The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield

Chapter Eighteen: Swimming With Sharks

A/N: Hello everyone! I missed all of you but I can't say I regretted the short break I took. It helped quite a bit. Thank you again for giving me the time and space I needed to regroup and feel better. 

Now, I know some of you are anxious to get on with Charlotte and Brandon's story. Now that they've admitted their feelings, the challenge is in making it through every obstacle together. Charlotte's mettle will be tested in the following chapters and she'll struggle between her instincts for goodness with her sense of self-preservation.

As usual, please vote and comment! =)

***

Perfect.

It was a word I hardly ever used in reference to my life, but it was one that more than aptly described the last few days.

After the thunderstorm rolled past us that night, the world had been nothing but full of sunshine, clear blue skies, the endless stretch of sea, and many precious moments with Brandon.

I thought I’d been pretty happy before that night of our failed camping trip. It was crazy how big a difference our confession made. 

There was happy and there was absolute bliss.

Because as fun as guessing games are, they’re the last thing you need when you fall hopelessly in love. What heart loves and hopes not to be loved in return?

I knew Brandon cared long before he admitted to his feelings.

There was no way I could deny that he felt something for me—I always saw his eyes light up when they looked my way. I couldn’t miss the variety of kisses he’d given me—from sensual to sweet to simply soothing. I couldn’t count the times he held my hand, or pulled me close to him, or kept us connected through the merest touch. No man who didn’t care acted that way. 

Oh, sure, it hadn’t been instantaneous. 

I could still clearly recall how arrogant and disdained he was when we first met. But somewhere along the way, soon after that, Brandon stumbled off the path and leapt off the cliff. 

He started to care—and care a lot.

But for that suspicion to evolve into an all-out revelation that Brandon more than cared about me—he loved me—it startled me so much I was still reeling a few days later. 

Yet even with that puzzle still broken up into jigsaw pieces in my head, the way we were after that confession seemed perfectly natural. The truth simply intensified the depth of our feelings for each other. 

It was like we’ve been doing this beautiful yet mysteriously magical thing all this time and someone finally explained it, and it made perfect sense.

Instead of the usual blasted doubts, my company became this sweet ache of happiness—a feeling so good it almost hurt.

We woke up late the day after the storm and made brunch using some of the supplies we’d brought. The beach house (now called as such after I won the argument with Brandon that a shoe box was a cabin, not a beachfront mini-mansion) wasn’t used very often, but it had some basic, non-perishable supplies which was stocked by a housekeeping company Marissa hired to check in and tidy up the place every other month.

When the sun finally broke through the clouds late in the day, we got dressed and walked down the wooden boardwalk that led to the private beach. The rain had brought in a lot of seaweed and sediments to the shore but it made for an interesting beachcombing experience. 

Living in Boston, the ocean was never too far, but I didn’t have a mother or father to bring me to the beach on a weekend excursion or anything like that.