4. Charlie

4

CHARLIE

Q uentin glares at me from the inside of the truck, and just to make him wait, I take my sweet-ass time walking across the parking lot.

On the way past my bike, I check the saddle bags and redo one of the straps to make it tighter. When I reach the van, Quentin is drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and looks about ready to blow a gasket.

I’m not sure why I love getting under his skin so much, but I do. There’s something about his rigid ways that make me want to push all his buttons. The guy needs to relax and stop taking life so seriously.

The engine’s already running when I slide into the passenger seat. He’s in his usual tight khaki t-shirt, and his leather MC jacket is draped in the space between us.

Before I can get my belt on the van jerks forward, and I almost go flying out of my seat.

“Hey, watch it.”

I glare at Quentin, but he’s looking straight ahead. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips, and if I didn’t know him as my father’s serious friend who never jokes around, I’d say he did that on purpose.

I click my belt in as we pull out of the lot and onto the mountain road. I’m about to say something snarky when my gaze fixes on two takeout coffee mugs in the cupholders hanging off the dash. There’s steam coming out of the top of them.

“You made us coffee?”

“It’s probably cold by now,” he mutters.

I take the cup closest to me and take a sip. It’s super sweet with no milk, exactly how I like it. How the hell does Quentin know how I take my coffee?

He must have been here super early to get into the clubhouse, start the machine, and make us coffees to take with us.

Maybe the man’s not such a hard-ass after all.

“Thank you.”

He pulls a piece of folded paper out of his pocket and shoves it at me.

“What’s this?” I take the paper and unfold it with one hand.

“Our itinerary. I’ve got it memorized, but I printed you a copy.”

An itinerary. Of course it is. Quentin’s probably even got bathroom stops planned out on here.

“We’ve got sixteen hundred and forty-four miles to cover, and we’re already…” He checks his watch. “Thirty-two minutes late.”

I stare at him. “Thirty-two minutes, really? You couldn’t just say thirty?”

He gives me a look as if I’m the crazy one.

I fold the itinerary up without looking at it and stuff it in my purse. I pull out my makeup bag and flip down the visor to get to the mirror underneath.

Wide eyes stare back at me and skin too smooth to be an adult’s. I hate how I look without makeup. Vulnerable and young and like a little girl pretending to be a grown-up.

I grab my tube of concealer and get to work. First I smooth over the freckles on my nose, and then I apply a layer of foundation.

I take out my eyeliner and lean forward. The van bumps over the mountain road, and if I’m not careful I’ll take my eye out.

I put my foot up on the dashboard and rest my elbow against it for stability.

“No boots on the dash.”

I turn to look at Quentin with my eyeliner poised in my hand and keep my foot on the dash.

“Then you’ll have to pull over while I do this, because there’s no way to keep my hand steady, and I don’t want to poke my eye out.”

He frowns at me. “I’m not stopping so you can do your makeup.”

Of course he’s not. It wasn’t on the itinerary.

“Fine then.”

I keep my foot on the dash and lean forward. As I get close to my eye, the van swerves.

“Hey!” I glance over, and Quentin’s staring straight ahead at the road. “Did you do that on purpose?”

He keeps looking straight ahead. “I don’t know what you mean, Charlotte. But you need to get your boots off my dash.”

Dawn is breaking over the mountain ranges and his profile is backlit, showing off his strong jawline and pronounced forehead. His hair is cropped short, and if there’s any grey it’s hidden in the blonde. The outline of his muscles can be seen through his tight t-shirt. It’s obvious Quentin still works out. He might have left the military, but it’s never left him.

His tone is calm and sure, and when he says my name a shiver dances down my spine. He’s used to commanding men, and he’s good at it.

Slowly, I remove my boot from the dash. A ghost of a smile appears across Quentin’s face and that tugs at all the rebelliousness inside me. I can’t let him win a total victory.

I undo the laces of my black steel capped boots and slide them off. My foot comes up on the dash, and Quentin glares at my bright pink fluffy socks.

“You said no boots.”

He looks away, muttering under his breath. I lean forward with my eyeliner, smiling to myself as I finish my make up.

“You don’t need all that makeup anyway,” he says.

I bat my eyes at him “Are you calling me beautiful?”

He looks away, embarrassed, and I laugh. “I’m just fucking with ya.”

“And don’t cuss. It doesn’t sound nice to hear you cuss.”

“So men are allowed to swear and woman aren’t? Hello, we’re living in the twenty-first century. I will not be beholden to some male ideal of what a woman is meant to be.”

He rolls his eyes. “Jeez, Charlie. It doesn’t sound nice for anyone to cuss. I heard enough of it in the military, and I don’t like hearing it now. There are better words to use to describe something. You’ve got a brain in your head. Use it.”

I stare at him. I never knew he had so many ideas about what’s proper and what’s not. There’s more to my father’s best friend than an uptight ex-army sergeant.

“I’m just messing with ya.”

He nods curtly. “See, there’s no need to swear.”

“No fucking need,” I say under my breath.

Quentin gives me a sharp look. I hide my smile behind my hand, and he shakes his head and looks back to the road.

I’m travelling with the world’s biggest grump. This is going to be one long road trip.