Tattooed Troublemaker - Elise Faber Page 0,53

and a good man. And pick up on the obvious clues to what’s going on inside their brain. Otherwise the next asshole on the street is going to get to have a shot at doing the same with your girl.”

The thought of Charlie with someone else was almost worse than not having her in my life, so I didn’t give Sam any shit, just nodded and made a mental note even my tequila-fuzzed brain wouldn’t forget.

Then . . . I circled back to giving him shit, miming writing in a journal. “Read Cosmo,” I said, pretending to hold the imaginary notebook and pen.

Sam punched me. “And here I was sharing state secrets with you fuckers and you only give me grief.”

I grinned but then quickly sobered. “Sam?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey!” Lane said.

I rolled my eyes. “I wasn’t going to leave you out.”

He waited.

“Thanks.”

“You’re so very welcome.” He bobbed his head, gave a hand flourish and half bend that approached an old school bow, though it looked ridiculous since he didn’t move his ass off my couch.

Another roll of my eyes.

“Okay,” Lane went on. “So we’re a definite yes on the chocolate, but I was also thinking that maybe you should . . .” And then he laid out a plan to get Charlie back into my life that was both brilliant and showed that maybe he wasn’t so bad in the romance department.

Even Sam looked impressed. “So, the student has become the teacher.”

Lane shrugged. “Turns out there’s more to Cosmo than just makeup tips.”

I glanced at Sam. His lips were quirked. I glanced at Lane. His expression was proud.

I—

We burst out laughing again.

And I just knew that even though I’d been cornered by these two then heard some fucked up shit about my childhood, that although my life hadn’t been what I’d expected, and I’d missed out on having a dad, that I was lucky to have these two in my life.

Still was going to give them shit.

Even if Lane gave me a plan to get Charlie back and Sam had given me advice on how to keep her.

Because that’s how we rolled. Teasing and giving shit and pushing buttons was all a man needed.

Of course, I also needed Charlie.

And now, I had the tools to get her back.

Unfortunately, as life often does, it took a sharp left and my plan went to hell.

Seventeen

Charlie

I sat in the lawyer’s office for the second time in one week, wondering why I was allowing myself to be a part of this sideshow.

I’d taken off work, rearranged my schedule twice in a week, and now I was sitting in the lobby of the law office, decidedly dressed down in jeans and my pale blue T-shirt emblazoned with my company motto—“Charlie’s Pipes. You got ‘em. We fix ‘em.”

And I was just watching the minutes tick away.

Tick-tock. Ten bucks gone.

Tick-tock. Ten more.

Tick-tock. Any later and I was going to have to cancel an appointment.

“Charlotte Roberts?”

I stood, nodding at the slender blonde waif in a burgundy power suit, who’d called my name. “That’s me.”

“Thanks for coming in on short notice. I’m Harriet.” She started moving down the hall, indicating I should follow her. “Mr. Gonzales had mentioned that you wanted to get all of your ducks in order as quickly as possible.”

“I do.”

She smiled. “Great. So if you’ll just follow me—”

She pushed open the door to a conference room, gesturing at me to move ahead of her, but my feet had slid to a stop, my eyes alighting on . . . a scowling, gray-haired woman I’d only seen once in my life.

My grandmother.

In the flesh.

Her face drew into a deeper pucker at the sight of me, gaze trailing from my head and its messy ponytail down to the steel-toed boots encasing my feet.

She pushed out of her chair, clutching a cane in her right hand.

And . . . had she always been this small?

I stared at her, trying to remember. She’d always seemed larger than life, a giant who’d afflicted seven years of my life with nightmares. But in front of me, the same strand of pearls around her neck, and she seemed almost fragile.

“Please, sit down,” Harriet said, slipping carefully past me and taking the seat on the opposite side of the table, my grandmother sinking back down into hers.

Which left . . . the chair next to my grandmother.

For one petty moment, I debated refusing to sit.

Then I smothered a sigh and took the seat—though I did inch it away slightly. “What’s going on?”

“You want to give