Because what else could I say? That I already felt like a smudged fingerprint on my brother’s immaculate life. That walking through his world made me feel like I’d never done anything right in my entire life.
He bumped his shoulder against mine. “Let’s get one thing straight, love. You’re not the discarded sister in this Southern soap opera.”
I arched a brow. “No?”
He smirked. “No. You, my love, are the plot twist.”
Chapter Four
CHARLIE
Mostnights,thesilencein the studio was a salve—soothing, earned. But tonight it pressed in, thick and damp and restless.
I should’ve been next door at the wine tasting, pretending to enjoy myself, pretending to sell art, pretending Magnolia wasn’t circling the emotional drain like she did every time Lee Wilder showed up to any of our get-togethers. Instead, I cracked the side door open and hauled the half-sanded barstools out into the alley, hoping for a breeze while I worked. I lost myself in the rhythm of it—the scrape of wood grain, the burn of old varnishagainst my fingers, the scent of sawdust clinging to the thick, humid night.
It wasn’t working.
Uncle Cole had been gone for a few months, but the loss still came in waves. Sharp. Relentless. Sometimes I’d be halfway through a text—usually a dumb question about plumbing in the bar or how to handle Magnolia’s latest disaster—before I remembered he was gone. The ache had settled into background noise. I only noticed it when I stopped moving.
He wasn’t just family. My uncle got me, no explanations needed. He was the guy who handed me my first toolbox and told me I could build something out of nothing. That there was a kind of beauty in giving discarded things a second chance.
Now, I wasn’t sure what the hell I was building out of this life anymore.
And Magnolia—well. Between the on-again/off-again thing with Dane, the way she and Lee kept trading those ridiculous, hopeful looks every time they were in the same room, and the very real possibility that O’Malley’s might not survive, I was one crisis away from losing my mind.
So, when I stepped into the alley to toss some scraps and found a woman crouched near the back door—muttering to herself as she fiddled with the lock toCheese, Please!—I stopped cold.
I probably should’ve turned around and minded my own business. But I was already halfway to the dumpster, and it’s not every day you catch someone staging a late-night cheese heist.
“You know I could call the cops, right?” I said, leaning against the studio’s side door.
She startled so hard the poodle at her feet did a backflip. The dog, for its part, seemed rather proud of the party trick.
She spun around, dark curls sticking to her neck, eyes wide but defiant. “That seems excessive. Areyoua cop?”
“Do I look like a cop?”
She gave me a once-over, then shrugged. “Everyone looks like the fuzz when they’re standing in shadows.”
“So what, exactly, is it that you’re doing?” I asked, taking a half-step toward her.
“I could ask you the same thing. Creeping around like a Scooby-Doo villain in a dark alley.”
I lifted the sander in my hand. “Pretty sure I’m not the suspicious one here.”
She squinted. “Is that a weapon?”
“Sander.”
“Yeah, okay. Still weird.” She dusted herself off like she hadn’t been caught red-handed, standing up straight, trying to look taller than she was. “I wasn’t breaking in. I was… visiting a friend.”
I glanced at the locked service door. “Through the back entrance?”
“I’m picking up groceries,” she said, a little too fast.
I raised a brow. “Groceries. From a wine shop?”
She blinked. “Okay, fine. I left something in there during the last tasting. And hey, they sell cheese and stuff in there, too. I think…”
