A few minutes later, in soft leggings and one of Doyle’s stolen cashmere sweaters that I refused to return, I stepped into the main room—and stopped short.
The living room had been transformed.
Short, stout candles lined the windowsill and coffee table, flickering low and golden. The TV was paused on the openingscreen ofThe Princess Bride. And in the middle of it all, Charlie had assembled what could only be described as a miracle.
A takeout spread worthy of saints and hormonal women alike.
French fries from four different restaurants were arranged in mismatched bowls on the coffee table, still steaming, sprinkled with sea salt and pepper and a dash of what smelled suspiciously truffle-y. Next to them, three kinds of pickles—dill, bread and butter, and a weird spicy variety I loved from the shop—were set out like appetizers at a five-star deli. And sitting proudly at the center was a Shirley Temple in a highball glass, garnished with not one butsevenmaraschino cherries skewered on a cocktail sword.
I turned to find him already watching me, a dish towel slung over one shoulder, his eyes impossibly soft but intense enough to knock the wind from my lungs.
“You said you’ve been craving fries and pickles, so I figured we’d do a taste test.” His voice was casual, but the way he looked at me wasn’t. It was heavy. Hungry, in the kind of way that wasn’t about food.
I crossed to the couch slowly, afraid that if I moved too fast, I’d spook whatever magic had settled into this room.
“This is…” I swallowed. “Charlie, this isso much.”
He shrugged, grabbing the remote, eyes still tracking me as we both took our seats. “Yeah, well. You deserve good things.”
I sat, stunned and silent for a beat, watching the candlelight flicker over his profile. Watching himseeme—really see me—in a way no one had for a very long time. Maybe not ever.
Nancy Reagan trotted in from the guest bedroom and made herself a little nest between us on the couch with a sigh so dramatic it could’ve won her an Emmy.
Charlie laughed under his breath, passed me a plate of fries, and asked, “You ready?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
CHARLIE
Asoftsnorestirredmeawake—sharp, wheezy, unmistakably canine—and it took me a second to remember where I was. The candles were still burning low across the windowsill, casting slow, warm shadows across the living room. The TV screen had frozen on the credits, some long forgotten names glowing white on black.
I eased back and glanced toward the sound.
Tally was curled on the couch, one arm folded beneath her, the other resting over the small rise of her stomach. Her legs tucked in, her body turned inward, as if she could protect what she loved by keeping it close. Nancy Reagan slept in a ball at her feet,snoring with the kind of raspy determination only an old poodle could muster.
I should’ve woken her and told her to move to the bed to get some proper rest. But instead I sat there, watching her sleep in the flickering candlelight, caught in a silence that felt too sacred to break.
It was strange what a handful of days could do. How we had teetered on the edge of this for months, and now it was finally here, and nothing in the world felt more comfortable than this moment between us.
She’d swept into my life like a tornado, shaking the foundation that I’d been so proud to stand so firmly on, knocking down the walls that I’d spent so long trying to keep up, keeping everyone in my life tucked safe inside.
Tally Aden didn’t just rattle those walls. She made me want to knock them down and look at all the parts of myself I’d kept sealed off, too busy taking care of everyone else to wonder if I even liked the life I’d built for myself.
She wasn’t fixing me. That wasn’t her job. But somehow, in her messy, relentless way, she was changing my heart, one day at a time.
I could have watched her sleep all night, but the thought made me sound a little less like a man teetering on the verge of falling for this woman and a little more like a serial killer, so I gently nudged her awake.
“Why don’t you lie in bed, baby girl?” I said as she stirred, my voice still rough from sleep. She blinked up at me, slow and sweet, the corner of her mouth curling toward a smile. Her sweater hung loose off one shoulder, and everything about her in that moment—rumpled, flushed, impossibly soft—pulled at my chest.
“It’s pretty late,” I added, half hoping she’d take the hint, half terrified she might.
Tally stretched, arms overhead, her hand brushing against mine before dropping into her lap. When she met my gaze, I saw it. That shadow of desire—unspoken, but clear as day. A beat of silence settled between us, heavy with this impossible thing we kept circling, never quite brave enough to touch.
Then she nodded, quietly. “Yeah. Okay.”
She stood, gave me one last glance that should’ve been illegal, and padded down the hall with Nancy trailing behind her, tail swishing like she knew she’d won her mother all to herself.
I stood there for a second too long in the stillness, then turned, blew out the last of the candles, and lowered myself onto the too-small loveseat that had already wrecked the left side of my body that week.
