Chapter Nine
TALLY
Iyanked what used to be a form-fitting black cocktail dress over my body, which was now—unceremoniously—more full than it had been a few weeks ago.
But if I had to guess, my secret wasn’t much of a secret anymore.
And if there was one thing I knew about these Savannah natives, it was that they didn’t just gossip. They curated it.
If Eunice Wilder didn’t already know I was pregnant, it’d be a miracle.
I took the elevator down to the lobby and found Charlie leaning casually against the front desk, deep in conversation with Hoyt. As I approached, Charlie straightened, one arm still resting on the counter, and gave me a look—half grin, half smirk—that tugged at what was left of my composure
“Ms. Aden,” Hoyt said, springing to his feet. He looked one breath away from a panic attack. “Can I call you a cab?”
I shook my head. “That won’t be necessary. Are you okay?”
Charlie came to stand beside me. His eyes traveled down my dress and landed, with entirely too much focus, on my lips.
“I’ll walk her to Eunice’s,” he said, casual as ever. “Fill her in on the way.”
He held out his arm, and I slid mine through his, ignoring the warm press of muscle and that fresh, woodsy scent—like a man who’d recently showered or singlehandedly rebuilt a cabin. I tried very hard not to picture him stripped down, hammering nails into chopped pine, sweat dripping down his—
“I bet she can come up with a solution for your little problem,” he said, voice low, yanking me out of my spiral.
“I don’t want to be a burden, Mr. Pruitt,” Hoyt mumbled, deflating back into his seat. Whatever was gnawing at him had taken up permanent residence in his spine. “Tell Mrs. Wilder hello for me.”
Charlie pushed the door open with his back, guiding us onto the sidewalk, eyes locked on mine. “Will do, Hoyt,” he called.
“What was that about?” I finally asked as we reached the crosswalk on Broughton. I hadn’t wanted to break the spell—the two of us, arm in arm, moving leisurely through Savannah like we had nowhere else to be.
Charlie hit the button for the light and turned toward me. “Hoyt and his fiancée, Charlotte, were supposed to get married next summer. Some destination wedding in the South of France.”
The light changed, and we crossed the street, still linked, close enough to feel his steadiness as if it were my own.
“Oh,” I said, still failing to see why Hoyt had looked like someone had kicked his puppy.
Charlie paused in front of a bakery, studying the window for a moment before continuing. “Turns out Charlotte’s mom is sick and they need to move the wedding up.”
He stopped again, this time outside a florist, squinting at the storefront. “No, this isn’t the one Eunice usually uses. I’ll have to ask her when we get there.”
“What’s going on, Charlie?”
He stopped walking and gently unhooked our arms, taking my hand in his. His palm was rough and warm, calloused and sure. The type of hand that could steady you. The type of touch that could undo you.
“They can’t find vendors on short notice. Hoyt’s been calling around to bakeries and officiants. Trying to line up a florist. Photographer, too. He’s having a hard time.”
I slipped my hand back, not entirely trusting myself to hold it together. “Oh, is he now?”
Charlie laughed, low and unbothered, then took my arm and tucked it back through his again. We picked up the pace, heading toward the stately homes lining Jones Street.
“He is. And wouldn’t you know it, a photographer—who’s won state fair blue ribbons, gone viral, and is single-handedly revamping the social media profile of Cheese, Please!—so happens to live in the building he works in.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah. What luck, indeed.”
We stopped on the old brick sidewalk in front of the Wilder House.
A wide, wraparound porch ran the length of the front and curved away to a shadowed courtyard tucked behind a large arched gate.
Navy shutters sat neatly against the white clapboard, and the deep front door caught the evening light like it belonged to a postcard.
Two white rocking chairs waited on the porch, a riot of hot-pink azaleas bursting between them, their perfume drifting down the steps.
I stared at those rocking chairs a little too long.
Of course it was the nicest house on the block. It had to be the Wilder House.
“You’ll do it,” Charlie said as we climbed the stairs. He turned toward me, gaze locked on mine as he knocked. “You’re not the kind of girl who lets people down. Or did I read you all wrong?”
I stared at him, heart thudding in my throat.
Yeah. He read me all wrong.
But I didn’t have time to argue, because the door swung open, and a woman who looked like she’d floated off the pages of Savannah Living greeted us with a warm, practiced smile.
“Tallulah Aden, what a pleasure,” she said, pulling me into a hug that was somehow both graceful and commanding. Then she glanced at Charlie, offering a tilt of her head and a soft, quizzical smile. “My Charlie. What a surprise. Will you be joining us for dinner?”
Charlie rocked back on his heels. “Well, you know what, Eunice? That sounds perfect.”
The Wilder home was everything the penthouse tried to be, but couldn’t quite touch.
Word was, Eunice Wilder had designed every inch herself—with help, of course—but the vision was all hers.
Southern charm met modern elegance: wide plank wood floors warmed the rooms, rugs layered like soft punctuation, and soft lighting made everyone look like they’d been airbrushed.
Antiques lived alongside clean-lined sofas; a brass tray of well-loved cocktail glasses balanced a stack of travel books; framed family photos marched up the staircase like a well-curated biography.
There were little, undeniable Eunice touches everywhere—a bowl of fresh lemons on the sideboard, monogrammed linen napkins folded with meticulous care, a faint whisper of polishing oil and old wood in the air—so that nothing felt stuffy and everything felt deliberately hospitable.
Beautiful in that effortless, expensive way.
She led us through the foyer and into a formal sitting room, where Lee was nursing a drink—and what looked like a bruised ego. An older man sat across from him, his frown lifting slightly when he saw Charlie walk in.
“Charlie, my boy,” the man said, easing out of his chair and clasping Charlie’s hand—not stiff or performative, but familiar.
“Tally,” Charlie said, nodding toward him, “this is Vance Wilder, Esquire. Lee’s father.”
Vance gave me a polite nod, but his attention flicked quickly back to the others. Lee crossed the room, gave me a quick hug, and then clapped Charlie on the back with the enthusiasm of someone performing for his parents.
The energy in the room felt more rehearsed than real—a different version of the two of them than what I’d seen at the studio.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said, settling into a seat as Eunice gestured for us to sit. This was second nature to me. I crossed my ankles, took the drink in my right hand, napkin in my left, and nodded at the neck when saying thank you. I could play a polite debutante in my sleep.
Some days, I really was Momma’s dutiful daughter.
“So,” Eunice said, once the obligatory small talk had passed, “Magnolia tells me you have a photography business?”
I laughed lightly. “Oh no, not a business. I just… have a camera.”
Beside me, Charlie coughed pointedly, lifting his glass again. “She’s being coy, Eunice. She’s incredibly talented. I watched her shoot for the Adens’ shop today. She’s got an eye.”
“That’s wonderful,” Eunice said. “I thought perhaps you could photograph our upcoming charity event. If that goes well, we could talk about some ongoing projects—maybe boosting our social presence a bit.”
Across from us, Lee perked up. “Jordan told me she’s traveled the world, shot weddings, festivals, and portraits that landed her in magazines. And she went viral.”
Vance arched an eyebrow. “What’s viral?”
Eunice chuckled softly. “We don’t need a résumé, boys. I only need to know if she wants the job.”
Sutton popped her head in, wearing full chef regalia, her expression sheepish in a way that surprised me. She looked nothing like the bossy girl I’d first met in the studio.
“Dinner’s ready, Mr. and Mrs. Wilder,” she said, stepping back as everyone began to rise. She caught Eunice’s attention and leaned in to whisper, “I heard she once saved a dozen babies from a landslide with her camera alone.”
Eunice placed a hand on Sutton’s shoulder. “She has the job, my dear. She only needs to say yes.”
“Oh. Okay,” Sutton said, trying not to laugh as she ducked away.
Eunice led me toward the dining room, her voice softer, for me. “In case you haven’t noticed, my son’s friends are fiercely loyal. When they pull someone into their circle, they tend to hold on.”
I thought of my brother, and how I still wasn’t sure if I was in with him—or hovering somewhere on the edge.
I took my seat at the long dining table, trying not to slouch, pretending it didn’t mean the world that these people—Charlie, Lee, Sutton, even Eunice—were putting in this level of effort for someone who felt like she barely belonged.
Eunice, who had known me all of five minutes, looked like she had more faith in me than my own mother ever had.
“I’ll do it,” I said, my voice carrying loud enough to cut through the hum of conversation.
Charlie leaned back in his seat, eyes landing on mine, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Of course you will, darlin’.”