Charlie
Let me take you back.
Not just a few weeks. I mean way back—before penthouses, boardrooms, Tinder, or black lace lingerie.
Back to the playground.
Back to when Carly Dorrington was the loud-mouthed little girl who pushed me off the damn slide because I told her she looked like a tomato in her red dress.
"Gravity builds character, Charlie!" she yelled while I rolled into the sand face-first.
Yeah.
That's her.
The same girl who kicked a kid in the shin because he stole my Lego spaceship. The same girl who used to sneak into my house during family dinners, steal my dessert, and claim she "earned it emotionally."
You're probably wondering: Why were we always together?
Simple—our dads.
Best friends. Business partners. Old-school car nuts who turned their shared obsession with engines and horsepower into two of the most successful companies in the city.
Trentford Automobile and Dorrington Mechanics.
We basically grew up like techie royalty, raised on gasoline, grease, and generational pressure.
And of course, the "C" thing.
Charlie and Carly.
"Cute, right?" our moms used to say.
It wouldn't even shock me if they planned it. Some bizarre, subconscious matchmaking ritual where they hoped we'd one day grow up, merge the family businesses, and pop out grease-covered genius babies.
Spoiler: we grew up.
I became Charlie Trentford, CEO of Trentford Auto at 27, king of suits, speed, and successful flings that never lasted longer than three dates.
And Carly?
She became Carly Dorrington, CFO of Dorrington Mechanics, financial wizard, part-time hellraiser, and one of the scariest minds I've ever met. Sharp-tongued. Deadly smart. Wicked with numbers. And now that I think about it...
Insanely hot.
Like, I never got it before. Back in college, guys would line up to shoot their shot and I'd just laugh.
"Dude," I'd say. "That's Carly. She once punched me in the throat for touching her fries."
But now?
Now I watch her walk across my penthouse in those little black bum shorts and a tank top so tight it's practically a second skin, and I'm starting to question everything.
She's sitting on the couch now, legs folded, eyes locked on a crime documentary like she's taking notes for later. Probably is.
And I can't stop watching her.
God help me, she's chewing on the drawstring of her hoodie.
I don't know how I got here.
Wait. Actually, I do.
She moved in—after a fight with her ex and another with her dad. At first, I thought it'd be temporary. A few days of couch crashing and comfort food.
But then?
Then she did the thing.
"Can I sleep in your room?"
I blinked. "Carly, this is a penthouse. There are four bedrooms."
> "Yeah, but yours smells like you."
"Again—four bedrooms."
> "We used to take baths together when we were little!"
"WE WERE THREE!"
> "Exactly! So what's the big deal?"
"It's—we're adults now. There are boundaries!"
> "Friends with boundaries?" she smirked. "Lame title. I'm vetoing it."
"This isn't a Netflix series, Carly."
> "Then stop acting like you're the uptight main character."
And somehow, I lost the argument.
Now she's in my bed every night.
Not with me—yet—but close enough that I wake up to find her sprawled sideways, one leg over my hip like I'm a damn body pillow, mumbling my name in her sleep and calling me "pudding cup."
And I just let it happen.
Because some part of me—some insane, probably horny, definitely repressed part of me—likes it.
But I shouldn't. Right?
I mean, we're best friends.
Right?
…
"Hey, Charlie," she calls suddenly, eyes still on the TV. "If you ever hook up with another girl in this apartment again…"
My pulse skips. "Yeah?"
"I'm replacing your shampoo with Nair."
She smiles.
I sweat.
She goes back to watching murders. Like she didn't just say that.
And I?
I try to remember if I even own boundaries anymore.