Chapter Twelve #2
Not seeing her these last few weeks only made the pull toward her stronger.
I’d seen the photos from the winter gala, and what she’d done to the Cheese, Please!
website—both were getting attention. Two big wins, and word around town was that she’d landed a permanent gig as the official photographer for the Daughters of Savannah Civic Society. Part-time, of course.
Not that I was asking around about her or anything.
I’d thought about inviting her to dinner. Or lunch. Or to sit across from her and hear her talk. But the way Doyle had looked at us that night—the way his jaw tightened when he saw her laughing with us—and what Jordan had asked of me, made me think twice.
But standing here now, watching her move through the space like she finally belonged, the grip in my chest eased. Then tightened.
She lifted her camera and snapped it in Sutton’s direction, catching her mid-bite with a cube of cheese halfway to her mouth. My own lips pulled into a half smile at the way her eyes lit up as she lowered the lens, tucking it against her chest.
“I don’t like that look on your face,” Lee said, appearing at my side.
“I don’t have a look.”
“You absolutely have a look. It’s the same one you had when Magnolia brought Pickle home as a kitten and you claimed she hated you, then let her sleep on your pillow for three weeks straight.”
“She bit me,” I muttered. “And Pickle still hates me.”
“Exactly,” he said, sipping his drink. “You’re doomed.”
We reached the booth, and I stepped up beside Sutton, nudging her shoulder with mine to let her know we’d caught up.
Tally hadn’t noticed us yet. She was busy snapping photos and handing out samples, wrapping up little gift boxes, laughing softly as she chatted with strangers like she did this every day.
“This is life-changing,” Sutton whispered, reaching for another toothpick.
Tally looked up then, her laugh still caught in her throat. Her smile faltered when she saw me, but she straightened her shoulders and gave a polite nod.
“Evening, gentlemen,” she said, voice bright and composed. “Here to sample the seasonal Gouda or just babysitting our friend before she ends up going viral on Instagram?”
Sutton waved a toothpick in the air like it was a victory flag. “I’m supporting local business.”
“You’re eating all the samples,” I said, folding my arms.
“I’m eating with purpose,” Sutton replied, entirely unbothered. “And sopping up all the festive booze.”
Lee leaned against the counter, relaxed and grinning as he flashed Tally one of his signature smiles. “This setup looks amazing.”
“Thanks,” she said, her eyes dipping for a second like the compliment had snuck in and caught her off guard. “Jordan asked if I wanted to help and snap some photos for social media. I’ve still been trying to earn my keep.”
Her voice carried a brightness that didn’t quite hold, a thin crack running through the middle of it that stopped me cold.
I thought back to the conversation we’d had a little over a month ago in the darkened shop, where she told me that she wasn’t someone who needed to be fixed.
I knew she wasn’t, and it almost looked like she was on the road to believing it now, but something was still standing in her way.
Sutton popped another cheese cube into her mouth and stage-whispered, “So glowy,” like Tally wasn’t standing directly in front of her.
Tally laughed, an unfiltered, head-tipped-back kind of laugh. And for some reason, that sound got to me more than anything else she’d done since showing up in Savannah.
“You good?” Lee asked quietly, angling toward me without drawing attention.
I nodded but didn’t say a word.
Tally glanced up from behind the booth, eyes narrowing slightly when they landed on me. “Well, if it isn’t Savannah’s most reluctant customer,” she said, her tone light but edged with a thread of ice.
Sutton snorted into her cider. Lee suddenly found the string lights very interesting.
“I’m here for the cheese,” I said, more rigid than necessary for a Christmas market.
Tally tilted her head, appraising me like I was part of the inventory. “We’ve got cranberry cheddar, honey goat, and a limited supply of men who don’t ghost after a good time.”
That earned me an elbow from Sutton and a snort from Lee.
She didn’t smile when she said it. But I did.
And of course, she noticed.
“I didn’t ghost you,” I said, voice quieter than I meant. “I was giving you space.”
I couldn’t tell her that Jordan had asked me not to intervene. Not to get involved. But did he mean with their sibling drama—or with her?
She tilted her head, arms still crossed. “Huh. Funny. I thought we were getting along just fine that night.”
Sutton and Lee both froze, turning to stare at me like I’d pulled a fire alarm in a library.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. “It wasn’t—We didn’t—I just…”
Nothing. Not a single decent sentence came to the rescue.
Sutton clapped her hands once, sharp and decisive. “And on that note, I’ll take a water if you’ve got it.”
Tally raised one perfect eyebrow, spun on her heel, and disappeared behind the counter.
“Smooth,” Lee muttered under his breath as she walked away.
***
As the night wore on and the crowd thinned into loose clusters of couples and last-minute shoppers gripping half-eaten gingerbread and lukewarm cider, someone killed the string lights overhead.
The booths fell quiet, shadows stretching across the cobblestones, the river throwing back soft reflections.
For a moment, it felt like Savannah had been paused mid-breath.
Lee had taken Sutton home after she tried to serenade a basket of pretzel rolls and declared one of the vendors looked like “If Bradley Cooper and Santa had a baby.” I gave him a look that said good luck and ducked out before he could rope me into Uber duty.
Now I was alone, heading toward the water, hands shoved deep in my pockets. Grateful for the quiet. Thankful for the break from the glitter-fueled chaos.
Honestly, the night hadn’t been half bad.
It got me out of the studio, away from Magnolia’s relentless wedding group chats.
I didn’t have to answer texts from Dane asking what my sister was doing and why.
And for a while there, I almost convinced myself I was just a guy having a drink with his friends.
Not a walking collection of pressure points barely held together by bourbon.
But then we ran into her. And suddenly, I wasn’t laid-back, half-loose Charlie Pruitt anymore. I was the Grump Who Stole Christmas.
Speaking of the glowing, gorgeous new resident of Savannah.
Tally was sitting on a bench near the Waving Girl statue, her scarf draped around her shoulders, curls spilling down her back in soft waves. Nancy Reagan, fully committed to her role in a tiny reindeer suit, sat tucked beside her, ears twitching at the sound of my footsteps on the cobblestone.
Tally turned her head before I could even think about pretending I hadn’t been looking.
“You again,” she said, voice low, carrying the faintest note of surprise.
I glanced down at the bench beside her. “This seat taken? Or are you saving it for someone who won’t make things weird?”
She turned toward me, eyes scanning my face, then the quiet stretch of the river beyond us. “You can sit,” she said, patting the empty spot. “I promise not to throw up or pass out this time.”
“That’s a relief,” I said, lowering myself onto the bench. “I didn’t bring a poncho.”
The breeze off the river lifted the ends of her scarf and tangled a curl behind her ear. She looked tired but steadier now, more grounded. She lifted her camera, altered the settings, and captured a shimmer on the water I hadn’t noticed before—or maybe hadn’t known how to see.
She glanced over and caught me staring.
“Everything all right?” she asked, brow raised.
I shrugged, dragging the toe of my boot along the edge of the cobblestone. “Been a long night.”
She gave a quiet nod, hands folding neatly in her lap. “Yeah. Same.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. But it wasn’t empty either.
I leaned back, noticing how still she was. The breeze carried a strand of hair across her cheek, and she didn’t bother to move it, only sat there watching the river slide past the bank.
“You look…” The words caught in my throat before I could finish. I bit them back, unsure if saying them would cross some invisible line. Still, the thought burned in my chest.
She turned to me, a faint smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “I look what?” she asked, tone light but eyes sharp. “Don’t say glowy. I already got that one tonight.”
I looked at her for a long second, not smirking, not teasing but really seeing her. The curve of her jaw. The quiet exhaustion around her eyes. The way I wanted to lean into her.
“I was gonna say beautiful,” I said finally. Honest. Steady. No way out of it now.
Her breath hitched—not much, but enough for me to notice—and she looked away like the river might rescue her.
It didn’t.
She recovered quickly, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Are you drunk?”
“No.”
“Then why are you being... nice?”
I let out a breath. “I feel like I was nice the last time I saw you. You said it yourself, we had a good time that night.”
She stood then, arms folding across her chest. “And then you’ve been ignoring me ever since.”
“I haven’t—”
“You have.” Her gaze flicked to mine. “We live in the same building, and I haven’t run into you once.”
I stood, and she looked up at me, chin tilted with quiet confidence. Her eyes lingered, tracing a path from one of mine to the other, then down to my mouth before finding their way back again.
Without thinking, I stepped closer. The river moved behind her, catching the glow of the lights and breaking it into a shimmer. One stubborn curl had fallen loose, brushing her cheek. I reached out and tucked it back, my fingers grazing warm skin.
I didn’t go around touching people. That wasn’t me. But something about her made it hard to stay still.
“I’m not trying to ignore you,” I said, voice lower than before. “I think I’m just…” I huffed out a breath and shook my head. “Shit, maybe I am drunk.”
That made her smile.
“Every time we cross paths, I feel drawn to you. Even when I know I probably shouldn’t be. I catch myself walking the long way behind the studio, hoping you’ll be out there. Even if we don’t talk. Even if you’re just standing in the sun or scolding that dog of yours.”
She didn’t say anything, but the softness in her expression said enough.
“I might be guilty of ghosting you. But it’s not like you came knocking on my door, either.”
She stared at me, an unreadable expression passing over her face.
“The only thing I’m guilty of,” she said, almost to herself, “is trying to figure out where I fit in here. And it’s getting easier, but I still feel... unmoored sometimes. Everyone has their thing. Their people. And I’m starting over again.”
She looked down, fiddling with the edge of her scarf.
“I’m about to be a mom,” she added, softer now. “And I don’t really have anyone here other than my brother, who’s doing his best to keep me at arm’s length. I have no real tribe. Some days it feels like I’m doing it with duct tape and blind optimism.”
I took another step closer.
Close enough to see her scarf sliding off one shoulder. Close enough to notice the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose, the tiny tremor in her bottom lip. The wind tugged another curl loose, brushing against her neck.
She turned slightly, her gaze landing on the bronze statue beside us—a woman frozen mid-wave, a dog at her feet, both of them looking out at the horizon.
“You know about her?” she asked quietly.
I glanced at the statue. “The Waving Girl. Florence something.”
“Martus,” she said, her voice steadying with the kind of rhythm that came when she was telling a story she’d told before.
“Her dad was the lighthouse keeper on Elba Island. When he passed, her brother took over. They lived out there in isolation for years. No electricity. No running water. Just the sea, the sky, and each other.”
She stood, pulling her camera from her bag and snapping a few photos—of the statue, the low-hanging clouds, the way the moon caught the river.
“People say she waved to every ship that came through the Savannah River. Every single one, for over forty years. Morning and night. Rain or shine.” She turned back to me, lowering the camera. “Can you imagine that kind of devotion? Standing in the same spot, every day, hoping someone sees you?”
I didn’t answer. But I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her.
“Some say she was waiting for a sailor she fell in love with when she was young. That he promised to come back for her, and she waved until the day she died, hoping to see his ship.” She turned toward the bronze figure again.
“But Florence always insisted it wasn’t about love.
She said she did it because she didn’t want to feel alone.
That waving made her feel connected. That if she could make someone smile on their way in or out of the port, maybe it would mean she mattered to someone, even for a second. ”
She crossed the short distance to the base of the statue and gently rested her hand on the bronze dog’s head.
“Loneliness,” she whispered, “makes people do the most unbelievable things.”
I crossed the space between us and slid my arms around her, steady and warm. Not possessive. Not demanding. I held her still while everything else seemed to move. I pressed my lips to the top of her head, slow and sure, and she tilted her chin to meet my eyes.
The world quieted.
“I think,” I said, voice low, “you’re a lot closer to finding where you belong than you realize.”
Her eyes glossed with unshed tears, but she didn’t look away. For a second, she leaned into me—just barely, enough that I thought maybe this was it. Then something shifted behind her eyes. A wall went up, quiet but unmistakable.
She stepped back, out of my arms, and wrapped her scarf tighter around her shoulders like she was gathering herself back together.
“Goodnight, Charlie,” she said softly.
Not angry. Not bitter. Just... careful.
And before I could find the right words to stop her, she was already walking away, Nancy Reagan trotting at her heels.
I stood there by the statue, watching her go. Florence Martus kept waving at ships that might never return.
And I wondered if I’d just become one of them.