Commitment & Other Hard To Pronounce Words

By Arie Hill

Charlotte Burns would rather take apart, and degrease every engine in her mechanic shop, than admit her father was right about Jason, her live-in boyfriend. He never married her, and her ideals about happily-ever-after were smashed forever when she caught him in bed with their landlady. Flying to Atlanta to cry on Maggie Ryker’s shoulder was the only solution that didn’t involve her father’s unsolicited judgment.

If only Maggie had shown up to collect her.

Coulter Jones online dated the same way a consumer bought a car, with one quick read of the MSRP and a quick test drive. His first vacation in years is ripe with sex, sun, and serenity until Hank Ryker calls in a favor: Meet Maggie’s troubled best friend at the airport and let her stay in his guest room. And, oh yeah, don’t sleep with her. Unwilling to waste all of his time on the brokenhearted woman in the guest room, he continues his vacation as planned.

Sex complicates so much.

Two strangers forced together, Coulter and Charlotte learn exactly who they can rely on.
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This is a stand alone book, but the first in the Hard To Pronounce Book conglomerate.
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• Language: English
• Publisher: Arie Hill
• Release date: Jul 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005893897

Arie Hill

Arie Hill is an accredited Over Thinker, curator of Fake Accents, and a lover of Exotic Food. Plotting her next Christian romance the way a villain plots to dominate the world, she can be found in the dark, hunchbacked over her laptop with a glazed look in her eyes. Her husband and daughter are incredibly worried for her mental heath, but are thrilled to report her next book will be out soon.

Book preview

Commitment & Other Hard To Pronounce Words

Commitment & Other Hard To Pronounce Words

Arie Hill

Arie Hill BooksLegal Speak

This is a work of fiction, which means none of it is real. Names, including yours, characters that sound like you, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s screwed-up imagination or used in a fictitious manner. (Who knew there was a real Tito’s Taco Stand? That’s the last time I listen to the Jackson 5.) Any resemblance to actual persons (it’s still not you), living or dead, or actual events (it really wasn’t that one time all those years ago.) is purely coincidental. Swear. I promise.

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Copyright © 2018 by Arie Hill.

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

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Scripture quotations are by New American Standard Bible,

Copyright 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995

THE LOCKMAN FOUNDATION

A Corporation Not for Profit

LA HABRA, CA

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Cover Image is courtesy of Snapwire Snaps via Pexels.com

All vector flourishes are courtesy of Freepik.com

Dedication

For all of us who wonder why it’s worth following God.

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Dearest Reader

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Arie Hill

Chapter One

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CHARLOTTE BURNS’ FLIGHT to Atlanta was doomed. Canceled, rescheduled twice, then delayed five more times, she was confident Atlanta was recklessly closing its borders to the outside world. Shoved, not so subtly, to one side, Charlotte hoisted her dislodged bag back over her shoulder and pulled her carry-on bag out of the way. The pedestrian traffic swarming the arrivals board was thick and demanding. Charlotte knew it was only a matter of time before she lost every ounce of her cool and swung the bag at everyone who dared looked at her.

She wouldn’t be in this mess if she had purchased travel insurance. After paying the trumped up charges of an immediate flight with three layovers from her nearest airport, she ignored the word insurance at the bottom of her screen. If she hadn’t ignored the most important box, she could have taken her plight to the Customer Service desk and wreaked dissatisfied customer havoc all over the poor people who worked there. Instead, her impetuousness earned her an extra seven-hour delay in the middle of nowhere.

Could Dallas Fort Worth be considered the middle of nowhere?

Excuse me, ma’am, the tap on her shoulder made her eye twitch, you’re blocking traffic. Charlotte’s back pressed against the wall as she kept her eyes glued to the monitor where her flight read On Time. The last time she looked away from the monitor, the words swiftly changed to Delayed. If she had been more steadfast in her vigilance, that wouldn’t have happened. Taking a deep breath, she turned to face the gentleman.

Unless I burrow into the wall, sir, I believe you’re going to have to deviate your path to the left to go around me. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Unbelievable.

Burdened by a laptop bag swinging from his left shoulder, the man cursed her the whole two-seconds it took to go around her immovable being.

Travel insurance would have saved her the seething hatred for all mankind, just like seeing her best friend, Maggie Ryker, would cure her current ills. Two years passed since the Ryker twins’ fifth birthday party when she’d last seen Maggie. In that time, Charlotte moved in with Jason, and opened another garage across town. Three days ago when her survival skills ran out, her best friend being across the country didn’t spell out disaster coherently until getting to her in an emergency became the objective.

Purchasing travel insurance to get her to Atlanta faster to cry on Maggie’s shoulder would have saved her unnecessary emotional duress.

We are now boarding flight 2893 to Atlanta beginning with pre-boards and then Group One.

Finally. Charlotte huffed as she got closer to the gate. Twenty minutes later, after every passenger in the aisle smacked her arm on their way by, she leaned her head back on the headrest. An hour and forty minutes would be the last leg of her journey before stepping onto Atlanta’s red terra firma.

Ladies and gentleman, unfortunately our flight has been delayed forty-five minutes by the tower. We’re going to start the inflight movie to help the time move along a little faster. Thank you for flying with us.

Can’t thank us for flying with you if there’s no flight happening. Charlotte’s seat mate grumbled stealing the words right out of her head. Pulling her phone out of her bag to text Maggie the news, the seat in front of her lowered swiftly knocking her phone out of her hand into the pathway of the flight attendant’s high heel. The bullet crack of the glass shattering under the hundred and fifteen pound woman splintered any shred of emotional control Charlotte had left. Would travel insurance have replaced her phone?

Ma’am, I’m so sorry. The panic on the airbrushed face of the flight attendant was a caricature of emotion as she handed over the broken body of her phone. Tears ran down Charlotte’s face as she accepted the mangled device from her hand. I’ll bring you an extra drink. She winked as she sashayed away towards the front of the plane.

How does an extra drink make up for killing a smart phone? Again, her seat mate pinched the thoughts from Charlotte’s mind. Placing the mangled corpse of her phone in her bag, she bit her lips as she stared straight ahead.

This is what happens when you book a flight without travel insurance right after you catch your live-in boyfriend screwing your fifty-five-year-old landlady.

Coulter Jones swiped left one more time bypassing a redhead splattered in dark freckles. Something malicious and calculating in her smile sent shivers down his spine. He hated how this app eliminated the variables in the evening. These match-up apps were meat markets advertised with sandwich board profiles decorated with witticisms. Where was the sport in the evening’s chase? Getting caught in the inviting smile of a woman, the flirtatious banter over a drink, the night held possibilities with that kind of formula. Could you strike out? Sure, but that was half of the fun. Coulter closed out of the app and switched to the sweeter side of dating.

When his momma would bake macarons, she would tell him a woman was like the finest French pastry, the more delicious, complicated flavors, took time.

You could pick something simpler, I suppose, she spoke as she separated the yolk from the white with rocking movements between split eggshells. But nothing gives the same level of satisfaction as the one that required the most time, and steps, and came out perfectly in the end.

The macarons on the Christian relationship sites were absolutely sweeter in content, but like macarons, were uniformly shaped and colored. They attracted the eye, but their cookie-cutter shape suggested they were all alike.

Coulter clicked off his phone.

His two-week vacation was almost upon him, and he hadn’t made enough plans. He set up a basketball game with the guys, a hiking trip to Arabia Mountain, and a pit-stop at Joystick Gamebar, but that was it. Jody, and the ever-inventive Audrey were booked for the first week, but no one else piqued his interest. The thought of the rest of his vacation spent resting in his garden disappointed him more than it should have.

Walking onto the porch of his backyard, he closed his eyes against the gentle breeze. The scent of rosemary wafted around him tinted with the lavender sneaking up from the pathways. Purchasing his home from the original family, it maintained the original property lines from eighty years ago. His front yard was home to three hundred-year-old trees, and the original pavers for the walkway and driveway. Loving it the moment he saw it, it was the only place he could picture being home in fifty years from now. The winding roads lead to north Atlanta fifteen minutes away, and the suburban feel encouraged the feeling of safety.

As lord of the manner, Coulter noted where the weeds were rising in rebellion and the sections of ground cover committed mutiny against the grass line. The trees needed more soil around their bases, and the hummingbird feeders and birdbaths needed to be refilled. He considered bringing in more annuals to brighten the borders, and decided at least one of his nights would be spent drinking sweet tea on the back porch. His first vacation in ten years, he planned on doing the most basic and relaxing of jobs by working his land in the day, and chasing beauty at night.

Friends In Low Places, by Garth Brooks sounded through his yard. When customizable ringtones became a thing, Coulter assigned this song specifically to his buddy, Hank Ryker. He answered immediately.

Harrassment’s a real thing, Hank. Don’t make me call the cops.

Why, so you could hear for the millionth time they’re no longer making those house calls? Didn’t you learn anything from the boy who cried wolf, Colt? Coulter chuckled. So, I need a favor.

Not without buying me dinner first, Coulter cut in.

That’s what you say to all your dates, Hank lowballed, I need you to pick up Charlotte up at the airport.

I don’t even pick up my mother at the airport.

That’s because she has a husband and more responsible children to rely on. Unfortunately, Maggie and I cannot do it because the kids contracted chicken pox.

Aw man, Coulter went inside for a pen and paper.

Not to mention this is some sort of emergency visit, she needs a place to stay for a couple of weeks. Coulter’s head popped up from digging in the junk drawer.

You want me to pick up some woman I’ve never met at the airport, and bring her home.

Yes, and could you please not sleep with her either. That would be great. Thanks.

Funny. You kiss Maggie with that mouth?

Every chance I get, Coulter could hear Hank’s grin. Seriously though, Colt, Charlotte’s in some sort of trouble and needs a place to stay. As soon as the kids are better, we’ll take her off your hands. Coulter rubbed his hand down his face. A woman in trouble, trapped in his house for his entire vacation unless the kids got over the pox before then… All of his carefully laid plans fell to the wayside when he grabbed the pad and paper from the drawer.

What kind of trouble is she in, Hank? Do I need to buy more bullets, or stock my fridge with chocolate and buy boxes of tissues?

Maggie says chocolate and boxes of tissues should suffice. Also she’s deathly allergic to strawberries, and she wants to remind you to clean the sheets in your spare bedroom. Coulter heard Hank tell his wife she didn’t need to tell Coulter how to prepare for a guest in his own home. If a woman telling you what to do, and how to do it, was marriage, he was okay avoiding it a bit longer.

I’m worried about her, Colt, Maggie’s sweeter tones were no less commanding than Hank’s. Please take care of her. Her concern for Charlotte crushed his disappointment at having a strange woman in his house, and an emotional one at that.

Anything for you, Maggie, he heard her exhale in gratefulness, "especially when you have to put up with Hank and his sick progeny." After passing on Charlotte’s flight information, and where to get the arrival updates, Coulter hung up with Hank.

What have you gotten yourself into now, Colt? Coulter asked himself in the silence of his kitchen.

How could the final touchdown of landing in Atlanta not relieve the achy knot of pain in Charlotte’s chest? Alleviation waited at the end of the runway, but she could not bring herself to clap with the rest of the passengers on board. Disembarking slowly, no longer bothered by the rudeness of the people around her, she made her way past the gate. Heartbroken and phone-less, she let people push past her in their bid to be the first to grab their luggage off the carousel that had yet to be laden with their belongings. Leaning against a pillar to remain out of the way, she struggled to see over the heads of the reuniting crowds for her best friend who was no where to be found.

Wasn’t that the cherry on top of the cake?

Snagging her bag and interlocking her carry-on to the top, Charlotte still didn’t spot Maggie anywhere. Walking the length of the baggage claim when the clusters of pedestrians thinned, Maggie’s happy face was no where to be found. Fighting the melancholia of being alone when she expected to be wrapped in the grip of her tiny best friend, she escaped to the bathroom.

Appropriating a sink, she gasped at the emptiness spiraling through her chest and burrowing into her DNA. A couple of tears fell over her lids like a group of careless divers over a cliff. She grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser and pressed it to her face. The reality of her stability cracking entirely in an airport bathroom gave her a temporary moratorium on the emotional outburst. She just needed to get to Maggie’s house before she broke down completely. Once there, all bets were off. Charlotte looked up to visibly agree with herself.

She should have never looked in the airport mirror.

Her thirty years looked older than the fifty-five-year-old landlady climbing all over Jason.

The haste of scheduling a red-eye flight out of California the following morning after the horror of her discovery, left her little thought towards her appearance. Escaping the clutches of California was of the utmost importance, yet after the hideousness of her day, she could do with some makeup. Charlotte touched the puffiness under her eyes. Or a full makeover. She brushed her hair away from her face. Possibly plastic surgery. Putting her hands on both sides of the sink, she no longer saw her face but Jason and Granny rolling around on the bed. She would kill him for doing this to them. She shook her head.

Maybe she could be transplanted into someone else’s body. That was a thing now, right?

Rolling her eyes, she turned on the tap. A coffee would help harness the homicidal thoughts running loose in her brain. At the very least, the warmth would open up the pores of her soul and fortify her for the next round of problems.

Splashing her face with warm water, the pain of scrubbing it cut through her day from hell. Pushed around, placed on hold, run ragged, and zapped of all patience, Charlotte let the painful scrubbing numb her mood. She was here to see Maggie and her beautiful family. They were going to laugh, make memories and reset her outlook on life. She took a deep breath and swallowed back the pain.

Today, nothing was going to stop her. She accomplished the first part of her plan by landing on the other side of the country, and soon her arrival in the safe haven of the Ryker residence would dovetail it.

Rubbing loose powder over her face, Charlotte hoped it would emphasize what could be construed as natural beauty. She painted her lips with the tiny brush applicator she hated so much, and swished the mascara wand over her generous eyelashes Maggie hated her for in high school. Just to prove nothing more could get her down, she added one more coat of blackest noir to make them stand out further.

Tell me your eyelashes are fake, the woman standing next to her drawled in a southern accent as she held eyelash glue in one hand and her tweezers with another. I find it really unfair that you walk around looking like God just gave you everything with both hands.

Does it help that it practically took me twenty-four hours to make it to Atlanta, the flight attendant punctured my phone with her high heel, and my ride is no where to be found, nor can I call her because of said destroyed phone?

I’m not going to lie, it helps a little, Charlotte teased her thin chin-length hair into an effortless coiffure. Until you do that. How did you take lifeless hair and turn it into something good?

God’s making up for my phone? Charlotte shoved her cosmetics into her bag, and hooked it onto the handle of her luggage bag.

I wish God would make up for a number of things in my life by improving my looks. Charlotte wheeled past her, as the stranger drew her black liner with enviable straightness.

At least He gave you a ride home. Charlotte muttered as she left the bathroom and walked toward the airport exits.

A wall of professional men in black held signs named for their sought after passengers in front of the exits. A few of their rank were in plain-dress clothes and holding more obnoxious signs clearly for friends and family. To the side of them, a group of women with garishly bright signs with the phrases I LOVE YOU, AMY! and CAN I BE IN YOUR NEXT BOOK? and I’M YOUR BIGGEST FAN! and CAN I HAVE YOUR BABY, AMY? screamed at someone behind Charlotte. Maneuvering out of the line of fire, placed her directly in the path of a matching t-shirt tour group. Bobbing and weaving through the throng, she barely made it out with her luggage.

The next sign she read stopped her cold in her tracks.

CHARLOTTE BURNS

The man who held it was twelve feet tall, at least head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd, a lean line of a man clad in plaid and jeans. His dark blond hair matched his thick brows and the beard elongating his face. Charlotte looked back at the sign.

CHARLOTTE BURNS

Flicking her eyes to his face, he focused on her, the only still pebble in the river of people. His beard split into a toothy grin and brightened his eyes. She wasn’t sure she was a fan of the beard, or the guy trying to look friendly despite his serious, deep-set eyes.

Are you Charlotte? His voice wasn’t as deep as she thought it would be, especially from the beard, but when his eyebrows lifted, she figured she was staring. Walking toward him, she watched as his eyes traveled the length of her.

Where is Maggie?

Is this all of your luggage? He reached for her luggage handle, but Charlotte took a step back.

Where is Maggie, and who are you? She narrowed her eyes at him, as if her scalding look would drag the truth out of him, or make him rethink his kidnapping attempt.

You should have gotten a text with my picture. Mystery Chauffeur lowered his sign. Maggie couldn’t come to pick you up and asked me to do it. Coulter Jones, he held out his massive paw for her to shake, but Charlotte opted for digging into her bag.

Hello, Mr. Jones. I’m truly sorry, but this happened on my flight, the splintering around the spiked-heel hole in the center of her phone had gotten worse, if that were possible. Therefore, I’ve received no texts from Maggie in the last two and a half hours.

Mr. Jones pulled his phone from his back pocket and tapped the screen a couple of times before he handed it to her.

Hello? Coulter? Maggie’s sweet voice deflated any vestige of strength holding Charlotte up.

Maggie? Her voice cracked.

Charlotte? You’re here? Just hearing her voice turned her eyes into liquid. Biting her lip, she looked up and blinked rapidly to clear the moisture. This was payback for applying makeup in the first place.

Maggie continued. So did Coulter explain the problem?

No, I hadn’t quite given him time. She looked at the man who created a barrier around her from the traffic plowing through the airport. He looked down at her and she noticed a dark ring bordered the light brown of his eyes.

Well, the twins caught chickenpox at school. There were moments in life when hearing dramatic music in the background would have been incredibly helpful, especially when one’s heart and soul were too damaged to bear more bad news. Charlotte closed her eyes and hung her head. Did you ever have the chickenpox? Her voice sounded hopeful.

No.

Then you can’t be here. The cloud of forlorn about to settle over her traded its shade for panic. Her head shot up and she looked around the airport as if an answer could be found in the baggage claim area.

Where am I going to go, Maggie? This was the perfect end to the ride from hell. The perfect send off for Charlotte’s sanity. Tears boiled inside of her chest, and the pressure of the situation was sending them with great force up the spout for the kettle to sing. No amount of travel insurance would have solved this quagmire of evil.

You’re going to stay with Coulter, Charlotte looked at the man who stood beside her. He’s the only person I could trust who had a spare room for you.

Sensing her perusal, Coulter glanced at her and smiled. It did not assuage the panic.

What about seeing you, Maggie? She cringed at the whine in her voice, but she couldn’t help it. She was done being strong, done being fine. How much more could a girl truly take before she snapped like a power line in a hurricane?

I’m really sorry, Charlotte, but adults who have never had chickenpox, can be hospitalized if they catch it. Well, when you mentally ask a stupid question about how things can get worse… A mild case is only meant to last five to fourteen days, and I don’t want you to contract it. Maggie spoke quickly to underplay the seriousness of the situation.

Two weeks? Charlotte’s question went high and squeaky. How was she supposed to deal with her broken life when she was staying with a stranger with no access to her best friend?

What’s two weeks? Coulter is very nice, and it’ll give you time to deal with the jet lag. Once the kids are better, they are back to school, and we are ready to party! The enthusiasm in Maggie’s voice made her want to pinch her nose.

Party? Charlotte deadpanned. Every emotion, every expectation, was out the window. How long could she wait before her grief decapitated her?

Well, you know, the eight-a.m.-to-one-thirty kind of party before I have to pick up my kids and be a mom again.

Maggie, you wild animal, you. Charlotte smiled and hoped it was an impediment against the emotional deadness. Of course, two weeks without Maggie wouldn’t matter. She would have to sleep off the jet lag she never got when she came to Georgia, buy a new phone, and curl up and die in a stranger’s spare room. Honestly, her schedule was booked.

Charlotte would grieve the end of her relationship with Jason. Alone. She couldn’t fully achieve that with Maggie between the hours of eight and one-thirty. Two weeks of depressing alone time would cure that grief real quick.

Charlotte? Charlotte nodded as if Maggie could see her. I’m really sorry. This wasn’t planned.

None of this was planned, Maggie. Jason, the flight, the phone, the man still patiently waiting beside her, speaking of which, my phone was damaged during the flight, and I’ll need time to get another. Charlotte looked to Coulter, and moved the phone from her ear.

Is it okay if we use your phone until I get a new one?

Smiling kindly, Coulter nodded his head.

Fine with me, but we’ll be going into town tomorrow to get your phone issues dealt with. Charlotte’s smile broadened at the first good news she’d heard since yesterday morning when the guy in front of her paid for her coffee.

We’re heading to Coulter’s now. Call his phone if you need anything. Coulter tapped her shoulder and pointed to her luggage. When she moved to one side, he took it from her and headed for the automatic doors where faded blue sky randomly colored in sunset rose waited beyond the glass.

I’m glad you’re in Atlanta, Lola. Maggie’s nickname for Charlotte transported her to their years of silly, late-night friendship, and it squeezed Charlotte’s heart a little harder.

Me, too.

He should have been more surprised when his new guest mumbled, thank you and goodnight, before disappearing after the small tour of his home. The woman who presented herself as Charlotte Burns in the airport was a cool front of attractive suspicion, and something else he couldn’t name. Until she spoke to Maggie. The hard ebony of her eyes cracked and infused with the liquid magma of emotional turmoil when she heard Maggie’s voice. Her emotional volcano waited for Maggie to witness it, and Coulter couldn’t appreciate that more. At least he wouldn’t be exchanging a pleasant evening with a woman for the sniveling upset of another.

Speaking of which…

Coulter checked his phone. Jody Rynkowski answered his text message an hour ago agreeing to meet him at Ecco for drinks. Their sophisticated atmosphere and excellent drinks menu were a perfect environment for The Unveiling. The Unveiling was the moment you realized your blind date looked similar enough to their picture, you might be inclined to believe they didn’t lie about everything else. If the beginning to their evening held such wonderful possibility, he would be agreeable to ordering appetizers and prolonging their interlude. Not every meeting started out swell, and he’d suffered through too many painfully prolonged dinners to continue with the same date formula. His patented drinks, then small plates, then a full meal or dessert worked out for everyone he was interested in spending time with. An open discussion about other activities if their comfortability lasted beyond the two-hour limit were suggested and left up to the mystery date’s discretion. Hopefully Jody was not the line-dancing type. Coulter clicked off his phone screen and peered down the entrance of the hallway.

Would Charlotte notice if he left?

Being Maggie’s best friend, he didn’t know much about her beside the snippets he’d been racking his brain for since Hank’s phone call. The things he could remember fit on one hand: Maggie’s high school bestie -slash- maid of honor, her stained hands were the mark of her job as a mechanic, and he wasn’t allowed to flirt with her. He swore Hank threw that in for a laugh, but when Maggie repeated it the second time, he didn’t find it funny.

When they asked for help picking up and housing Charlotte, did they really believe he would take advantage of the situation by hitting on her? Just because a woman came to stay in his home while their kids got better didn’t mean he would wine and dine her. Jeopardizing friendships wasn’t his forte. He could respect her position as Maggie’s best friend for Hank’s sake.

Besides acquiring a phone, the only task on his todo list concerning his guest was getting her to her original destination. Her attractive figure or shiny hair, or pain-filled smoky eyes, didn’t persuade him to put a damper on his evening plans.

If you so much as look at her funny…

The Ryker family warnings were misplaced. They didn’t know he had Jody waiting in the wings for that special treatment.

Hearing the shower kick on, Coulter figured he’d stick around until he was sure she was asleep, then he’d get ready himself. He practically skipped down the hall towards his room. Opening up his closet, he went for his dark grey blazer, white button down shirt and his nicest pair of black jeans. For comfort, he added his well-worn boots. If Jody’s personality lacked the je na sais quoi that would transform a typical blind date to grander heights, he could walk down to the Laughing Skull Lounge or hit up the Fox Theater for a better way to round off the evening.

Waiting for the shower, Coulter took a deep breath. There was no way his evening could go wrong.

Chapter Two

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CHARLOTTE ROLLED OVER onto her side, and tentatively rubbed her eyes. Without looking, Charlotte could tell the dawn hadn’t quite decided if it wanted to shine as brightly as the day before, and was also rolling around in bed. Usually the dawn’s hesitation showed itself on weekdays during her commute to work. Who would have thought she would find it true on vacation?

This isn’t a vacation.

The cruel reality barreled through her mind. Exhaustion dropped her like a pile of warm laundry onto the bed the night before, not allowing her heart and mind a chance to let go of the pain. Plans to sob her way through the facial tissue sitting on the desk at the foot of the bed, possibly grabbing the extra roll of toilet paper sitting on the back of the toilet tank as insurance, were all at the forefront of her mind. Of course, those plans also included Maggie’s soft words and hard hugs. The lingering heat of the day swallowed up the cold harshness of sleeping alone, killed the memories festering in her mind, and limited the nightmares built on memories only seventy-two-hours-old.

I must still be in shock.

How else did she explain the lack of tears, the emptiness forged by anger and pain with nothing filling it, nothing bridging the gap? Her eyelids slowly lifted, losing their heaviness as they gained altitude. Muted light pushed shadows into the corners of the room, nothing like the searing pain of her own bedroom in the morning.

Charlotte sat up and studied the room around her. Dove gray walls softly deferred the growing sunlight into a bearable presence. The heavy gloom of the thick charcoal grey comforter was brightened with soft coral sheets, and a matching knitted throw. The desk and chair were white washed to balance between the walls and the comforter. A thin copper metal frame around the circular mirror on the wall, and the base of the lamp, were geometrically designed to pop out of their places without overwhelming with their genius. Overall, her new home was masculine in tone with homey colors.

Except for the trophy-shaped porcelain vase holding a bouquet of apricot colored dahlias. That had to be a woman’s touch.

Throwing back the covers, Charlotte sat up. Heavy-handed knocking sounded somewhere in the vicinity, and she strained to hear if someone would answer the door. A constant rhythm formed, steady with patience. Putting her robe on over her sleep shirt, she quietly opened her door, and navigated the hallway back to the intersection leading to the house’s common rooms. She stopped when there was a gap between the last knock and the next. Maybe the caller gave up. She took one more step before she heard a low moan in the direction of Coulter’s bedroom. Then the knocks slowly built up speed.

Charlotte spun on her toe and booked it back to her room as if the banging were footsteps chasing her down. She shut the door and pressed her back against it. A blush crept over her entire body, as she struggled to not hear the noise echo from the other end of the house.

Music. She needed music to plug into her ears. She dove for her purse only to grip the crunched device. There would be no salvation here. Plugging her fingers into her ears, she hummed a wandering little tune and made a plan. Getting out of the house was her first order of business.

Dressed, brushed, and wallet in hand, she rounded the corner on squeaking tip-toes, her body bent and face pinched against the loud noise she made.

Good morning.

The feminine voice straightened Charlotte’s spine, and stopped her in her tracks. A statuesque brunette stood in the kitchen cracking eggs into a bowl. Hair mussed and men’s shirt haphazardly buttoned, she smiled sweetly, albeit knowingly, as she whisked the contents. Sleep well?

Her question was clearly a trap.

Like the dead, Charlotte walked over to the counter. The common spaces of the home were in an open layout, everything in sight of each other.

Would you like some eggs? She lifted the bowl unnecessarily, and Charlotte agreed to a helping. With no where to go but around the block, lest she got lost, the thought of coming back to the love birds becoming openly amorous was unappealing. I’m Jody, and you are?

I’m Charlotte, she nodded her hello, Mr. Jones’ unexpected guest. Jody nodded, and turned her back to slide the bacon into a hot pan.

Ah. I’m glad you said that. I was worried Coulter had more interesting plans for the morning, she laughed lustily. Charlotte’s question tilted her head for her.

You’re not Jones’ girlfriend? She didn’t know much about Jones other than he was Hank’s best friend, but couldn’t be his best man at the wedding for some reason, and he wasn’t married. Recalling every conversation she’d had with Maggie, the only things that cropped up were warnings. Coulter Jones dated liberally, and was