And then he kissed me again, deeper this time, unapologetically. No hesitation. Only heat, and rain, and the hum of a new spark curling to life between us.
The kind that felt an awful lot like falling.
***
Fresh out of the shower, my hair still damp and curling at the ends, I was wrapped in one of Jordan’s oversized robes, dabbing moisturizer under my eyes when Dig’s name lit up my phone.
I answered on the second ring, propping him against the sink.
Dig, in full crab regalia, rhinestones glittering across his forehead, sitting under the fluorescent lights of what looked like a high school auditorium dressing room, squealed as he appeared on screen. The claws on his costume twitched every time he moved.
“I heard there was kissing,” he said without so much as a hello. “Gazebo. Rain. Emotional carnage. Tell me everything.”
I groaned. “You called me two hours ago and I replayed the whole thing. Twice.”
“Yes, and this is a follow-up. A debrief. A necessary encore. Tally, we are building a scrapbook here.”
He broke into song immediately, belting at full volume, “I am sixteen going on seventeen—blessèd by the Lordddd—”
“Okay no,” I said, dragging a hand down my face as I crossed the room and climbed into bed. “You are not allowed toSound of Musicme right now.”
“Sorry, I’m in a heightened emotional state and only Rogers and Hammerstein can anchor me back to the earth,” he said, still humming, waving a bejeweled claw. “But in all fairness, so are you.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, trying not to smile, even as the memory crept in.
The kiss. The walk back. The way Charlie had slipped his hand into mine like it was second nature—his grip firm, thumb brushing along my knuckles in a quiet kind of reassurance. In his other hand, he held Nancy Reagan’s leash, her old-lady trot perfectly matching the stillness between us. We didn’t talk, only walked through hushed, rain-slick streets that shimmered under the low spill of the streetlamps until we reached the penthouse. He opened the door, waited until I was upstairs and behind the bathroom door, before retreating to the other guest room like nothing had happened.
Except it had.
“I think I might be in trouble,” I said finally.
Dig leaned closer to the screen, eyes gleaming. “What kind of trouble?”
“The falling for someone who’s sleeping twenty feet away from me and holding my dog’s leash kind.”
He pressed both claws to his chest. “Sweet baby Jesus in a Target nativity set, it’s happening.”
A soft knock at the door jolted both Dig and me from our giggle haze, his bedazzled crab antennae bouncing like they were reacting to the sudden shift in energy.
“I’ll let you go,” he whispered, eyes glinting with mischief. “I’d say wear protection, but you can’t get more pregnant, so…”
“Oh my God, goodbye.” I jabbed at the screen, hanging up mid-cackle, and launched the phone onto the bed. “Come in!”
Why was I shouting?
The door eased open, and there he was.
Charlie stood leaning against the frame, damp curls pushed back from his forehead, arms crossed over his chest. He’d showered—fresh skin, flushed cheeks, a clean t-shirt clinging to his torso. A faint trail of cedar and pine trailed behind him, mingling with the scent of my lavender lotion, and it made the air in the room tilt.
“Hey, you,” he said, voice low and lazy, like we’d slipped into a moment that belonged only to us. His eyes swept over me—bathrobe, bare feet, probably mascara smudged under one eye—but there was no judgment in them. Just awareness and a whispered kind of adoration.
My breath caught. Because all of a sudden, words were hard. And that had never happened to me before. Not once.
He chuckled softly under his breath, his lips twitching as if he knew exactly what he was doing to me. “Come on,” he said, tipping his chin toward the hallway. “I set up some snacks. I thought we could watch a movie or something.”
Or something.
I nodded, mumbled a word in the shape of a “yeah,” then shut the door and scrambled to change, preparing for what felt like a date but was most definitely, probably, not a date.
