Chapter Eighteen
CHARLIE
The music had found its groove—low, raw, and full of grit, the kind of track that let my hands take over. Lee had dropped off a new batch of demos that morning, and being his built-in listener again gave me rhythm to work to.
I’d propped the doors open to let the December air drift in, cutting through the heat and sawdust that still clung to the studio walls.
The light stretched long across the floor, catching on the sculpture I was building for Lee and Ryan’s latest album cover—a mess of old metal and broken wood, jagged in places and strangely beautiful in others, which felt about right.
Sweat collected at the back of my neck, and I peeled off my shirt, tossing it over a crate of salvaged parts before bending back over the piece.
I liked it best when my arms ached, when my palms picked up splinters, when the weight of what I was making pressed into my shoulders.
In the studio, surrounded by half-finished ideas and forgotten tools, I didn’t have to answer to anyone or explain the knots in my chest that never quite loosened.
I could just be the guy with dust in his lungs and unfinished thoughts.
Then I heard it.
At first, I thought there was a glitch in the track, a weird mechanical chirp that didn’t belong. But then it came again, sharp and high and carrying an unmistakable attitude.
Nancy Reagan.
The blur of brown fur tore across the studio before I even had time to turn down the music. She darted past my feet, sniffed around a stack of wood scraps, then zeroed in on a flattened cardboard box and began tearing at it with wild enthusiasm.
I stared at her, still holding the heat gun mid-air. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
A breathless voice answered from the doorway, and there she was.
Tally stood in the frame, hair piled on top of her head, cheeks flushed, hand on her stomach as if steadying herself from the chase. The sleeves of her sweatshirt hung long past her fingers, and her leggings clung to her legs, dusted with whatever she’d picked up chasing her insane dog around.
“She got out when I took the trash to the alley,” she said, trying to sound casual. “She’s got a thing for cardboard.”
“Of course she does.” I nodded toward the box she was currently destroying. “You sure she’s not part goat?”
Tally stepped inside, one careful foot in front of the other, and I didn’t miss the way her face lost its color as soon as she crossed into the light. Her hand reached out, caught the edge of the bench, and her body swayed ever so slightly, shoulders dipping.
“I’m fine,” she said before I could ask, eyes unfocused, voice low. “Just dizzy.”
I moved toward her, already setting the heat gun aside, but she waved me off. Still, I kept walking, kept watching, alarm bells going off in my head.
And then her knees buckled.
I caught her before the ground did, lowering us both down to the cool concrete floor. She felt warm and unsteady, her skin too damp, her breathing uneven.
“Tally.” I brushed my hand across her forehead. “You’re clammy as hell.”
Nancy sat beside us, tail flicking against the floor. I reached for my phone, but before I could open Doyle’s contact, she stirred, fingers curling around the fabric of my jeans.
“Don’t call my brother,” she whispered, not opening her eyes. “He’ll put me on some kale cleanse and make me meditate through it.”
I let out a quiet laugh, part relief, part disbelief. “Fine. But you’re letting me carry you upstairs.”
“Worst day ever,” she muttered, barely above a breath.
“You say that every time you end up on the floor in my studio.”
One eye cracked open, a flicker of life returning to her expression. “I’m starting to think you’re cursed.”
“Or maybe you are.” I slid my arms beneath her carefully. “You’ve got a knack for showing up just in time to keep things interesting.”
She didn’t answer. Her head tipped against my shoulder as I stood, her weight sinking into me, deciding not to argue this one. Nancy trailed behind us, still chomping on a flap of cardboard, utterly unbothered.
And as I carried her through the open door, her breath soft against my chest, I couldn’t stop the thought from rising—one that had been pressing at the edge of my mind for days.
Maybe things weren’t so bad after all.
Maybe what I’d been waiting on had already found its way in.
***
She was featherlight, all things considered.
Curves, soft and round, her limbs slack against mine, her warmth bleeding through the fabric of her shirt, stirring up thoughts I had no business entertaining.
Her breath came in short bursts against my collarbone and I forced my focus on getting her upstairs, not on the way she smelled—bright citrus with a trace of sweetness.
“Tally,” I said, brushing her cheek with mine, just enough to coax her back to consciousness. “Come on, now, darlin’. Stay with me.”
Her lashes fluttered as if she’d been pulled from a deep dream. “Oh no,” she groaned, already beginning to curl inward, trying to disappear from the moment.
“This is very dramatic,” I told her, shifting my grip so I wouldn’t drop her on the tile. “You know, if you wanted to hang out with me, there were easier ways.”
“Kill me,” she muttered, her voice hoarse.
“I considered it,” I said, moving toward the alley door. “But I figured bringing you to your brother so he could finish the job was more civilized.”
She blinked up at me again. Her skin was too pale, her features slack with exhaustion. “I’m sorry, Charlie.”
In the hallway, we were met with the sight of Hoyt standing beneath a length of crooked caution tape, clipboard mid-air, expression frozen between panic and apology.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Pruitt,” he said, straightening his tie with one hand and gesturing toward the elevators with the other. “Small hiccup in the system. Should be back up in just a minute or two. Tally, my dear, are you all right?”
“She’s fine,” I said, not slowing down. “Probably her low blood sugar. She’ll be okay.”
I didn’t mention that she’d collapsed in my arms or that she had the cold sweats and fought my help because she didn’t want to seem fragile. I also didn’t mention how her fingers had curled into the back of my hair like they knew exactly where to land. I just kept walking.
Hoyt chuckled, completely oblivious. “My Charlotte is as stubborn as a mule, too. Women, huh?”
I didn’t answer. I was too focused on how tightly Tally had started to hold on as I approached the stairs.
“You really don’t have to do this,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m not risking a second tumble because you’re too stubborn to ask for help.”
“This is so embarrassing.”
“For both of us. I’m shirtless and covered in sawdust, and you’re melting into my shoulder. We’re a mess.”
That made her laugh, low and tired. Her head tipped against me, and I adjusted my grip again, climbing steadily.
“Stop squirming,” I said as we rounded the third floor.
“Then stop frowning and muttering under your breath,” she shot back.
“This is just how my face looks, Tally.”
She looked up at me with glassy eyes and said, “Not when you look at me.”
I almost tripped up the stairs and took us both down and out.
By the time I reached the penthouse and shouldered the door open, my arms were aching, my back was damp with sweat, and the thoughts in my head were a little too loud. Like the one that kept wondering what it would feel like to carry her into the bedroom and close the door behind us.
I laid her gently on the couch and pulled the throw blanket around her, keeping my hands steady.
Her eyes blinked open, still heavy. “Are you done playing knight in sweaty armor?”
“Just making sure you don’t roll off the couch and give me another reason to have to pick you up.”
“I was going to sit down.”
“Sure, you were. You were about to take a nosedive into the floor.”
“You’re so annoying.”
“You passed out in my arms, Aden. Pretty sure that earns me thirty full minutes of sass-free silence.”
She opened her mouth, probably to tell me off again, but Nancy Reagan jumped up beside her, spinning twice before settling in with a huff that suggested she’d been the one carrying someone up five flights of stairs.
I brought Tally a glass of water and set it on the coffee table, trying not to look too long.
Trying not to get caught in the way her expression had changed.
She looked tired, and not the nap-fix kind, but the sort that lingers behind your eyes.
There was a softness in her face now that hadn’t been there earlier, and a hollow sort of sadness I recognized too well.
I wanted to reach out to touch her. Whatever was simmering between us—hot and steaming, about to boil over—felt inevitable.
I leaned in and brushed the damp curls from her forehead, resting mine against hers for a second.
Told myself I was checking for a fever, but the truth was, I wanted to be closer to her.
And I didn’t want to move from that spot.
“What in the actual hell is going on here?”
Both our heads turned toward the lanai, and the two of us moved apart at the same time, slow and guilty.
Doyle stood in the doorway with a wineglass hanging loose from his fingers, his mouth parted.
Tally, visibly defeated, groaned and threw an arm over her eyes. “God, I wish I were still unconscious.”