Chapter Twenty-Eight
TALLY
His hands were warm, sliding into my hair, anchoring me right where I was, and it was almost too much.
Not the kiss—no, that part was perfect—but everything wrapped inside it.
The tenderness buried under all that control, the way his breath hitched when mine did, like we were caught in the same rhythm.
The weight of everything unsaid pressed between us—two months of near-misses and small disasters, of learning each other’s edges and soft spots, of Charlie showing up in every way that mattered without ever being asked.
It was all there: in the lingering looks, the arguments that weren’t really about what they seemed, in every almost that had burned itself into my skin.
And now it lived in this—the slide of his mouth against mine, the firm hold of his hand at the back of my neck, the unspoken certainty that this had always been coming. We’d finally stopped pretending we could fight it.
And I let him kiss me the way you do when you’re trying to find life in another person’s touch—not because I trusted him not to hurt me, not completely, but because, for once, I trusted myself.
Trusted that what I felt wasn’t a mistake or a hormonal blur or an accident of timing. It was real. It was happening.
His mouth was gentle and unhurried, but there was tension beneath it, a held breath in his chest that trembled under my hands. When I pressed my fingers to the front of his shirt, his exhale moved through me, slow and shuddering.
Everything inside me cracked open with that sound.
His voice came low and rough, worn thin at the edges. “I thought I’d lost you. I’m so sorry, Tally, I—”
I shook my head, trying to knock myself out of whatever spell that kiss had cast. Because my feelings were still hurt. And Charlie had been the one who hurt them.
But the way he looked at me then—that wasn’t performance.
That wasn’t panic. That was someone stripped bare.
That was someone telling the truth with more than just his mouth.
His hands hadn’t moved from my waist, and I hadn’t pulled away.
Because in his arms, everything felt… aligned.
Solid. Like I’d finally slotted into the space that had always been carved out for me, even if neither of us had known it until now.
And maybe that was foolish. Perhaps I was about to look back on this and wince.
Wouldn’t be the first time.
“Did you mean it?” I asked. The words tasted bitter. “What you said. Back at the bar.”
His hand rose again, gently. Two fingers brushed the edge of my lips, tracing the shape like a memory he didn’t want to forget, his thumb pausing at the corner of my mouth like it hurt to let go.
“You’re not going to love this, but—on the surface? Yeah. I meant it.”
I jerked back, but his hands found my waist again, holding me in place—not possessive, only sure.
“No—Tally, listen. You make me feel like I’m going to break out in hives. But not because you annoy me.” He exhaled, clearly flustered. “I mean—okay, you do irritate me sometimes, but that’s not the point.”
I blinked up at him, dumbfounded. “So… you kissed me because I give you a rash?”
Charlie groaned, tilting his head back. “God, I’m so bad at this.”
“No argument here,” I muttered.
“I said something stupid. I know that,” he said, quieter now, almost a confession.
“Because the truth is—being around you these few months has messed with my head. I don’t do unpredictability.
I don’t like it when things change. But then you showed up and.
.. now I’m making sure my studio fridge is stocked with iced tea and olives.
I’m freaking my friends out because I’m talking about something other than art they don’t understand, and the concept of reclamation as a means to recycle.
I’m losing sleep on a too-small couch just in case you need me in the middle of the night. ”
He paused, his eyes searching mine.
“You make me nervous, Tally. In the kind of way that keeps me up at night, wondering what else I could get you to say—what other sounds I could pull from you—just by putting my mouth on you.” He closed the little space I’d created between us, head dipping down so his lips grazed my ear.
“You have no idea what you do to me, darlin’. ”
A grin tugged at my mouth before I could stop it. “Charlie Pruitt,” I said, leaning in, “You’ve got a crush on me.”
His hands finally dropped from my waist, long enough for him to rake a hand through his rain-dark curls, plastered to his forehead. The scowl was gone, replaced by mischief and certainty—an expression that made it very clear he knew exactly what he was doing.
“Yes, Tally Aden,” he said, stepping in so close his breath mingled with mine. “I’ve got a wicked crush on you.”
And then he kissed me again, deeper this time, unapologetically. No hesitation. Only heat, and rain, and the hum of a new spark curling to life between us.
The kind that felt an awful lot like falling.
***
Fresh out of the shower, my hair still damp and curling at the ends, I was wrapped in one of Jordan’s oversized robes, dabbing moisturizer under my eyes when Dig’s name lit up my phone.
I answered on the second ring, propping him against the sink.
Dig, in full crab regalia, rhinestones glittering across his forehead, sitting under the fluorescent lights of what looked like a high school auditorium dressing room, squealed as he appeared on screen. The claws on his costume twitched every time he moved.
“I heard there was kissing,” he said without so much as a hello. “Gazebo. Rain. Emotional carnage. Tell me everything.”
I groaned. “You called me two hours ago and I replayed the whole thing. Twice.”
“Yes, and this is a follow-up. A debrief. A necessary encore. Tally, we are building a scrapbook here.”
He broke into song immediately, belting at full volume, “I am sixteen going on seventeen—blessèd by the Lordddd—”
“Okay no,” I said, dragging a hand down my face as I crossed the room and climbed into bed. “You are not allowed to Sound of Music me right now.”
“Sorry, I’m in a heightened emotional state and only Rogers and Hammerstein can anchor me back to the earth,” he said, still humming, waving a bejeweled claw. “But in all fairness, so are you.”
I bit the inside of my cheek, trying not to smile, even as the memory crept in.
The kiss. The walk back. The way Charlie had slipped his hand into mine like it was second nature—his grip firm, thumb brushing along my knuckles in a quiet kind of reassurance.
In his other hand, he held Nancy Reagan’s leash, her old-lady trot perfectly matching the stillness between us.
We didn’t talk, only walked through hushed, rain-slick streets that shimmered under the low spill of the streetlamps until we reached the penthouse.
He opened the door, waited until I was upstairs and behind the bathroom door, before retreating to the other guest room like nothing had happened.
Except it had.
“I think I might be in trouble,” I said finally.
Dig leaned closer to the screen, eyes gleaming. “What kind of trouble?”
“The falling for someone who’s sleeping twenty feet away from me and holding my dog’s leash kind.”
He pressed both claws to his chest. “Sweet baby Jesus in a Target nativity set, it’s happening.”
A soft knock at the door jolted both Dig and me from our giggle haze, his bedazzled crab antennae bouncing like they were reacting to the sudden shift in energy.
“I’ll let you go,” he whispered, eyes glinting with mischief. “I’d say wear protection, but you can’t get more pregnant, so…”
“Oh my God, goodbye.” I jabbed at the screen, hanging up mid-cackle, and launched the phone onto the bed. “Come in!”
Why was I shouting?
The door eased open, and there he was.
Charlie stood leaning against the frame, damp curls pushed back from his forehead, arms crossed over his chest. He’d showered—fresh skin, flushed cheeks, a clean t-shirt clinging to his torso.
A faint trail of cedar and pine trailed behind him, mingling with the scent of my lavender lotion, and it made the air in the room tilt.
“Hey, you,” he said, voice low and lazy, like we’d slipped into a moment that belonged only to us. His eyes swept over me—bathrobe, bare feet, probably mascara smudged under one eye—but there was no judgment in them. Just awareness and a whispered kind of adoration.
My breath caught. Because all of a sudden, words were hard. And that had never happened to me before. Not once.
He chuckled softly under his breath, his lips twitching as if he knew exactly what he was doing to me. “Come on,” he said, tipping his chin toward the hallway. “I set up some snacks. I thought we could watch a movie or something.”
Or something.
I nodded, mumbled a word in the shape of a “yeah,” then shut the door and scrambled to change, preparing for what felt like a date but was most definitely, probably, not a date.
A few minutes later, in soft leggings and one of Doyle’s stolen cashmere sweaters that I refused to return, I stepped into the main room—and stopped short.
The living room had been transformed.
Short, stout candles lined the windowsill and coffee table, flickering low and golden. The TV was paused on the opening screen of The Princess Bride. And in the middle of it all, Charlie had assembled what could only be described as a miracle.
A takeout spread worthy of saints and hormonal women alike.
French fries from four different restaurants were arranged in mismatched bowls on the coffee table, still steaming, sprinkled with sea salt and pepper and a dash of what smelled suspiciously truffle-y.
Next to them, three kinds of pickles—dill, bread and butter, and a weird spicy variety I loved from the shop—were set out like appetizers at a five-star deli.
And sitting proudly at the center was a Shirley Temple in a highball glass, garnished with not one but seven maraschino cherries skewered on a cocktail sword.
I turned to find him already watching me, a dish towel slung over one shoulder, his eyes impossibly soft but intense enough to knock the wind from my lungs.
“You said you’ve been craving fries and pickles, so I figured we’d do a taste test.” His voice was casual, but the way he looked at me wasn’t. It was heavy. Hungry, in the kind of way that wasn’t about food.
I crossed to the couch slowly, afraid that if I moved too fast, I’d spook whatever magic had settled into this room.
“This is…” I swallowed. “Charlie, this is so much.”
He shrugged, grabbing the remote, eyes still tracking me as we both took our seats. “Yeah, well. You deserve good things.”
I sat, stunned and silent for a beat, watching the candlelight flicker over his profile. Watching him see me—really see me—in a way no one had for a very long time. Maybe not ever.
Nancy Reagan trotted in from the guest bedroom and made herself a little nest between us on the couch with a sigh so dramatic it could’ve won her an Emmy.
Charlie laughed under his breath, passed me a plate of fries, and asked, “You ready?”