9. Charlotte Gallagher #2
Or at least explain why my stomach keeps flipping every time he looks at me a certain way.
I sort through the stack until one stands out. The Tide Between Hearts. The title is printed in silver above a couple on a windswept beach.
That feels fitting.
I tuck it under my arm, planning to take it back and read it somewhere quiet, somewhere Dane won’t notice.
But as I turn to go, something else catches my eye.
The closet door at the back of the cabin is slightly open.
Mum's closet.
Curiosity pulls me in before I can stop it. I set the books aside and cross the room, pushing the door open the rest of the way.
Everything inside looks exactly how we left it. Clothes pressed together on the narrow rod, untouched for years after we decided none of it was useful out here.
Most of it still isn’t.
Dresses meant for restaurants and city streets. Jackets you’d never wear in this kind of heat. Shoes with thin heels that would sink straight into the sand.
Mum had packed for a completely different kind of trip.
I slide a few hangers aside, running my fingers over fabrics that feel impossibly soft after years of rough cotton and woven palm.
That’s when I see it.
A white sundress hangs near the back.
Simple. Light. The kind of fabric that would catch the wind when you walk. It’s exactly the kind of thing Mum used to wear on warm evenings in Brisbane, when she and Dad went out to dinner by the harbor. I can almost see it—her walking beside him, the lights reflecting off the water.
I lift it off the hanger and hold it up.
The mirror on the closet door is still intact, a little cloudy around the edges but clear enough. The dress looks different from anything I wear now.
Too pretty for this place. Too soft for climbing rocks or hauling nets or carrying coconuts back to camp.
Which is probably why I can’t stop staring at it.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull off my shirt and shorts. I slip the dress over my head as I turn toward the mirror. For a moment, I just stand there looking at myself.
It fits. Not perfectly—not the way it probably did on Mum—but close enough. The hem brushes my knees, shifting softly when I move.
I turn a little, taking in the way it falls.
It feels strange, seeing myself like this.
Out here, clothes are practical. Loose shirts, worn shorts—anything that survives sun and salt. They’re tools.
This is something else.
Without thinking, I reach up and gather my hair at the back of my head, twisting it loosely. Mum used to do that before going out, quick and effortless, like she didn’t even have to try.
I don’t have a pin, so I hold it in place.
Same long blond curls, falling over my shoulders just like hers used to. For a second… I almost look like her.
My throat tightens as I stare at my reflection.
Mum was beautiful. Everyone said it, but it wasn’t just that. She had this quiet confidence, like she understood people—how they felt, why they did the things they did. She always seemed to know the right thing to say.
I let my hair fall again.
Damn, I wish she were here.
I’m still staring at my reflection when I hear something outside.
At first it’s faint—the soft creak of the deck shifting, then the dull thud of someone climbing up the ladder. I freeze, telling myself it’s probably just the wind. But then I hear it again. Footsteps crossing the deck.
Dane.
Of course it’s Dane.
I glance toward the door, suddenly very aware of the dress, of the book sitting on the bench behind me. I didn’t mean to be gone this long, but time slipped.
The footsteps stop right outside the cabin. Then the door opens.
Dane steps in and goes completely still.
For a moment, neither of us says anything. He stands just inside the doorway, one hand still on the frame, staring at me like he forgot why he came.
And then it hits me what he’s seeing.
Not the girl who left camp wearing worn shorts and a loose shirt.
This.
Standing here in a white sundress that doesn’t belong on this island—or on me. The fabric fits closer than anything I usually wear, skimming over my hips and pulling in at my waist. In the soft light from the window, I look different. Prettier than I’m used to.
Heat creeps up my neck into my cheeks.
“I—uh…” I try for casual, but it comes out a little unsure. “I was curious what it would look like.”
He doesn’t answer. He just keeps staring.
The silence stretches long enough that I start to feel self-conscious, like I’ve done something strange, like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t have. I let out a small, awkward laugh and turn once, the skirt moving around my legs.
“I’ve never worn anything like this.”
Still nothing. For a second, I regret putting it on at all.
Then he finally speaks. “It looks good on you.”
Something warm flickers in my chest at the way he says it.
I shift my weight, suddenly shy under his gaze. And, for some reason, hopeful too.
“Dane… am I pretty?”
He doesn’t answer, and I instantly regret asking.
I shake my head, looking away. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”
“Charlotte.”
I glance back at him, and there’s something different in his expression now—serious enough to make my stomach tighten.
“You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”
For a second, I just stare at him.
Then a nervous laugh slips out, and I shake my head. “That’s not saying much. You haven’t seen another girl since you were twelve.”
It’s meant to lighten the moment. Turn it into a joke so neither of us has to think too hard about it. But he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smile.
He just holds my gaze, steady and certain, like he needs me to understand he means it.
“I could see every girl in the world, and I’d still think you were the most beautiful.”
The words hit somewhere deep in my chest, knocking the air out of me.
Before I can figure out what to say, he breaks the moment when he turns and leaves the cabin.
And just like that… he’s gone.
I stay where I am.
The cabin feels too quiet without him, the faint creak of the yacht the only sound left.
Sunlight filters through the window, catching on the white fabric of the dress and making it glow softly in the dim space.
My heart is still racing.
I glance toward the doorway, half expecting him to come back and say something else, to explain what he meant. Maybe laugh and tell me he was joking.
But nothing.
Just silence.
I turn back to the mirror. The girl staring back at me is still wearing the dress. Her hair is a little messy from twisting it up and letting it fall again, and there’s a faint flush in her cheeks that wasn’t there before.
I study her for a moment, then my gaze drops.
The book is still sitting on the bench. I pick it up, running my fingers over the cover, tracing the glossy image of the couple. My stomach flips again as his words echo in my head.
I could see every girl in the world, and I’d still think you were the most beautiful.
I brush my thumb over the title on the book cover. “I really hope you can explain things to me.”