Chapter Eight #3
“Ray Charles isn’t country!”
“This song is. Don Henley wrote it. Pure Nashville heartbreak.” He was grinning now, actually grinning. “Americans. You don’t even know your own music history.”
He started singing along, quietly at first, then louder when Eva laughed. His voice was surprisingly good—rough around the edges but with real feeling.
“You’re ridiculous,” Eva said, but she was smiling so hard her cheeks hurt.
“I’m from Yorkshire, Eva” Charlie corrected. “We’re never ridiculous. We’re ‘characters’.”
Eva smirked at his remark, laughing and rolling her eyes. It was then that Eva noticed the sprig of mistletoe hanging from the beam above their table. Her laughter died in her throat. Charlie followed her gaze and went very still.
“Ah,” he said.
“Yep,” Eva agreed.
They stared at each other across the table. The fire crackled. Ray Charles crooned about heartbreak in the background. The rain hammered against the windows like it was trying to get in.
“Well, rules are rules,” Charlie said finally.
Eva’s heart was doing something complicated in her chest. “What? I mean, I know it’s tradition but come on Charlie don’t be ridiculous …”
Charlie stood slowly and came around to her side of the table. Eva tilted her face up as he approached her. Shit, this is happening then. Anticipating his lean in, her eyes fluttering closed, and—
He kissed her forehead. Gently, sweetly, like a blessing.
Eva’s eyes flew open. Charlie was grinning again, that rare, transformative expression that made him look years younger.
“Technical compliance, tick,” he said. “I’ll get us a fresh pot of tea.”
He headed to the bar, leaving Eva touching her forehead and trying to remember how to breathe.
Tilly looked up from her spot by the fire with what Eva could swear was amusement.
“What the hell just happened Tills?” she whispered at the dog.
The dog’s tail thumped once, twice, in what was definitely approval, and she made a soft ‘hmmph’ sound that seemed to say ‘well, it’s a start, I suppose’.
When Charlie returned, teapot in hand, the awkwardness Eva expected didn’t materialise. Instead, something had shifted between them, like a door opening just a crack to let light through.
“So,” he said, settling back into his chair. “Your turn. What are you running from?”
Eva laughed, but it came out shaky. “What makes you think I’m running?”
“You changed your holiday destination last minute, came to York alone with no plan, and you’re following the trail of a woman who died years ago. That’s not exactly typical tourist behaviour.”
Eva stared into her tea, trying to gather courage.
Her go-to reaction here would be to deflect.
She didn’t like being the centre of attention, having any kind of focus solely on her.
People say ‘a problem shared is a problem halved’ but somehow Eva had never felt that way.
Sharing felt like being a burden. She never wanted to put herself on anyone or cause any problems. Taking a moment to reflect on how Charlie had opened up earlier about the darkest parts of himself, she sighed.
Then, surprising herself, she felt the words she’d been bottling up inside spill from her lips.
She told him everything. About Richard, about the promotion she didn’t get, about a life that looked perfect on paper but felt like wearing someone else’s clothes.
About her mother’s expectations and her own fear that she’d never be enough.
“I’ve spent my whole life being what other people wanted,” she said. “Good daughter, good girlfriend, good employee. And where did it get me? Dumped in a steakhouse by a man who thinks my dreams are too dreamy, while simultaneously thinking I’m not ambitious enough.”
“Sounds like a tosser,” Charlie said with feeling.
“He was. Is. But I chose him, didn’t I? Because he fit the image.
Because my mother approved. Because on the surface he looked right for the life I was supposed to want.
” She pulled Charlie’s jumper tighter around herself.
“I’ve got to this point in my life and I don’t even know what I actually want. How pathetic is that?”
“It’s not pathetic,” Charlie said quietly. “It’s human. We all do it—build lives based on other people’s blueprints. Then we wonder why they never quite fit.”
“Is that what you did?”
“In a way.” He considered his words. “I stayed in York because it’s safe. Because things are consistent, predictable and secure I guess. But maybe that’s just another kind of running, isn’t it?”
They sat, watching the fire, the perfect excuse for things left unsaid. The rain had softened to a steady patter, less violent but still insistent.
“Your grandmother,” Eva said eventually. “She sounds like she was amazing.”
“She was,” Charlie agreed. “Complicated and sad and brilliant. She used to say that love wasn’t about grand gestures or perfect moments. It was about choosing to stay and stick it out when leaving would be easier.”
“But the man she loved left.”
“Yeah.” Charlie’s voice was soft. “I think she never forgave herself for not going after him. For choosing duty over love. She made peace with her life, I think, but she never forgot him.”
“But—”
“We should probably head back,” Charlie broke her off, clearly done talking on the subject for now. “Florence will send out a search party if we’re gone too long.”
The rain had finally stopped, leaving the world washed clean and gleaming. They made their way back to the Land Rover, Tilly bounding ahead to claim her spot in the middle.
“Thank you,” Eva said as they drove back through the transformed landscape. “For telling me about your grandmother. And for the terrible country music education.”
“Ray Charles is a genius,” Charlie insisted. “And you’re going to admit it eventually.”
“Oh he is, I agree there.”
He glanced at her, then back at the road. “Listen, I have some friends.”
“That’s nice,” Eva cut in, before she could help herself.
“Yeah well,” Charlie continued, staring straight at the road. “A Christmas dinner. Just friends, nothing fancy. You should come.”
Eva had to pause. Did he just ask her to meet his friends? For dinner?
“Are you inviting me out of pity?”
“I’m inviting you because Tilly insists,” Charlie said. At her name, the dog’s tail thumped against the seat. “See? She’s very persuasive.”
“Well, if Tilly insists …”
“She does. Vehemently.”
The drive back was quieter but not uncomfortable. Eva found herself getting drowsy, the warmth of the car, Charlie’s jumper and the emotional weight of the day all catching up with her. Tilly had migrated mostly onto her lap, a warm, breathing blanket.
She must have dozed off, because she woke to the sensation of Charlie’s fingers gently moving a strand of hair from her face.
His hand lingered for just a moment, and she kept her breathing steady, not wanting to break whatever spell had allowed this tenderness.
She felt Tilly’s tail give the slightest wag, as if the dog was awake too, in approval of this development.
“It’s always best not to get too close,” he murmured, so quietly she almost missed it. “She was right about that. You can’t rely on people to hang around, no matter how you feel. No matter how much you want them to.”
Eva wanted to open her eyes, to tell him he was wrong, that some people did stay. But something in his voice—the raw honesty of someone speaking to themselves—kept her still.
They drove the rest of the way in silence, Eva pretending to sleep while her mind raced. Charlie Blackwood was a man built of defences, each one carefully constructed from the disappointments of people who’d left. But today, in a pub in the middle of nowhere, she’d seen through the cracks.
And despite all her resolutions about self-discovery and not needing a man, Eva Coleman was beginning to suspect she was in trouble.
The kind of trouble that came with grumpy mapmakers who sang country music and kissed foreheads under mistletoe and looked at their dogs like they’d had no greater best friend.
The kind of trouble that felt dangerously like coming home.