possible. I updated that formula last month."
"Apparently you didn't." I tap the cell, rewrite the formula in two lines, and hit enter.
The entire chart shifts.
"Holy—" he mutters.
I keep scrolling. "Also? Your retention curve flattens too early. It's giving false confidence. You should stagger the drop at week 8, not 5. Behavioral psychology supports delayed dip triggers."
He stares at me.
"You're terrifying," he finally says. And I swear his voice is hoarse.
I grin. "I know."
He leans back, runs a hand through his hair. "No wonder you're CFO. Remind me never to piss you off."
I smile sweetly and sip my iced coffee.
Too late.
---
By the time the sun starts to set, we've gone through two bottles of wine, three shared playlists, and one very heated debate about who was hotter—young Tom Hardy or present-day Tom Hardy.
(He said young. I said both. We agreed I was right.)
I'm stretched across the couch, feet in his lap. He's absently tracing circles on my ankle while pretending to watch the movie. I feel the tension in his hands. The way his fingers flex every time my shirt shifts, showing more skin.
He's unraveling.
He doesn't know it yet—but he's mine.
"Hey, Charlie?"
> "Yeah?"
"You ever think about what would've happened if we had our first kiss back in middle school?"
He looks at me, amused. "Instead of what? Me getting punched by your boyfriend?"
"He wasn't my boyfriend. He just gave me a lollipop."
> "And I broke his nose for it."
"Exactly." I grin. "That was cute."
He snorts. "You're insane."
"And you're slow."
He looks at me. Really looks at me.
Then?
He laughs. Shakes his head. "You know what the scary part is?"
I blink. "What?"
> "You're not just gorgeous. You're smarter than me."
"I know."
He swallows, eyes flicking to my mouth. "You're gonna wreck me, Carly."
I shift closer, whispering against his jaw.
"Only if you let me."
And then I pull away.
Not because I want to.
Because he needs to want it more.
And judging by the way he's staring at me like I just stole his ability to think?
We're almost there.