I wasn’t sure what to say, so I busied myself with closing up for the day—wiping down the last counter, gathering empty glasses, flicking off lights until the shop dimmed into soft shadows and quiet.
Charlie rocked back on his heels, watching me without pressing. Then, with a half-smile and a shrug, he said, “Come on, darlin’. Let me walk you home so you can get ready for this meeting with Eunice. It’s on the way anyway.”
I set the last clean glasses on the shelf beside him and looked up. “You live downstairs from me,” I said, the charm of him wrapping around me like an old quilt.
“Well,” he mused, “Isn’t that convenient?”
I grabbed my camera bag, turned off the last light, and let him walk me home.
Chapter Nine
TALLY
Iyankedwhatusedtobe a form-fitting black cocktail dress over my body, which was now—unceremoniously—more full than it had been a few weeks ago. But if I had to guess, my secret wasn’t much of a secret anymore. And if there was one thing I knew about these Savannah natives, it was that they didn’t just gossip. They curated it.
If Eunice Wilder didn’t already know I was pregnant, it’d be a miracle.
I took the elevator down to the lobby and found Charlie leaning casually against the front desk, deep in conversation with Hoyt. As I approached, Charlie straightened, one arm stillresting on the counter, and gave me a look—half grin, half smirk—that tugged at what was left of my composure
“Ms. Aden,” Hoyt said, springing to his feet. He looked one breath away from a panic attack. “Can I call you a cab?”
I shook my head. “That won’t be necessary. Are you okay?”
Charlie came to stand beside me. His eyes traveled down my dress and landed, with entirely too much focus, on my lips.
“I’ll walk her to Eunice’s,” he said, casual as ever. “Fill her in on the way.”
He held out his arm, and I slid mine through his, ignoring the warm press of muscle and that fresh, woodsy scent—like a man who’d recently showered or singlehandedly rebuilt a cabin. I tried very hardnotto picture him stripped down, hammering nails into chopped pine, sweat dripping down his—
“I bet she can come up with a solution for your little problem,” he said, voice low, yanking me out of my spiral.
“I don’t want to be a burden, Mr. Pruitt,” Hoyt mumbled, deflating back into his seat. Whatever was gnawing at him had taken up permanent residence in his spine. “Tell Mrs. Wilder hello for me.”
Charlie pushed the door open with his back, guiding us onto the sidewalk, eyes locked on mine. “Will do, Hoyt,” he called.
“What was that about?” I finally asked as we reached the crosswalk on Broughton. I hadn’t wanted to break the spell—the two of us, arm in arm, moving leisurely through Savannah like we had nowhere else to be.
Charlie hit the button for the light and turned toward me. “Hoyt and his fiancée, Charlotte, were supposed to get married next summer. Some destination wedding in the South of France.”
The light changed, and we crossed the street, still linked, close enough to feel his steadiness as if it were my own.
“Oh,” I said, still failing to see why Hoyt had looked like someone had kicked his puppy.
Charlie paused in front of a bakery, studying the window for a moment before continuing. “Turns out Charlotte’s mom is sick and they need to move the wedding up.”
He stopped again, this time outside a florist, squinting at the storefront. “No, this isn’t the one Eunice usually uses. I’ll have to ask her when we get there.”
“What’s going on, Charlie?”
He stopped walking and gently unhooked our arms, taking my hand in his. His palm was rough and warm, calloused and sure. The type of hand that could steady you. The type of touch that could undo you.
“They can’t find vendors on short notice. Hoyt’s been calling around to bakeries and officiants. Trying to line up a florist. Photographer, too. He’s having a hard time.”
I slipped my hand back, not entirely trusting myself to hold it together. “Oh, is he now?”
Charlie laughed, low and unbothered, then took my arm and tucked it back through his again. We picked up the pace, heading toward the stately homes lining Jones Street.
“He is. And wouldn’t you know it, a photographer—who’s won state fair blue ribbons, gone viral, and is single-handedly revamping the social media profile ofCheese, Please!—so happens to live in the building he works in.”
