Chapter 4
Chapter Four
G rant pulled his truck into the marina parking lot, the salt-laden air hitting him as soon as he opened his door. A few fishing boats were already heading out, their running lights bright against the pre-dawn sky. He'd scheduled an early pickup of some salvaged dock wood. Heart pine that would be perfect for restoring the Cartwright building's original flooring. But his thoughts kept drifting to Charlotte and that moment at the lighthouse two days ago.
He grabbed his coffee thermos and made his way toward the harbor master's office. The wooden planks of the dock creaked under his boots, a sound as familiar to him as his own heartbeat. A gust of wind carried the scent of coffee and bacon from Mary's Diner up the street, mixing with the briny smell of low tide.
"Morning, Grant." Joe Camden, one of the local shrimpers, gave him a nod as he coiled rope on his deck. "Cold enough for you?"
"Getting there." Grant pulled his jacket tighter. The temperature had dropped into the thirties overnight, and the wind off the water cut straight through denim and flannel.
He was signing for his delivery when movement on the far dock caught his eye. Charlotte stood near the edge, camera raised, capturing the way the rising sun painted the water in shades of pink and gold. Milo sat at her feet, his tail sweeping away a patch of frost on the wooden planks.
Grant's hand stalled mid-signature as he watched her work. She'd tied her dark hair back, but the wind had pulled strands free that danced around her face. She kept tucking them behind her ear as she adjusted her camera settings, a gesture he found unreasonably distracting.
"You gonna finish that paperwork, or should I come back later?" The harbor master's amused voice snapped Grant back to the task at hand.
"Sorry, Jim." He quickly scrawled his signature, aware of the knowing look the older man gave him.
By the time he'd arranged for the lumber delivery, Charlotte had moved closer to his end of the dock. She lowered her camera when she spotted him, and the smile that lit up her face sent warmth spreading through his chest.
"I didn't expect to see you here," she said as he approached. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and Grant fought the urge to brush back another strand of hair that the wind had set free.
"Picking up some materials." He gestured toward where his order waited. "Heart pine. Original to the island. Some of these old docks were built with it."
Charlotte's eyes lit up with interest. "Really? I'd love to get some shots of the restoration process, if you wouldn't mind. Show how the old becomes new again."
"I'd like that." The words came out softer than he intended, and something shifted in her expression. The air between them felt charged, like it had on the lighthouse island when they'd been so close...
Milo chose that moment to nose against Grant's hand, breaking the tension.
"You've got good timing, buddy," Grant muttered, scratching the dog's ears. To Charlotte, he said, "Want to see something interesting? This dock's been here since the 1850s. Used to be where supply boats would unload everything from sugar to fabric." He led her toward the oldest section of the marina, pointing out the wear patterns in the wood where cart wheels had once run.
"It's amazing how much history is here." Charlotte ran her hand along a weathered piling. "I've photographed historic places all over, but there's something different about Palmar Island. Everything feels connected."
"That's what I love about it." Grant leaned against the railing, watching a pelican dive into the harbor. "Every building, every board, every story, they're all part of each other. Part of us."
"Must be nice," Charlotte said quietly. "Having such deep roots."
Grant studied her profile as she gazed out at the water. "You've never wanted to put down roots anywhere?"
"Never stayed in one place long enough to try." She turned to face him, and Grant was struck by the vulnerability in her expression. "My whole life has been about capturing moments and moving on. But lately..."
"Lately?"
Their eyes met, and Grant felt that same pull he'd experienced at the lighthouse. Charlotte took a small step closer, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes.
"Mr. Lawson!" A voice called from the harbor master's office. "Your delivery's ready!"
Charlotte stepped back, and Grant had to resist the urge to pull her closer again. "I should..." he gestured vaguely toward his waiting lumber.
"Of course." She smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "I need get back to work anyway. The light's perfect right now."
"About the rice plantation," Grant said quickly. "Would Friday work for you? The winter roses are starting to bloom."
The smile that spread across her face was genuine this time. "Friday would be perfect."
As Grant drove away later, his truck bed loaded with heart pine, he couldn't stop thinking about the way Charlotte had looked at him, or how natural it felt to share the island's stories with her. For someone who'd spent her life capturing moments and moving on, she was starting to feel remarkably permanent.
Grant pushed open the door to The Roasted Bean, warmth and the rich scent of coffee enveloping him after the bite of the January afternoon. He'd meant to grab a coffee and head back to work, but the sight of Charlotte at a corner table made him pause. She sat curled in one of the coffee shop’s oversized leather chairs, her laptop balanced on her knees, while Milo dozed at her feet.
The cafe was quiet this time of day, that lull between lunch and closing when locals drifted in seeking refuge from the cold. Old heart pine floors gleamed under Edison bulbs, and a fire crackled in the stone fireplace, casting dancing shadows on exposed brick walls.
Charlotte looked up as he approached, her face brightening. "Hey stranger." She closed her laptop. "Done with the lumber delivery?"
"All unloaded." He gestured to the empty chair across from her. "Mind if I join you?"
"Please." She shifted, making room on the small table between them for his coffee. "I was just going through today's shots from the marina."
Grant ordered at the counter—black coffee and, on impulse, two slices of Mitch’s famous orange-cranberry bread—before settling into the chair opposite Charlotte. Close enough that their knees almost touched.
"Want to see what I captured this morning?" she asked, already reopening her laptop.
He moved his chair closer, telling himself it was just to see the screen better. Charlotte's shoulder brushed his as she scrolled through the images, and he caught the faint scent of her shampoo. It had a warm, faintly floral scent that was even more intoxicating than the freshly roasted coffee beans.
"These are incredible," he said, meaning it. She'd caught the marina in a way he'd never seen before, though he'd spent countless mornings there. The play of light on water, the weathered texture of old wood, the quiet dignity of working boats. She saw it all.
"Really?" She turned to gauge his reaction, and suddenly they were face to face, barely inches apart. Neither moved away.
"Really," he said softly. "You see things others miss."
She looked back at the screen. "Sometimes I wonder if that's all I do. See things, capture them, move on."
"What do you mean?"
Charlotte was quiet for a moment, absently running her finger around the rim of her coffee mug. "I love what I do. But lately... I don't know. Maybe I'm tired of always being the observer, never really being part of the story."
Grant thought about that, about how to put into words what he'd been feeling. "You know what I thought when I first met you?"
She shook her head, looking up at him.
"I thought you were just passing through. Here to take pretty pictures and leave. But that's not what you do at all. You don't just observe. You understand. Like this morning, when you asked about the heart pine. You wanted to know the story behind it."
"Is that why you keep showing me all your secret spots?" A smile played at the corners of her mouth. "Because I ask the right questions?"
"Maybe." He returned her smile, aware of how close they still were. "Or maybe I like having someone to share them with."
Something soft and warm pressed against his leg. Milo had woken up and wedged himself between their chairs, his chin resting on Grant's knee.
"Traitor," Charlotte laughed, but there was warmth in her voice.
"He's got good taste." Grant scratched behind the dog's ears. "You know, sometimes I wonder if I've gone too far the other way."
"What do you mean?"
"Staying here, preserving everything exactly as it was. Sometimes I worry I'm so focused on protecting the past that I'm not building anything new." The words surprised him. He hadn't meant to be quite so honest.
Charlotte's hand found his forearm, her touch light but steady. "You are building something. Every building you restore, every story you save matters." Her fingers were warm through his sleeve. "And you share it all so freely. Like that rice plantation you mentioned the other day. The one with the small chapel."
"Indigo Bluff?" Grant felt a smile tug at his lips. "The chapel was one of my first solo projects. Probably why it means so much to me."
"Tell me about it?"
So he did. He told her about the tiny chapel with its hand-carved pews and stained glass windows, how he'd spent months restoring the intricate woodwork. How sometimes, when a project felt overwhelming, he'd go there just to sit and think.
"I'd love to see it," Charlotte said softly when he finished.
"I could take you." The words came out before he could second-guess them. "Tomorrow, maybe? The light's best in the afternoon."
"I'd like that." She smiled, and Grant noticed a dimple he hadn't seen before.
The coffeeshop had grown darker while they talked, the winter sun setting early. Charlotte gathered her things while Grant helped Milo into his jacket—a purchase that had amused him when he first saw it, but made sense given the cold snap.
At the door, Charlotte turned to him. "Thank you. For sharing all that."
"Thank you for listening." He held the door, and she passed close enough that he caught that floral scent again.
Walking to his truck later, Grant realized something that should have worried him. He was falling for her. Not just her beauty or her talent, but her curiosity, her gentle questions, the way she saw his island through new eyes while understanding what made it special.
The thought should have scared him. Instead, it felt like coming home.