Chapter Seventeen
Charlotte perched on the edge of the windowsill in her living room, her eyes tracing the horizon where day met night.
Three months had passed since she’d extended an olive branch to Grant, and not a single day went by without her heart swelling with the affirmation that it was the best decision she’d ever made.
From the kitchen, the scent of basil and tomato teased her senses; Grant was at the stove, making homemade pasta sauce, his back a familiar sight that always stirred something deep within her.
He wore his concentration like an old sweater, comfortable and snug, as he tasted the sauce, then added another pinch of salt.
“Almost ready,” he called out, his voice mingling with the sizzle of garlic in the pan.
“Take your time,” Charlotte replied, her voice light, dancing across the room to him. “I’m just enjoying the view.”
As the sun dipped below the skyline, the apartment, filled with their laughter and the soft clinking of dinnerware, became an island of warmth in the growing twilight.
Grant would come here most evenings when she wasn’t on assignment, each visit weaving tighter the bond they shared.
In those precious hours away from the world’s chaos, they found their own universe in each other’s company.
Watching him move around her kitchen with such ease, Charlotte marveled at the simple domesticity that had blossomed between them. Every gesture, every glance they exchanged, spoke of a love that had softly settled into the spaces of her life.
“Ready to eat?” Grant asked, his eyebrows raised playfully as he presented two plates of steaming spaghetti.
“Starving,” Charlotte smiled, hopping down from the window sill. They settled at the small table, and as they ate, they shared stories from their day, laughter spilling over the edges of their conversation, as natural and effortless as breathing.
In these moments, Charlotte found her happiness not just in the grand gestures or passionate declarations, but in the quiet, unspoken understanding that what they had was real. Love, she realized, was less about the storms and more about finding someone who would dance with you in the rain.
The dishes cleared, Charlotte opened her laptop to finish up some editing; she had promised Tom that she would send him her latest photos by tomorrow morning.
As she was working, notification of an email popped up.
It was likely Tom checking up on her progress and reminding her of her deadline.
She clicked out of the screen she was working on to read the message.
It was from Tom, but it wasn’t about her current project.
It was a new assignment: Africa. Three weeks.
Grant noticed her knitted brow. “Everything okay?” he asked, his voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and concern.
Charlotte looked up from the computer screen. “Yeah, just a new assignment.”
Grant walked up behind her, looking over her shoulder. “Something big?”
“It’s in Africa. Three weeks.” She moved over so he could read the message himself.
“Wow.” He whistled softly, sauntering closer to peer at the details spelled out in crisp black font. “Three whole weeks?”
“Three weeks,” Charlotte repeated, the words hanging between them like a delicate spider’s web. Most of her assignments over the past three months were in the States and for only a day or two.
Grant sat on the couch, folding his arms. His eyes held hers, a silent conversation flowing through the air. “It’s a fantastic opportunity, Charlotte. You’ll do amazing work there.”
His support was unwavering, yet she could hear the subtle undercurrent of sadness. He would miss her—she knew that much without needing to ask. And she would miss him, too, more than she dared to admit in this moment where excitement and duty collided.
“Are you okay with this?” she asked, searching his face for any sign of hesitancy.
“Of course.” Grant’s smile reached his eyes, but it was tempered with a softness that spoke volumes. “I’ll miss you like crazy, but this is your job. It’s who you are.”
She closed her laptop, rising to stand before him. His hands found hers, squeezing gently. “And you’re a part of who I am now,” she whispered, allowing herself this brief vulnerability.
“Then I’ll be right here when you get back,” he promised, pulling her into an embrace that felt like a promise in itself—one of steadfast patience and quiet strength. “But in my apartment or Connecticut.”
She still hadn’t been to his home in Connecticut, but she didn’t care at this stage.
He spent most of his evenings with her or at his apartment.
On weekends, Grant took care of his place in Connecticut, which gave her time to herself, as she still valued her privacy.
She had also learned the reason she’d been unable to find a social media trail for him.
His full name, Charles Grant Ellington III, was used in his business world.
“Of course,” she echoed, her heart committing to the memory of his warmth, knowing it would sustain her across the oceans and through the weeks apart.
Charlotte’s fingers danced over the open suitcase, tracing the seams of the neatly folded khaki vests and cargo pants.
The room was quiet except for the soft rustle as she packed her gear: camera lenses wrapped in microfiber cloths, notebooks with freshly sharpened pencils, and her binoculars on a worn leather strap—a companion on so many journeys.
She paused, a tingle of anticipation coursing through her at the thought of African savannas stretching out beneath endless skies, the promise of stories untold waiting within the heartbeat of the wild. Her spirit soared, the thrill of the unknown beckoning like a siren’s call.
But then, there was Grant. They hadn’t been together that long, but he was now such an integral part of her life.
She was having trouble imagining three weeks without him.
Charlotte placed her hand over her heart, feeling the steady beat, a reminder of the life she was temporarily leaving behind.
But she was secure in the knowledge that Grant would be here waiting for her when she returned.
The pull of two worlds—one of passion for her craft and the other of newfound love—created a beautiful tension within her.
It was the kind of complexity that made life richer, and as she zipped up her suitcase, the finality of the motion declaring her readiness, Charlotte embraced both sides of her heart with equal fervor.
“Adventure awaits,” she whispered to the empty room, allowing herself a surge of professional pride. This was more than a trip; it was a testament to her dedication, an opportunity to shine in the field she loved.
“Three weeks,” she told her reflection in the mirror, her voice a blend of determination and wistfulness. “Just three weeks.”