Chapter 39
T he past few weeks had moved fast—faster than I could’ve ever predicted which made missing Charlie a bit more bearable since I was so busy; there had been no time to wallow.
I told my partners I’d be taking a less active role in D.C.
—not stepping away completely, but shifting gears.
I wasn’t walking away from the firm I helped build; I was just..
.repositioning. Consulting when needed, handling a few choice clients by video call, keeping an eye on the books.
Thanks to Zoom, Google Drive, and a very healthy pile of investments, I could run my side of the empire from anywhere, including a tiny island only accessible by ferry and golf cart.
It helped that I was the major investor of the firm.
When you fund the operation, you don’t really need anyone’s permission to rewrite your job description.
I turned the reins over officially to Mason—my law school roommate and the only person I trusted enough to handle the day-to-day.
He was better suited for the grind anyway.
Hell, he’d practically been living for it since we were twenty-three and barely sober enough to understand torts.
Meanwhile, Charlie was a week away from the bakery opening and practically vibrating with excitement.
Every call, every text was sprinkled with new ideas for the menu at the grand opening party, notes about flower arrangements, last-minute decor additions.
She’d built something beautiful with her own hands and she deserved every bit of the joy pouring out of her.
I was careful with my own plans. Subtle.
I’d already shipped a handful of boxes down to the Lemondrop Lane house—essentials only.
Clothes. A few personal things. Books I actually gave a shit about.
My good bourbon. None of the furniture from my penthouse.
None of the racks of ten thousand-dollar suits.
What the hell would I need Armani and Tom Ford for, living at the beach?
The boxes were tucked neatly into the spare bedroom closet—my room every summer, up until now.
It should be easy enough to keep our plans and my move under wraps.
Jack and Jazz didn’t need to know yet. I wasn’t trying to blow up their wedding planning or make anything weird.
The bakery came first. The wedding came next.
And then we would deal with the fallout.
I t was late when I FaceTimed her. Past midnight, the skyline nothing but a quiet hum against the glass in my penthouse.
Charlie answered immediately, her face backlit by the soft yellow glow of the kitchen at Lemondrop Lane. She looked radiant, messy-haired and flushed from baking, wearing one of her worn tank tops and a grin so warm it almost knocked me backwards.
“Hey, Winslow,” I said, leaning back against the pillows, letting my hand slide down my abs to rest just beneath the band of my sweatpants—because if I was gonna be stupidly in love with her, I might as well tease her with the view while I suffered.
“Hey Whitmore,” she said, propping her chin on her hand. “What’s up? Can’t sleep without my sparkling conversation?”
“That and I wanted to see my future wife before bed.”
She blinked. Then mock-yelled loud enough that I flinched dramatically away from the screen. “Fitz! Stop proposing to me accidentally! I swear to God. Over the phone? In bed? Without even meaning to?”
I smirked, dragging my hand over my jaw in mock offense. “First of all,” I said, voice low and smug, “I always mean to. Every time. And second, what’s wrong with proposing from bed? It’s my favorite place to be with you. Seems pretty fucking appropriate.”
She rolled her eyes and laughed, and the sound wrapped around my ribs, squeezing tight. Fuck, I missed her.
Five more days and I’d be driving back down the coast, a six hour drive and a short ferry ride away from my girl. Five more days and I could finally touch her again, not just watch her through a goddamn screen.
She shifted from humor to something laced with sentiment, her eyes getting a little watery. “Sometimes I still can’t believe this is happening. Your stuff in the closet. You moving in with me. Are we actually doing this, Whitmore? You really want to marry me?”
I didn’t hesitate.
“Charlie Winslow, I have always wanted to marry you,” I said, my voice clear and sure. “I wanted to marry you when you were a gangly teenager with fresh curves in that cute strawberry bikini, when you made me lemon bars and had flour on your nose that I swiped away.”
“I wanted to marry you when you were drunk, ugly crying into my chest while we danced on the side of the road.”
“I wanted to marry you when we got caught in that storm and stayed in that B&B and I had a raging boner sleeping next to you all night, trying not to touch you like a goddamn pervert.”
“I wanted to marry you at your birthday party even when you were a salty bitch and wouldn’t dance with me.”
“Fuck,” I laughed, scrubbing a hand down my face, “I probably wanted to marry you when you were a little brat and tattled to your dad about me and Jack smoking on the beach.”
Charlie snorted, cutting in before I could keep going.
“Hold on,” she said, lifting a hand like a referee at a boxing match. “I get that this walk down Lemondrop memory lane is romantic and all, but I must correct you on one very important detail.”
She huffed, crossing her arms dramatically.
“You did not want to marry me at my birthday party, Fitzgerald Whitmore. You told my brother—and I quote, since it has been forever carved into my brain—‘No one here’s pretty enough to tempt me...your sister included.’”
And then I died laughing—like full, head-thrown-back, stomach-aching laughing.
Charlie just sat there on the screen, arms crossed over her chest, looking smug as hell while I tried to catch my breath.
“Oh, fuck me,” I wheezed. “You heard that?”
“I was like four feet away, asshole,” she said, tossing a piece of popcorn at the camera. “In a very expensive dress, looking very hot, might I add. And you? Shattered my fragile twenty-five-year-old ego. ”
I rubbed my hand over my face, still chuckling, heart hammering in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the way she made every part of me feel alive.
“Charlie,” I said, shaking my head at myself, “I stole that line from Pride and Prejudice. You know—when Darcy was being a dick and refused to dance with Elizabeth.”
She made a little snorting sound, but I could see the emotion bleeding through. “And you have no idea,” I added, my voice softening, settling low and raw in my chest, “how hard it was to get those words out. It was all a front. For Jack, of course. And...if I’m being honest, for myself.”
Charlie lifted one skeptical eyebrow, the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth, but her eyes were shiny. I leaned closer to the camera, like if I tried hard enough, I could close the goddamn miles between us.
“You were the prettiest thing there, Charlie Winslow. You’re the prettiest thing anywhere. Always have been. Always will be. I was just too chickenshit to admit—even to myself—that I was already in love with you back then.”
She swallowed hard, and even through the shitty Facetime lagging, I could see her blinking too fast, her whole face softening like she couldn’t hold the walls up anymore. “So yeah,” I said, clearing my throat, fighting my own tight smile. “We’re really doing this.”
I paused and let the weight of it settle in the air between us.
Then, in my lowest voice, I gave her the words I’d been holding for years: “To give Darcy his redemption moment—my feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”
Her lips parted like she wanted to say something back, something big and messy and too much—but then she just smiled, small and stunned and beautiful, like she was holding the whole goddamn world in her hands and still couldn’t believe it was hers.
“And I admire and love you, Whitmore,” she whispered.
“I know, Winslow. But thank you for saying it. One day soon, I’ll get down on my knee and ask you properly.” I tapped the screen lightly with my finger, right over her heart. “Forever, Charlie. Forever and then some.”