Chapter 24
T he sun had slid halfway behind the dunes by the time we made it back to the house, sand clinging to our ankles and the scent of salt still caught in our hair.
I trailed a few steps behind Thatcher, pretending I wasn’t annoyed that I’d gotten less reading done in two hours than I could normally crank out in twenty minutes.
His presence had that effect—a kind of well-meaning static hum that disrupted everything without quite crossing the line into offense.
He meant well. Probably. But I didn’t want ‘meant well.’ I wanted silence.
Or Fitz. Or maybe a goddamn time machine.
The golf cart was parked up by the house, and I could already hear Jack’s voice from the kitchen—cheerfully giving Jazz shit about how she organized the pantry. I caught up to Thatcher on the back deck and pushed open the sliding door with my hip.
Jack turned from the kitchen counter, keys dangling from one finger, sunglasses still perched on his head like he was the mayor of summer.
“Got your mail, Char,” he said, gesturing toward a small pile of envelopes beside a bowl filled with nectarines.
“Looks like you have some official Bellwater Cove mail for the bakery,” he divulged with enthusiasm.
“Delightful,” I said, my tone breezy, but my stomach felt the hint of nerves, or butterflies, knowing this was the big one. My final permit. I crossed to the counter and skimmed the top envelope, saw the return address and the thick, impersonal lettering. I left it there. I wasn’t ready yet.
Fitz was at the far end of the kitchen table, laptop open, staring at some boring tedious document on his screen.
He was clean-shaven today. Hair still damp.
Wearing a white Oxford shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow, the top two buttons undone.
His eyes flicked up when we entered, just for a second, then dropped back to the screen like we were weather passing through.
After a few moments, he took his laptop upstairs, either genuinely needing quiet or just not wanting us as a distraction.
Jack didn’t notice. “I restocked the groceries the best I could. Got some more seltzers too,” he said, loading a few cans into the fridge. “Jazz said we were almost out. And I got those weird chip things you like—what are they called, the lentil ones?”
“Lentil curls,” I said automatically, still watching the door Fitz had just disappeared through.
“I think they taste like cardboard,” Thatcher said, grinning. “But you do you, sugar.”
I managed a smile. “Appreciate the support.”
I opened the fridge and pulled out the pitcher of iced tea.
After I filled two glasses with tea, I handed one to Thatcher, and grabbed the lentil chips from the bag Jack had dropped onto the counter.
We sat at the island bar stools, and I tried to settle, tried to be casual.
Just another summer afternoon. Just drinks and snacks and a mid-afternoon summertime slump.
Thatcher kicked back in the chair beside me and popped a chip in his mouth. “So what’s in the mystery pile?” he asked, gesturing toward the mail. “Anything fun?”
I picked it up. Most of it was boring—advertisements, bakery invoices, a flier for a local garden center offering wholesale herbs. Then the envelope. The one from the board.
I held it in my hands. “I think this one’s the big one,” I said, half-joking, already bracing.
The envelope was official-looking. It was sealed with the county crest in navy ink, the kind that always felt vaguely colonial and condescending.
And then—I tore it open.
Bellwater Cove Zoning Board of Review
Re: Conditional Use Permit – 317 Greenfinch Avenue
After review of the submitted application materials and historical usage records, the board has determined that the property at 317 Greenfinch Avenue does not meet the criteria for continued food-service operation under the Historic Mixed-Use Preservation District guidelines (Zoning Code HMPD-21. 4b).
Records indicate a lapse in continuous food-service use and confirmed commercial retail activity on the property during the 2000–2008 calendar years. As such, the building is ineligible for grandfathered exemption status, and new food-use applications must comply with current code restrictions.
The application is therefore denied.
It wasn’t a gentle let down. It was clinical. My hands were shaking.
In disbelief, I got up off my barstool and sat down on the other side of the island on the cold tile of the kitchen floor. I held the letter in both hands like it might revise itself if I stared at it hard enough.
All the months of work. All the renovation debt. The industrial ovens. The custom-proofing station. The handmade tile backsplash my mother had helped me pick out in Charleston. I’d built a bakery—not a pipe dream, not a pop-up. A real business to call my own.
And now I couldn’t open the goddamn doors.
I didn’t even realize I was crying until the silence cracked.
“Hey,” Thatcher said behind me, voice light, careful. “I—I’m gonna give you some space. Let you be with your family.”
I didn’t look up. Couldn’t. I just nodded, a small, jerky motion, the letter clutched so tightly in my fist it was starting to crumple. I heard the soft shuffle of his sandals on the tile, then the slide of the back door as it opened and shut again.
I stayed on the floor, holding my knees up tight against my chest. The kitchen felt too big all of a sudden—if only it could swallow me and my misery. Then I heard Jack’s footsteps approaching my side.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just crouched slowly down in front of me and sat on the floor.
He looked at me—really looked—and something in his face cracked, softening into something that hurt more than pity ever could.
And then he did the only thing a big brother could do: he pulled me into his arms.
I didn’t sob, didn’t wail. I just leaned against his chest like I used to when I fell off my bike or got sick on Halloween candy. He wrapped his arms around me, his chin resting on the top of my head, and let me breathe through it.
After a while, I handed him the now crumpled letter from the zoning board for him to see for himself. He took the letter, scanned it. His jaw clenched. “Fucking hell.”
“I don’t understand,” I whispered. “It literally used to be a bakery. And then the antique shop, and it started as a candy place. I know they’re doing the historic preservation thing, but they said this would be grandfathered in because it’s always been a shop.
I just—” I trailed off in my confusion, utterly dumbfounded.
Jack ran a hand through his hair. “You know this is bullshit, right?”
“I know,” I said. “But apparently bullshit is a zoning code now.”
He stood. Paced once. “You need to give this to Fitz.”
I blinked. “What?”
“He’s the best property lawyer I know. Hell, he’s the best lawyer period that I know. And he’s here. Plus, he knows Bellwater Cove. He’ll fix it.”
I shook my head. “Jack?—”
“Charlie.”
I stood up. Swiped my face with the back of my wrist. I hated crying in front of my brother. Hated needing anything. But I also hated losing, especially to a goddamn loophole. “Fine,” I said. “But I’m not handing it off like I can’t fight my own battle. I just...I’ll ask for his advice.”
I trudged upstairs, both wanting to avoid him and desperately wanting to see him. I knocked once and waited for an answer.
“Yeah, come in,” he called. Fitz didn’t even look up when I walked in. “At least you knocked this time.”
I stepped inside. “At least your dick is in your pants this time.”
That got his attention. He looked up from the screen—shirtless, again, because of course he was, and his navy gym shorts sat low enough on his hips that I had to force my eyes back up to his face.
He tilted his head, reading the air between us. “You sure that’s where you prefer it?”
“Huh?” I scrunched up my eyebrows in confusion.
“In my pants.”
“Oh, uh, yeah, I didn’t come to talk about that at the moment.” I held out the letter. “I need a lawyer.”
That got him off the bed. He set the laptop aside and stood, coming toward me with the kind of focused, predatory calm that only came out when Fitz Whitmore had a problem to litigate.
He took the paper from my hand, unfolded it.
Read fast. His eyes moved like a scanner.
Top to bottom. Twice. “This is complete hogwash,” he said.
I exhaled. “Yeah.”
His whole energy shifted—still, silent, every cell sharpening into something lethal. The version of Fitz that didn’t waste words when they mattered. “You don’t need to worry,” he said. “I’ll deal with it.”
I bristled. “I didn’t come here so you could ‘deal with it.’ I’m not asking you to swoop in like some kind of?—”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t handle it.”
“I’m not some charity case just because I’ve got tits and a temper.”
His eyes didn’t flinch. He just set the letter down gently on the edge of the dresser and took a step closer. “Charlie,” he said, low and certain. “I know you can fight your own battles. You’ve built something out of nothing. I respect the hell out of that.”
I looked at him, my jaw tight, still breathing through the ache in my chest.
“But this?” he said, calm and relentless.
“This isn’t about pride. It’s not about feminism.
It’s not about me being a man or your brother’s best friend or someone who saw you naked on a marble countertop.
It’s just about law. And this—” He tapped the letter once with two fingers. “ This is what I do.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Swallowed.
He kept going. “If someone saw you and thought: here’s a woman with no corporate backing, no legal team, just one dream and a half-renovated storefront—and they decided that made you a soft target? Then I want them to know exactly how badly they miscalculated.”
My throat tightened.
“I’ll represent you,” he said. “Not because you need saving. But because someone just fucked with the wrong person, and I’d like to be in the room when you burn them down.”
The knot in my chest loosened. Just enough. “Okay,” I said. And for the first time that day, I felt like I could breathe again.