I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. What luck, indeed.”
We stopped on the old brick sidewalk in front of the Wilder House. A wide, wraparound porch ran the length of the front and curved away to a shadowed courtyard tucked behind a large arched gate. Navy shutters sat neatly against the white clapboard, and the deep front door caught the evening light like it belonged to a postcard. Two white rocking chairs waited on theporch, a riot of hot-pink azaleas bursting between them, their perfume drifting down the steps.
I stared at those rocking chairs a little too long.
Of course it was the nicest house on the block. It had to be the Wilder House.
“You’ll do it,” Charlie said as we climbed the stairs. He turned toward me, gaze locked on mine as he knocked. “You’re not the kind of girl who lets people down. Or did I read you all wrong?”
I stared at him, heart thudding in my throat.
Yeah. He read me all wrong.
But I didn’t have time to argue, because the door swung open, and a woman who looked like she’d floated off the pages ofSavannah Livinggreeted us with a warm, practiced smile.
“Tallulah Aden, what a pleasure,” she said, pulling me into a hug that was somehow both graceful and commanding. Then she glanced at Charlie, offering a tilt of her head and a soft, quizzical smile. “My Charlie. What a surprise. Will you be joining us for dinner?”
Charlie rocked back on his heels. “Well, you know what, Eunice? That sounds perfect.”
The Wilder home was everything the penthouse tried to be, but couldn’t quite touch. Word was, Eunice Wilder had designed every inch herself—with help, of course—but the vision was all hers. Southern charm met modern elegance: wide plank wood floors warmed the rooms, rugs layered like soft punctuation, and soft lighting made everyone look like they’d been airbrushed. Antiques lived alongside clean-lined sofas; a brass tray of well-loved cocktail glasses balanced a stack of travel books; framed family photos marched up the staircase like a well-curated biography. There were little, undeniable Eunice touches everywhere—a bowl of fresh lemons on the sideboard, monogrammed linen napkins folded with meticulous care, a faint whisper of polishing oil and old wood in the air—so thatnothing felt stuffy and everything felt deliberately hospitable. Beautiful in that effortless, expensive way.
She led us through the foyer and into a formal sitting room, where Lee was nursing a drink—and what looked like a bruised ego. An older man sat across from him, his frown lifting slightly when he saw Charlie walk in.
“Charlie, my boy,” the man said, easing out of his chair and clasping Charlie’s hand—not stiff or performative, but familiar.
“Tally,” Charlie said, nodding toward him, “this is Vance Wilder, Esquire. Lee’s father.”
Vance gave me a polite nod, but his attention flicked quickly back to the others. Lee crossed the room, gave me a quick hug, and then clapped Charlie on the back with the enthusiasm of someone performing for his parents.
The energy in the room felt more rehearsed than real—a different version of the two of them than what I’d seen at the studio.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said, settling into a seat as Eunice gestured for us to sit. This was second nature to me. I crossed my ankles, took the drink in my right hand, napkin in my left, and nodded at the neck when saying thank you. I could play a polite debutante in my sleep.
Some days, I really was Momma’s dutiful daughter.
“So,” Eunice said, once the obligatory small talk had passed, “Magnolia tells me you have a photography business?”
I laughed lightly. “Oh no, not a business. I just… have a camera.”
Beside me, Charlie coughed pointedly, lifting his glass again. “She’s being coy, Eunice. She’s incredibly talented. I watched her shoot for the Adens’ shop today. She’s got an eye.”
“That’s wonderful,” Eunice said. “I thought perhaps you could photograph our upcoming charity event. If that goes well, wecould talk about some ongoing projects—maybe boosting our social presence a bit.”
Across from us, Lee perked up. “Jordan told me she’s traveled the world, shot weddings, festivals, and portraits that landed her in magazines. And she went viral.”
Vance arched an eyebrow. “What’s viral?”
Eunice chuckled softly. “We don’t need arésumé, boys. I only need to know if she wants the job.”
Sutton popped her head in, wearing full chef regalia, her expression sheepish in a way that surprised me. She looked nothing like the bossy girl I’d first met in the studio.
“Dinner’s ready, Mr. and Mrs. Wilder,” she said, stepping back as everyone began to rise. She caught Eunice’s attention and leaned in to whisper, “I heard she once saved a dozen babies from a landslide with her camera alone.”
Eunice placed a hand on Sutton’s shoulder. “She has the job, my dear. She only needs to say yes.”
“Oh. Okay,” Sutton said, trying not to laugh as she ducked away.
Eunice led me toward the dining room, her voice softer, for me. “In case you haven’t noticed, my son’s friends are fiercely loyal. When they pull someone into their circle, they tend to hold on.”
