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THREE more days until The Work Wife releases. Have you been enjoying Charli + Oliver so far? Leave me a comment if you think Oliver is as delicious and yummy as the food he prepares!

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

All rights reserved © 2019

Charli

Julia arrives three short days later, toting her craziness behind her like two misbehaving children in full meltdown mode. I love my sister, I really do, but to say our relationship is complicated would be the understatement of the century.

From an outsider’s perspective, our bond appears stable, but it’s superficial, a patchwork of childhood memories, two common parents, and a few shared laughs.  Our personalities couldn’t be more different, and I often wonder how we could belong to the same family. Julia is attention seeking, loud, and often referred to as “the life of the party.” And me?  I’m not any of those things.

After everything that went down with Ryan, Julia has made a strong, genuine effort to be my friend. So I figure if she’s willing to try, then so am I, because people can:

1.) mature

2.) change

3.) learn to not hook up with her sister’s boyfriend of three years.

“You have nothing to eat.”  Julia slams the last kitchen cupboard door shut and plops onto the stool. “I’m starving.”

Dropping my purse onto the counter, I suppress my eye roll. “There are plenty of things to eat.” Sorry my food choices aren’t up to your standards, Princess Julia.

I pull the first of three takeout containers from my fridge and crack open the lid. Dipping my head, I sniff the contents to ensure they’re still fresh, and luckily they pass my ‘it doesn’t smell like death’ test.

“Here.” I slide the container across the countertop. “Eat this.”

Her eyes narrow in skepticism and I half-say, half-joke, “How long are you here for again?”

“A week.”

Great.

“Just until the dorms re-open.” She shrugs. “I couldn’t take one more day at Mom and Dad’s house.”

I nod because I get it.

She picks up the container and asks, “What is it?”

I grab a plate and fork for her. “Sautéed vegetables.”

Julia scrunches her nose as she studies the contents with suspicious eyes. “There’s no meat in it?”

“No,” I manage to grind out, even though I’m fairly certain Oliver deglazes the pan with beef stock. But that doesn’t count as meat, right?

She dumps the veggies onto the plate I pulled from the shelf and pops it into the microwave. While the food heats, Julia pours two glasses of wine, sliding one down to me.

That’s the other thing. Julia loves to drink. Okay, that sounds bad. I guess most twenty-two-year-olds do, and I’m not against imbibing in a glass (or two or three), but I’m not a fan of getting piss-ass drunk on a work night.

The microwave beeps, and I hand her the dish. She’s silent for a few moments as she takes the first bite. Then she moans, loudly, with pleasure. “Oh my God. This is so good.”

Chuckling, I roll my eyes. “I think you’re just really hungry.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “This is so good that I’d make love to these vegetables. No.” She shakes her head again. “I’d marry these vegetables.”

“You’re nuts,” I say, sipping my wine.

“Oliver is an amazing chef.”

My eyes narrow. “How do you know he made them?” I mean, he did, of course, but the fact that she immediately discounts my cooking abilities pisses me off a little.

Her fork pauses mid-bite, and her eyes hold mine for a beat before she breaks into a laugh. She doesn’t say anything, as she shovels another forkful into her mouth.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I gripe.

“Come on, sis.” She reaches for her wine glass. “Even if I didn’t already know you sucked at cooking—”

“I don’t suck.” My cooking skills have improved. Marginally.

She makes the OK sign, her eyes wide. “Even if you could cook, the to-go container kind of gives it away.”

I snap my fingers. “Dammit.”

Shrugging, she says, “Besides, if I had Chef McHottie cooking for me, night after night, I’d never cook either.”

“He doesn’t cook for me every night.”

She sets her glass on the counter, angles her body to face me, and gives me a look that says, “Please.”

“He doesn’t,” I insist, chugging down another considerable gulp, only to realize my glass is empty. Holy shit, I better slow down.

Julia reaches for the bottle and tries to pour me another glass, but I cover the glass with my hand. “No more for me.”

She tuts, swatting my hand away, and pours a second, very full glass. “Nonsense. I love Drunk Charlotte.”

My eyes narrow. “Not happening. I have work tomorrow.”

“I know.” She nods. “With Chef McHottie.”

“Jules, please stop calling him that.” Despite my protests, I take another sip from my now-full glass. “You know he’s engaged.”

She shrugs as though I’ve told her something nonessential, something like “Oliver hates drinking tap water.” Yep, he’s a total water snob, and it drives me bananas. I mean, seriously, does he not realize how detrimental all those plastic water bottles are to our environment? But, I digress.

“You like him.” She scrapes the last of the veggies onto her fork.

Now it’s my turn to shrug. Jules is the only person whom I confided in about my Oliver crush. This will make me sound like a terrible person, but I’m going to confess it anyway. I’ve confided in Julia, not because we’re close—we’ve already discussed the fact that we’re not—but because Julia has a very loose moral compass, and I knew she wouldn’t judge me. If I told Em, my best friend who is married with two kids, she’d click her tongue in reproach. Or if I fangirled to Meg at work about Oliver’s hotness, she’d sneak knowing, accusatory glances at me every time he and I were alone together. So I keep my shameful, dirty secret to my guilty self.

It should also be stated that Drunk Charlotte was present during my confession to Julia. Drunk Charlotte is a chatty bitch, and apparently has never learned the expression, “Loose lips sink ships.”

Julia drops her fork to her plate. “I say, bang him.”

“Julia!” I gasp in mock horror, because I certainly won’t admit that I’ve thought about just that more often than not.

“What?” She pushes the dish away. “You’re already in a relationship with him.” One shoulder lifts. “Might as well be having sex. That’s the fun part.”

“You’re right.” I nod, and her eyes widen at my easy agreement before I continue. “We are in a relationship. A professional relationship.”

“And if you believe that’s all it is, I have a bridge to sell you.”

Scowling, I ask, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means—” she looks directly in my eyes “—you’re the work wife.”

My nose wrinkles. “The work wife?”

“Yeah.” She pours herself a second glass. “You spend all your time together—”

I interrupt. “Because we work together.”

She continues, unfazed. “He cooks for you all the time.”

“He’s a chef, Jules.”

“You two have all these inside jokes, you talk about him constantly, and you think he’s ‘the sexiest man alive.’ ” She makes air quotes around that last part.

Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

I did say that, didn’t I? Well, not me, per se. Drunk Charlotte said it. Remind me to cut a bitch. My face flushes a deep crimson red, so hot in fact, that I can feel the heat pouring from my skin. The wine is only making it worse.

Stalling, I lift my glass to my lips and empty the contents in one swig. Finally, I bring my eyes to meet Jules. “So, what if all those things are true? He’s engaged, Jules. Engaged.” My tone turns sorrowful. “You saw what Dad’s affairs did to Mom. I can’t—I won’t—be the other woman.”

Julia sneers. “Monogamy is outdated and unrealistic.” She watches as I spin my glass by its stem. “Mom and Dad’s marriage sucks. But you know what? Mom chose to stay with him, Charli. She chose it.” Her eyes find mine. “You can’t steal someone who doesn’t want to be stolen. You can’t make a man cheat. Everyone has free will, free choice.” Her voice turns a touch colder, and I know her well enough to know this is a façade, her way of acting tough so she doesn’t get hurt, because the truth is, my dad’s affairs—yes, plural, he had several, and my mom still stuck by him—affected us. “I’d rather be the cheater than the one being cheated on.”

Squeezing her thigh, I smile, trying to communicate that our parents’ relationship isn’t all bad. When things were good between our parents, they were really good.

Maybe Mom should have left when she found out the first time he was unfaithful. I was six, and Jules was just a baby. Every woman likes to think she’d leave, that she’d never tolerate her husband sleeping with a twenty-year-old waitress in the stockroom of the diner where they both worked, but my mom was young, jobless, and loved my dad fiercely. She still does. Who are we to judge?

Jules places her hand on top of mine and squeezes back. The melancholy that flickers behind her eyes is replaced by a mischievous smile as she asks, “Wanna crack open another bottle?”

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