My résumé flashed through my mind—a dozen half-finished jobs, none lasting longer than a year. I’d need to find a real, consistent job in Savannah. But who was going to hire someone whose longest stint at anything barely lasted longer than a podcast episode? And then to show up visibly pregnant on top of that? Lord, I was about to spiral.
I grabbed my camera and slung it around my neck, trying to settle my nerves by focusing on the one thing I still, somewhat, trusted myself to do.
The light in the shop was shockingly good. Warm, directional, and soft enough to work with. I started circling, testing a few angles, checking how the shadows fell across the shelves and counter. I adjusted the light sensitivity, bumped my aperture enough to blur the background, and zeroed in on a cluster of jars that looked more artisanal than anything I could afford.
Near the front, a round display table made from a reclaimed wine barrel caught the afternoon light just right—practically begging for a shot. I moved a wedge of cheese an inch, angled the wine glass, dropped a tiny bowl of pickles in for balance. Then I crouched, framing the shot so the curve of wood and glass did all the work.
Click.
I adjusted a smidge to the left and took another.
Click.
I was so focused, I didn’t hear Jordan approach until he spoke. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re doing, but it looks cool as hell.”
I glanced up at him, half-laughing. “Oh, you know, trying to make fermented grapes look sexy.”
He looked at the setup, then nudged the barrel with the toe of his shoe. “Charlie actually made this table. It was the first commissioned piece we bought from him when we opened.”
I looked at it again, noticing the clean weld lines and the slight asymmetry in the woodgrain. The intricate detail in the smooth edges reminded me of him lurking in the shadows the night we met, a sander in hand and a crooked smile on his lips. Was he really that annoyed with me that night, or did I miss the part where maybe he was kind of charming in a grouchy sort of way?
“Of course he did,” I murmured.
Jordan didn’t press, only handed me a folded dish towel. “You’ve got pickle juice on your elbow, Ansel Adams.”
The bell over the front door jingled, and Jordan’s posture stiffened slightly, enough to make me pause.
My brother strode in, sunglasses still perched on his nose like he hadn’t fully committed to being indoors. His gaze swept the room, already carrying that air ofwhat did I walk into. Then he saw me, and his eyes narrowed like Jordan had asked a possum to restock the shelves.
“What are you doing down here?” he asked, voice laced with that signature cocktail of judgment and disbelief.
“Helping,” I said, holding up a wheel of Gouda as if it proved my point.
His mouth curved—not quite a smile, not quite approval. “Oh, photography again? Adorable.”
Jordan made a noise low in his throat and stepped between us before I could come up with a response that wasn’t laced with profanity.
“She’s taking shots for the website,” he said calmly. “And actually doing a damn good job, if you’re curious.”
Doyle’s sunglasses slid down enough to reveal the quick flick of his eyes over me. “Sure. Great. Just… don’t knock over the display.” He moved behind the counter, gruff but not entirely dismissive.
I swallowed whatever comeback was building in my throat and quietly set the Gouda back on the counter, trying not to let my hands shake. I grabbed a damp rag and started wiping down the tasting table, focusing on the sticky wine rings like they were the most important thing in the world. I could pretend his words didn’t sting, but they did because he wasn’t wrong. I had picked up photography again. Just like I’d picked it up the last time. And the time before that. I just never managed to hold on.
I was rearranging the sample cups when Doyle pushed his sunglasses up onto his head and gave me a once-over, his brows lifting at the apron. “Since when do you ‘help,’ Tallulah?” His tone wasn’t cruel, just skeptical—like he was trying to figure out if this was a bit or a breakthrough.
Jordan coughed in the background, clearly not eager to referee the Aden sibling apocalypse this was on the verge of becoming. He scurried to the back of the shop, refusing to make eye contact with either of us.
My brother’s expression caught my eye as I lowered my camera and adjusted the strap around my neck. The dynamic between us had changed since I’d been in Savannah. His usual cadence and banter with me—typically a little judgmental but mostly playful—had curdled into a shade shy of animosity. Almost like he saw me as a burden.
“Remember, my darling brother,” I touted, leaning against the repurposed wine barrel. “You’re the one who invited me into your lair. Or was this all an elaborate plan to make me feel more like shit than I already do?”
My brother shrugged, but something flickered in his expression. A smug look flashed across his face, and he leaned a hip on the counter, folding his arms across his chest.
“Heard you’re meeting with Eunice Wilder.”
“I am,” the words came out steadier than I was.
His mouth tugged sideways. “Good luck with that. Eunice will probably send you home with cookies and a five-year plan. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
