Hate Notes

I felt sick.

I think it might have been a reaction to Charlotte’s pixie dust or whatever spell she was casting on me.

I’d driven her to the office for the past few days. My problem was not that I didn’t want to do it; it was the opposite. I looked forward to the longer morning commute while ingesting her scent. I looked forward to her laugh and her ridiculous need to go to two different breakfast spots, one for the coffee, the other for the special kind of muffin.

This feeling had followed me around since the night of her little accident. At her apartment, when we were talking about her birth mystery, I’d seen a vulnerability in her eyes that I’d never noticed before. And when she took me into her art room, I’d been truly blown away by her talent.

When I got home that night, I couldn’t stop thinking about her and spent an hour googling “Saint Andrew’s Church Baby Poughkeepsie.”

There was probably only one thing cuter than present-day Charlotte Darling, and that was the red-faced cherublike version of herself from twenty-seven years ago. I might have printed the photo and tucked it away. And I’d take that fact with me to the grave.

The story was pretty much exactly the way she’d described it—a total mystery. A baby was found bundled up in a basket and left in front of the church rectory. The person rang the doorbell and ran, leaving Baby Charlotte in the hands of the church, then the state, before she eventually ended up in the hands of her adoptive parents.

Maybe it was because of the beauty of the little girl, but the news story stayed in the headlines for some time, following Charlotte’s plight from the very beginning up until she was adopted six months later.

As I sat in my office pondering Charlotte, she happened to walk by, carrying a few packages. I noticed that she was walking perfectly fine—with no limp. Just this morning, that wasn’t the case.

Hmm.

It made me wonder if she was playing some kind of game with me.

I decided to message her.

Reed: Judging from how you just waltzed by my office, your ankle seems to be a lot better. I’m guessing you won’t need a ride tomorrow.

Charlotte: LOL. I thought you were supposed to be at a lunch meeting on the Upper West Side.

Reed: Cancelled.

Charlotte: Ah, well, yes, I am doing much better. The rides into the office have been very helpful. While I’ve enjoyed your charming morning personality, you’re right. I think I can fend for myself now. The recovery time has far exceeded my expectations.

Reed: It’s far exceeded mine as well, so much so that it seems totally unbelievable. In any case, glad to see you’re feeling better. I guess now you can fetch my dry cleaning. I have some shirts that need picking up from Union Street Cleaners.

Even though menial tasks like getting coffee were part of Charlotte’s technical job description, we rarely asked her to do things like that anymore. Most of her responsibilities kept her in the office or at showings. Her role in the company was expanding. So I was totally messing with her in asking her to pick up my dry cleaning.

Charlotte: I’d be happy to pick up your shirts. Are they ready?

Reed: I was just kidding. I can pick up my own dry cleaning. You don’t need to do that.

Charlotte: Oh.

A few moments later, she appeared at my door. Her face was flushed, and she seemed like she had something major on her mind. “Can I come in?”

“You don’t have to ask.” I could see that Charlotte was definitely nervous. I took off my glasses and placed them on the desk. “What’s up?”

She closed the door, and her heels clicked as she slowly approached my desk.

“Is everything alright, Charlotte?”

“Yes.” She rubbed her palms on her skirt. “I’m just nervous to ask you something. But I told myself that I was going to do it anyway.”

“Okay . . .”

“I was wondering . . . if you would like to . . . well . . .”

“Just say it.”

Charlotte looked down at her feet. “Lately, I’ve been telling myself that I’m going to make more of an effort to go after what I want in life, take the bull by the horns, if you will. And, well . . . I really like your company. I was wondering if you would want to go out with me sometime outside of work?” She let out a long breath. “On a date.”

It felt like all my breath left my body.

I. Was. Not. Expecting. That.

Charlotte was asking me out on a date.

She was insane. And ballsy. And so fucking adorable.

And I wanted to say yes. God, how I wanted to say yes more than anything I’d wanted in a very long time.

But I knew that I couldn’t lead her on, as much as I enjoyed spending time with her. As much as being around her made me happy. As goddamn beautiful as I thought she was.

My lack of response caused her to backtrack. “Oh my God, Reed. Forget I said anything. It was just an impulsive thing. I really enjoyed our time together this week, and I find you . . . very attractive . . . and you sometimes look at me like you might feel the same and that whole thong experience in my office that one night . . . it was weird yet sexy . . . and I just thought that maybe—”

“I can’t, Charlotte. I’m sorry. I just can’t date anyone right now. The reasons are too complicated to get into. But my saying no has everything to do with me and absolutely nothing to do with you. I think you’re remarkable. You need to know that.”

“Okay.” She just kept nodding repeatedly. “Okay. Can we forget I asked this, then?”

“Totally forgotten.”

She turned around and basically fled.

After she left my office, my heart felt like it had been ripped out of my chest. What she’d just done took a hell of a lot of guts. I knew that no matter what I said, she would somehow take it personally, and that killed me. I felt awful. She couldn’t possibly know how badly I wished I could’ve said yes.

And her boldness . . . that was so damn hot. Knowing she wanted me made it even harder to accept that I wasn’t going to be able to have her.

As the afternoon wore on, I couldn’t stop obsessing about having hurt Charlotte in some way. I wondered if there was a work-around, if there were a way I could spend time with her outside of work but where it wouldn’t be perceived as a date.

Deep down, I knew I was bullshitting myself. But if I never put myself in a position where I was alone with her, what would be the harm in spending some time with her?

Again, deep down, I knew this was bullshit, but yet I proceeded to walk down to her office anyway.

“Charlotte, can I speak to you for a moment?”

She seemed especially guarded. “Okay . . .”

Pulling up a chair in front of her desk, I said, “I was thinking about what you asked me earlier, and I was wondering if . . . maybe rather than a date, if you would be interested in spending time with me in another capacity—more as friends.”

“What do you mean?”

Making Charlotte feel better after my rejection earlier was my number one priority. I knew on some level this proposition was complicating the situation even further. But I wanted to reward her brutal honesty with something, even if it meant tempting fate.

“I’d love your assistance in tackling a couple of the items on my bucket list, namely rock climbing to start—since you’re an expert and all now. I’m talking about outdoor climbing. There’s this place in the Adirondacks with guided instruction. I can send you the info. We could go up this Saturday. It would be one overnight. Separate rooms, of course. Would you be interested?”

My cell phone buzzed as I pulled my door closed Friday night. It was after seven, and the office was quiet. Even Charlotte had left on time today for a change. Although that wouldn’t stop me from taking my indirect route out just so I could pass her office.

I locked my door and dug my vibrating phone from my pocket. Josh Decker’s name flashed on the screen. Josh was a retired NYPD detective turned private investigator who ran background checks on all our employees. Unfortunately, we’d gotten burned years ago when we hired a real estate agent without a sufficient check, and he basically used Eastwood Properties as a front to gain access to our wealthy clients’ apartments and steal. Our backgrounds were now so extensive it sometimes felt like we were crossing a line and intruding on a potential employee’s privacy.

“Hey, Josh. What’s going on?”

“Same ole, same ole. Working late so I have an excuse not to eat Beverly’s tuna casserole.”

“What if she saves you the leftovers?”

“Oh, she always does. And I toss it in the dumpster outside my building before I come in. I tried to feed it to the strays outside my office once, but even starving cats wouldn’t eat Beverly’s tuna casserole.”

I chuckled. “How did the Erickson investigation go?” I’d had Josh run a potential new leasing agent.

“He’s pretty clean. Got one arrest for smoking a joint in college that was expunged.”

“Expunged, huh? Doesn’t that mean it’s wiped clean from his record? Yet here you are, telling me about it.”

“There ain’t no such thing as wiped clean. There’s always fingerprints, son.”

I turned left and walked down the hall on my way to the office exit, slowing as I approached a certain closed door. CHARLOTTE DARLING. I stopped and read the gold nameplate on her door. Which made me wonder about what she’d added to her Fuck-It List lately.

“Josh . . . let me ask you . . . do you think you could find someone’s birth parents?”

“Found a woman her father a few months back. He’d sold his sperm during college twenty years ago and was homeless today, living under a trestle in Brooklyn.”

Wow. I stared at Charlotte’s name while debating it for a minute. “I have a job for you. I need to find someone. It’s personal—outside of Eastwood Properties. So I would want it kept discreet. No mention to my grandmother or anyone. Especially not our administrative staff. Is that a problem?”

“Discreet is my middle name. Email me from your personal account and give me the details.”

“Will do. Thanks, Josh.” I hung up and ran my finger over the nameplate. “Looks like we might find out who you really are, Charlotte Darling.”