Chapter Eight #3
My brother shrugged, but something flickered in his expression. A smug look flashed across his face, and he leaned a hip on the counter, folding his arms across his chest.
“Heard you’re meeting with Eunice Wilder.”
“I am,” the words came out steadier than I was.
His mouth tugged sideways. “Good luck with that. Eunice will probably send you home with cookies and a five-year plan. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
We stared each other down for a minute before he turned and made his way to the office in the back.
I pivoted back to the window where my shot waited. The light had drifted, catching the curve of the wine glass and scattering across the brass inlay of the sculpture beneath it—the old wine barrel I’d used as a stand. The carvings were there all along; I was seeing them now.
I stepped closer.
“Who wants Manchego and a better attitude?” Jordan called, emerging from the walk-in fridge with a plate of cheese samples.
I laughed, then I adjusted the frame, leaned in, pressed the shutter.
Click.
This time, I didn’t second-guess it.
***
As the afternoon wore on, my confidence climbed.
I could do this, I thought, falling back into the familiar rhythm of photographing still life—the quiet, predictable kind that didn’t blink or move or ask to see the back of the camera.
It felt good to have purpose, even if it was only for Jordan’s social media feed.
And now, with the golden light flooding in through the front windows, it was time to graduate to the hard stuff. People.
“Jordy,” I called, dragging a pair of rustic barstools into position around one of the high-tops by the window.
I’d already staged the shot—two crisp wine glasses, a tiny but adorable charcuterie board, folded napkins that looked impossibly casual in a curated kind of way.
“You and Doyle get out here. This light is unreal.”
Jordan poked his head out from behind the bar, arms full of packages, and made a face. “Your brother’s knee-deep in invoices. I don’t think he’s leaving that cave anytime soon.”
“Just try,” I pleaded as I crouched low, testing shadows and shifting the angles. I had maybe two minutes of that perfect, glowy light. If I could get them in position, the whole scene would come to life.
Jordan sighed and ducked into the back, murmuring a few words that were met with a familiar, stubborn grumble. No surprise there—Doyle couldn’t take a break if it came with a bow and a paid invoice attached.
Footsteps echoed behind me as I angled the wine glasses again, chasing the way the light curved across the glass. “Let’s go, people. The sun waits for no one.”
“Wow,” came a voice that slid into my spine, warm and amused. “Those invisible people you’re shooting look like they’re having a great time.”
I turned on my heel, already smiling, and spotted Charlie walking in, two crates of empty bottles balanced in one arm.
The late afternoon sun angled low between the buildings, spilling through the front window and catching his tousled auburn hair, gilding the curls that had slipped free from beneath his backward cap.
His green eyes met mine, calm and steady, holding a hint of curiosity that made me forget, for a second, to keep my distance.
“Very funny,” I muttered, gesturing toward the crates. “What are you doing? Building a wine spaceship? Should I be concerned about your hobbies?”
That smirk bloomed—slow and crooked and a little bit dangerous.
“Maybe you’ve got more of the artist’s streak than you think, darlin’.
” He nodded toward the table, where the light had pooled in a perfect golden spotlight.
“You’re not wrong about this, the angle’s perfect. This shot would look great online.”
“I’m going to miss it,” I groaned, sinking onto one of the barstools. “The good light’s fading and my models are a no-show.”
Charlie set the crates on a lower table, then surveyed the setup. “I assume you don’t have a tripod?”
“I have a timer.”
He held out a hand. “Then hand it over and sit.”
Our fingers brushed for a second, and a jolt went straight through me. I ignored it and slid the camera into his hand. Charlie adjusted the lens, balanced it on the crates, then sat across from me.
I blinked, trying to figure out what to do with my hands—or my face—or the walking contradiction sitting across from me, suddenly acting all cooperative.
He leaned forward and gently turned my chin toward him with two fingers. “Look at me. Pretend I just said something funny.”
But I couldn’t—not because he hadn’t, but because everything in me had suddenly gone still, and all I could do was stare.
He chuckled low in his throat, reset the timer, and dropped back into his seat, this time arranging my hand beneath my chin. “Alright, then. Don’t fake a laugh, I’m not that funny, anyway—lots of dad jokes and bad innuendos. Maybe pretend you don’t hate me. You can manage that for ten seconds.”
I snorted out a laugh despite myself. “I don’t hate you, I barely know you.”
He reached over again, adjusting the placement of my other hand so it rested lightly against the base of the wine glass. His own hands landed on the table, broad and steady, curling around his glass in a way that made the whole image feel—real.
The timer began to click, slow at first, then faster.
His gaze locked on mine.
“You have the most beautiful eyes,” he whispered as the shutter clicked.
If I had to guess, the photo probably captured me mid-blink, mid-heartbeat, caught somewhere between stunned and unsure whether to breathe.
There wasn’t time to check. The back door creaked open, and Doyle came striding out with Jordan close behind.
“Hey, Charlie,” Doyle called, his tone clipped. “I left those empties in the hallway. You didn’t need to come all the way in.”
I turned toward Charlie, wondering if he’d noticed the slight edge in my brother’s voice. But when I looked at him, he wasn’t watching Doyle at all.
His eyes were still on me.
“Just helping Savannah’s newest photographer catch the light,” he said casually, tipping his chin toward the camera. “Didn’t want her missing the shot.”
Jordan coughed, poorly masking a laugh.
“Having fun playing photographer, or are you actually planning on doing anything useful today?” Doyle asked. His grin tugged sideways, enough to show he meant it as a joke, though his delivery still landed rougher than he probably intended.
Charlie rose from the stool, slow and deliberate, and took a few steps toward us, positioning himself slightly in front of me.
Not confrontational, not overt—but enough.
“We were having a lot of fun, actually,” he said, eyes steady on Doyle before flicking to Jordan.
“Grab a seat so she can catch the rest of the light.”
The shift in the room was instant. Jordan and Doyle exchanged a glance, both of them blinking like they weren’t used to hearing Charlie speak with that kind of edge. Still, they moved, settling into the seats across from each other without another word.
Charlie handed me my camera without making a show of it, and I gave him the smallest thank you, a breath of it, so soft only he would hear.
I snapped into motion, directing them into place as the light dipped lower. Once we found our groove, I moved Jordan and Doyle around the shop, catching detail shots and even getting my brother to pose for a few headshots in front of the fully stocked wine shelf.
Charlie stayed close, watching as I shifted angles and fiddled with settings, tossing in the occasional quiet suggestion but never hovering. He gave me space to lead, to work, to actually be good at what I knew I was capable of doing—and he didn’t make a big deal out of it.
By the time the sun slipped away completely, we were the only people left in the shop.
I cleaned up the space and wiped down the counter, slipped off my apron, and smoothed a hand over the subtle curve of my stomach.
It wasn’t obvious yet, not unless you knew to look, but the gesture had become second nature.
A reminder. A promise to do better this time.
When I looked up, Charlie was watching me. The amusement from earlier was gone, replaced by a quiet reverence.
“Tally,” he started, voice low and careful. “About the night we met… I feel like we got off on the wrong foot. I’ve been thinking about it. About you. I’m usually the one people can count on—the steady one. But with you, the last couple of times, I wasn’t myself. And you saw right through it.”
I didn’t want to meet his eyes. Didn’t want to open that door. But I looked anyway. And there it was—that softness, that quiet pull that made it impossible to breathe properly.
His fingers flexed at his sides. “You don’t need a camera to see people for who they are. That’s what rattled me. So maybe… maybe give me another chance. To show you the version of me that isn’t all built-up walls and bad timing.”
He didn’t move after that, but held my gaze, steady and unblinking, ready to tackle every excuse I might throw at him.
“Don’t,” I whispered. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m broken. Like I’m something that needs fixing.”
He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine. He reached out and brushed his thumb across my cheek, catching a tear I hadn’t realized had fallen.
“You don’t seem broken to me,” he rasped, his voice rough but steady. “And I’m not trying to fix anything.”
I wanted to believe him. But the way Doyle had looked at me had pulled me straight back to being seventeen with a secondhand camera and not a soul alive who believed I’d do anything real with it.
Charlie tipped his head, letting a lock of hair fall across his brow.
“Give yourself a little credit. Every time I’ve seen you since that first night—hell, maybe even then—I haven’t seen someone falling apart.
I’ve seen someone trying. Someone who keeps showing up, even when it’s hard.
And you’re good, Tally. If you wanted it, you could make a career out of this. ”
I couldn’t speak. I stood there, letting it all hit me—the sawdust, the warmth rolling off him.
“You don’t have to have it all figured out to matter,” he said. “You’re allowed to be here, even if you’re still piecing things together. You don’t need anyone’s permission. Not your brother’s. Not mine. No one’s.”
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I busied myself with closing up for the day—wiping down the last counter, gathering empty glasses, flicking off lights until the shop dimmed into soft shadows and quiet.
Charlie rocked back on his heels, watching me without pressing. Then, with a half-smile and a shrug, he said, “Come on, darlin’. Let me walk you home so you can get ready for this meeting with Eunice. It’s on the way anyway.”
I set the last clean glasses on the shelf beside him and looked up. “You live downstairs from me,” I said, the charm of him wrapping around me like an old quilt.
“Well,” he mused, “Isn’t that convenient?”
I grabbed my camera bag, turned off the last light, and let him walk me home.