Chapter 22 #2
Charlotte took another bite of pizza and leaned back against the cabinet, brushing a stray curl from her face. “We made progress.” She glanced at the clean counters. “Still feels like someone else’s house.”
Alex nodded. He was sitting, crust in hand. “It’ll feel like home again. Just takes time.”
She watched him a moment longer. “You didn’t have to stay and help.”
“I didn’t want you to be alone,” he said simply.
Charlotte’s eyes softened. “Like that first Christmas?”
He smiled faintly, gaze distant. “Yeah… kind of like that.”
She didn’t speak, just waited.
“I grew up with Ethan,” Alex said eventually.
“Since middle school. We were inseparable—played soccer, danced, got into trouble. I started dancing just to help with footwork on the field. He got me hooked. By high school, we were choreographing routines in his garage and teaching the middle schoolers on weekends. His folks hired me, and it provided beer money. It was this... language we spoke, without ever saying anything.”
Charlotte nodded quietly.
“College was good. University of South Dakota. The Knudson School of Law was harder. I stopped teaching, though I managed to take a class or two to stay in shape. Too many casebooks, too many nights chasing something bigger than myself. But I missed it—missed me, I think.” He picked at the crust, not eating it.
“After I graduated, I joined the U.S. Attorney’s Office as a state investigator.
It felt like a way to do real work, work that mattered.
I also went back to teaching dance, and that’s where I met Molly. ”
“That’s where you met Noah?”
Alex nodded. “Yeah. He was detail-obsessed, always three moves ahead. But he had a way of making you feel seen. He was calm. Steady. We had each other’s backs.” He paused.
“That first Christmas we met, my folks went on a cruise. I didn’t plan on doing anything. But then…”
“I didn’t want you to be alone,” Charlotte said softly.
“And you’ve made sure I haven’t been alone since.
My parents never liked the hoopla of the holidays.
Even as a kid, we always went away. And, yeah, I got everything I ever wanted, but never from under a tree.
” He looked at her, and the corner of his mouth lifted.
“I dragged you out for shopping. Said JoJo deserved Christmas even if the world had cracked open a little.”
“You were so put-together,” she teased gently. “But you wore that ridiculous elf hat like it was a crown.” She smiled, lost in the memory. “And you kissed me when I dropped you off.”
“You looked stunned. You asked me in for coffee,” Alex said. “Then made fun of me for knowing how to use a French press.”
“You were so sexy and young,” she whispered. “I kissed you again, and then you… you danced with me. Around the island, right there.”
“I hadn’t danced with someone I’d wanted,” he said. “But with you, it was like breathing.”
Charlotte smiled, eyes shining with memory. “Then you scooped me up, carried me upstairs. You made love to me like I wasn’t old. You took my fear of being with a man away.”
Alex reached for her hand. “You let me.”
They sat there, the last two slices going cold in the box, the candle flickering low.
She sighed. “I was twenty-five when I got pregnant with Olivia. Married to Chuck. Still figuring out how to be a cop and a wife. Then Sophie came. Then Molly. I told myself I’d go back to school, maybe do something else.
But life just… filled up. Ward filled my work life.
I was an active cop. Made some great arrests.
“I asked to move to the detective squad. Figured the hours were better. They gave it to me, likely because I had ovaries. The murders hit our radar between Molly and Izzy. Molly never slept well, unless she was lying on my chest. That’s when I picked up all the missing people and started looking for the connection.
I realized the deaths weren’t random. I’d read the blotter to Molly.
She liked the sound of my voice.” She chuckled.
“Today, a man went through a red light without stopping…” She said it in a sing-song voice a child would like.
“I was pregnant with Izzy when we found Ward.”
He listened, saying nothing, letting her fill the space.
“After Chuck died,” she continued, “I stayed in motion. Izzy was four. Ruth was two. I couldn’t afford to stop.
Emotionally. Financially. I worked nights.
Took overtime. Said no to every guy who ever asked me out again because I didn’t have it in me to try.
Chuck was my first lover, and when I finally did… Oh, Alex…”
She looked at him. “I didn’t know how to let you in.”
Alex didn’t flinch. “I know.”
“I didn’t mean to shut you out.”
“I know that too.”
They sat in the quiet hum of the kitchen, a box waiting in the hallway, memories littered across the house, and something unfamiliar settling between them.
Not peace. But maybe something like it.
Charlotte watched Alex clear the empty pizza box from the counter, moving with the easy confidence of someone who had spent years cleaning up other people’s messes.
His shoulders were tight with fatigue, but he didn’t complain.
He just rinsed the plates, wiped down the counter, and straightened the stools she hadn’t noticed were knocked sideways during the search.
She stood at the window, arms folded tight across her chest. The backyard lay still, the garden soft in the dying light. Her voice was low, tight. “I’m not going back to Sophie’s.”
Alex didn’t answer right away. “Then come to my apartment.”
She turned, eyes hard. “No. I’m staying here. This is my home.”
“I get that,” he said. “But I’m not letting you stay here alone.”
She didn’t fight him on that. Just nodded once and walked upstairs.
Outside, Alex updated the Waverly Junction officers—short, direct: they’d be staying the night. No need for in-house patrol. He knew they’d keep a distant watch anyway.
When he came back in, the house felt heavier. Quieter. He locked the doors, checked every latch, then set the alarm. Upstairs, the bedroom door was open just enough for him to see her figure under the blanket. She was curled up, facing the wall, her sweater tossed across a chair.
She wasn’t asleep. He could feel it.
He stripped off his clothes deliberately. No hesitation, but no gentleness either. That part of him—the one that waited, the one that soothed—was still there but buried under something hotter, something edged. Not angry. Just real.
He slid into bed behind her, the heat of her body instantly feeding the tension already coiled in his chest. She didn’t move. But she didn’t pull away either. “I’m still angry,” he said, voice low against her neck. “Still feel shut out.”
She answered quietly, “I don’t know how to let you in.”
His hand traced her hip. “You’re going to learn if we want more in this relationship. I need more, Charlotte.”
He rolled her gently onto her back, eyes locked on hers. His weight settled between her thighs, and for a moment, the air between them pulsed with silence. Then he kissed her—deep, claiming, nothing held back. She responded like she’d been waiting for it, like she needed to be taken and unraveled.
His hands moved over her pajama shirt, pushing it up.
She lifted her arms, helping him strip it off, baring her to him completely.
He reached over to the nightstand, grabbed the bottle they’d used before.
He couldn’t hurt her—not even close. But he could push her.
He could make her feel every ounce of what he needed from her.
“I love you, Char.”
He warmed the lubricant in his hand and reached between her legs, coating her slowly, deliberately, watching her lips part as the slickness teased her open.
She arched into his touch, hips searching for more.
Then he leaned in, took one nipple between his fingers, rolling it until it peaked, then pinching—just enough to make her gasp.
Her hands twisted in the sheets. “I know.” It came out in a whisper.
He lowered his head, kissed the space between her breasts, then moved lower. His mouth worked down her body, tongue brushing over skin until her thighs parted beneath him. She trembled, breath short and uneven, every nerve tuned to him.
He didn’t wait for her to ask. To tell him she was ready.
He pushed into her hard, slow only for the first few seconds.
Then he moved with raw purpose, hands gripping her hips, holding her still as he drove deeper.
This wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was possession, built on everything she hadn’t said and everything he still needed to prove.
She moaned, her head falling back, her legs locking around his waist. She was right there with him—giving, gasping, eyes locked on his like she couldn’t bear to look away.
When she came, it was sharp and sudden, her body shuddering around him, pulling him with her. He only let himself fall after her, hips finally slowing, breath ragged.
He stayed inside her, chest pressed to hers, his hand splayed over her ribs, feeling the frantic drum of her heart. She didn’t speak. Neither did he. But she didn’t move away.