15. Tess
Tess
T he road to Spokane stretches ahead of us like a gray ribbon, unwinding through pine-studded hills and valleys.
Charlie's driving with one hand on the wheel, the other casually draped over the center console, his fingers occasionally brushing against mine. Sinatra is playing in the background and we’re both singing along to “Witchcraft.”
Several weeks into whatever this is between us, and I still feel that little jolt when he touches me—not electricity, exactly, but a pleasant ripple that starts at my fingertips and radiates up my arm. His profile is relaxed, and I can't help but steal glances at him when he's focused on the road.
"Can’t keep your eyes off me, huh?" Charlie jokes without taking his eyes off the highway. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, that crooked half-grin that does something unholy to my insides.
"Just making sure you're not falling asleep at the wheel." I readjust in my seat, turning slightly toward him. "This drive can be deadly boring."
"With you? Never boring." He reaches over and squeezes my knee, his hand warm through the fabric of my jeans. "Though I'm still recovering from our marathon of that baking show last night."
I laugh, thinking of how we'd curled up on his absurdly comfortable couch, surrounded by takeout containers from that little Thai place he'd insisted we try. "You're the one who kept saying 'just one more episode.'"
"Their pastry techniques were fascinating," he deadpans, then breaks into a full smile when I give him a skeptical look. "Okay, fine. I liked how you'd get all intense during the judging."
The past two weeks have been...unexpected. After that first wedding, where we'd somehow stumbled from fake date to very real hookup, I'd braced myself for awkwardness. And then the second wedding, when I got all in my head about what Charlie is and isn’t, and I wasn’t sure if we could move forward.
Then we talked—truly talked. And he texted me the next day asking if I was free for dinner. Then another dinner. Then a quiet night at his place with a bottle of wine that we barely touched because we were too busy touching each other.
It's been easy in a way I hadn't anticipated. Charlie Astor, with his tailored suits and white-hot confidence, somehow fits into my life in a way I’d never expected. Every minute I spend with him just makes me crave him more.
"What are you thinking about?" Charlie asks, his voice pulling me from my thoughts. "You've got that little crease between your eyebrows."
I smooth my fingers between my brows, self-conscious. "Just...this. Us. It's been an amazing few weeks."
"It has." His voice is softer now, less teasing. "I especially liked Wednesday at the barn."
I groan dramatically.
Wednesday had been my day off, and to my surprise, Charlie had asked if he could come watch me ride.
I'd warned him that the barn wasn't exactly a luxury experience—more mud and manure than marble floors—but he'd insisted.
He'd shown up in jeans and boots that looked suspiciously new but practical enough, and I'd reintroduced him to Oliver.
"You should have seen your face when Oliver tried to bite me," Charlie says now, chuckling. "You looked mortified."
"I felt horrible. He’s so naughty sometimes."
"He was establishing dominance. I respect that in a business partner. Or a horse."
The memory makes me smile. Oliver, in a bit of a foul mood that day, had immediately sized Charlie up and tried his standard tricks.
But instead of being offended or scared when the bay gelding had pinned his ears and snapped at the air near Charlie's shoulder, Charlie had simply stepped back, kept calm, and followed my instructions to a tee.
By the end of the visit, Oliver was politely taking carrots from his hand.
"You were good with him," I admit. "Most men I've dated try to prove they're not intimidated by horses by doing exactly the wrong thing."
"Most men you've dated sound like idiots," Charlie says, then glances over with that wink that makes my knees go weak. "Besides, I figured if I could handle a boardroom full of aggressive investors, I could handle one opinionated horse."
I laugh, and glance out the window, imagining Oliver in one of Charlie’s meetings.
"Tell me about this wedding tomorrow," I say, shifting my body toward him again. I’d completely forgotten to ask earlier this week whose wedding it is.
Charlie groans. "This one's for a client's son, actually. Dad insisted I make an appearance since they're looking at expanding their distribution partnership with us." He shrugs. "At least the venue's supposed to be nice. Historic mansion with gardens. Very fancy."
"What are their names?" I ask, playing with his hand that’s resting on my thigh.
"Hank and Kiley. Hank Carter. His family is from Seattle actually. Do you know him?"
The air leaves my lungs all at once. My fingers curl into my palms without my conscious direction, nails digging half-moons into the skin. "Hank Carter?" My voice sounds distant, as if it's coming from somewhere else.
"Yes." Charlie glances over, then does a double-take. "Tess? What's wrong?"
I stare straight ahead at the road, trying to control my breathing. "I know them," I say finally, the words feeling like pebbles in my mouth. "Hank and I...we dated. For about a year. And Kiley was a friend at one point."
"Shit." Charlie's hand finds mine, uncurling my fingers gently from their fist. "Ex-boyfriend? I didn't know. How long ago was it?"
"A while ago. Maybe eight years?" I take a deep breath. "I knew they got engaged. I just...didn't connect that this wedding was theirs."
I don't tell him how hard the breakup was for me. How I’ve considered Hank to be “the one that got away” for years now. How shocked I was to find out that he and Kiley were engaged.
Charlie's quiet for a moment, his thumb stroking the back of my hand. "We don't have to go," he says finally. "I can call, make an excuse. Food poisoning. Sudden business emergency."
The offer is tempting—so tempting I almost say yes. But something stubborn rises in me, the same determination that got me through Juilliard, that makes me practice a difficult piece until my fingers bleed, that keeps me working with a horse that others have given up on.
"No." I straighten my shoulders. "We're going. It's just...awkward. That's all."
Charlie studies me for a moment, his blue eyes serious. "You sure? Because I'm serious about the food poisoning story. I can be very convincingly ill."
“No, I’m good. We’re all packed and ready for a fun weekend. And that’s exactly what we’re going to have.” I flash him my most confident smile and try not to let my mind race ahead to tomorrow, to facing Hank and Kiley and the whispers that will inevitably follow me.
"Hey," Charlie says softly. His hand finds mine again, fingers interlacing. "Whatever history is there, whatever happens tomorrow—I've got you, okay? We're in this together."
The simple promise shouldn't mean as much as it does. We're barely out of the starting gate of whatever this relationship is. But his hand is warm and solid around mine, and for now, that feels like enough to hold onto.
The Carter-Bennett wedding is exactly as ostentatious as I'd expected. The historic mansion is draped in thousands of twinkling lights, with white roses and peonies erupting from every conceivable surface. A string quartet plays something suitably romantic but forgettable near a champagne fountain.
I smooth down the front of my dress—the deep green number that is my favorite out of all the dresses Charlie bought me—and try to look like I'm completely comfortable watching my ex-boyfriend marry my ex-friend.
"How are you doing?" Charlie murmurs, his hand reassuring against the small of my back. He looks unfairly handsome in his charcoal gray suit and I’m so proud to be with this incredibly gorgeous man.
"Absolutely," I lie, accepting a glass of champagne from a passing server. "Just taking in all the...exuberance."
Charlie snorts softly. "Bit much, isn't it? I think I saw an ice sculpture of the happy couple making out by the appetizer station."
"You're kidding."
"Only slightly." His fingers gently rub my back, and I lean into the touch. "Oh, heads up. Three o'clock. My parents."
I follow his gaze and spot Bill and Beverly Astor making their way toward us. Bill is in a dark gray suit very similar to Charlie’s. Bev is a study in understated wealth—champagne silk dress, a single strand of pearls, and the kind of perfect blonde bob that requires weekly maintenance.
"Tess," Beverly says, genuine warmth in her voice as they reach us. "It's been too long. I’ve been bugging Charlie daily for you two to come to dinner."
"Mrs. Astor," I reply, accepting her brief embrace. "It's good to see you."
"Beverly, please. We're well past formalities." She holds me at arm's length, taking in every inch of me. "You look lovely. Doesn't she look lovely, Bill?"
"Indeed she does," Bill says, shaking my hand firmly.
Charlie slides his arm around my waist, a gesture that doesn't go unnoticed by his mother, whose perfectly shaped eyebrows rise fractionally.
"I always thought you two would make a lovely match," Beverly says while Bill nods in agreement. "Do you remember when you played at our anniversary party, Tess? Charlie couldn't take his eyes off you."
"Mom," Charlie warns, and I’m surprised to see him redden slightly.
I feel a blush warming my cheeks as well. "I remember being terrified I'd miss a note in front of all those important people."
"You were flawless," Beverly assures me. "And now here you are together. Life has a funny way of circling back, doesn't it?"