The Call Sheet
The email arrived at 6:14 a.m., buzzing against the nightstand in the Cameron Mansion guest room. Channing blinked awake, sunlight barely touching the blinds, and reached for his phone.
SAN MYSHUNO LATE NIGHT — Guest Appearance Invitation Anniversary special for his breakout film, The Last Protocol.
He stared at the subject line for a long moment.
San Myshuno.
He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. It wasn’t fate. It wasn’t a sign. It wasn’t some cosmic nudge.
It was work.
But it was also a door — unexpected, unplanned, and suddenly very, very open.
He accepted the invitation.
And immediately realized the problem.
He didn’t have her number.
He had no direct line to her. For years she’d been just the little sister of the girl his best friend dated — someone he’d known, acknowledged, but never really seen. She’d been a teenager then: quiet, pretty, never flashy, far younger than him and therefore never on his radar.
But now she was at an age where the gap didn’t matter so much.
Then he remembered something.
One night in the kitchen, Charlotte had mentioned it casually, stirring her tea:
“I like the rooftop garden at the San Myshuno University library. It’s quiet. Good light. I go there every Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday afternoon. Like a ritual that keeps me calm and sane when it gets stressful.”
She hadn’t meant anything by it. Just conversation.
But he’d filed it away.
Now it mattered.
He made it a gamble. If she came, she came — and he’d pursue this. If she didn’t, he’d leave and move on.
Let fate decide.
But he wanted to try. He wanted to be in her orbit again — even briefly — without crossing a line.
The Rooftop Scene
On Tuesday afternoon, hours before his talk‑show rehearsal, Channing walked through the university gates — sunglasses on, blending easily into the crowd. Growing up in a family of world‑famous actors meant he’d learned how to disappear before he learned how to drive. He could be invisible or unforgettable on command.
He climbed the stairs to the rooftop garden, the city opening around him — glass towers, ferries cutting across the bay, the hum of San Myshuno life.
He found her bench. Exactly how it looked in the photo she’d shown him — the view she said kept her sane.
He sat. He waited. He didn’t check his phone. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t rehearse.
He just sat — elbows on his knees, paperback in hand, letting the breeze move through his hair, letting the city breathe around him.
And then he felt it — that subtle shift in the air he’d come to recognize.
Charlotte stepped onto the rooftop, textbooks under her arm, sunglasses perched on her head. She walked toward her usual bench, the one she always chose for the light.
She stopped.
He looked up.
Their eyes met.
Her breath caught.
He stood — not abruptly, not dramatically, just… respectfully.
“Hey,” he said softly.
She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at him like she wasn’t sure he was real.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered.
He lifted the paperback slightly, a small, almost shy gesture.
“Reading.”
She gave him a look — arms crossing, smile tugging.
“You want me to believe you flew across the country to read a book on a university rooftop?”
“Of course not. That would be crazy. I flew across the country for work. The book and library connection, however, is crazy. Who would ever think of those two together?”
She snorted, giggling. “So, a work thing? Are you going to be here for a while?”
“I’m in town for a talk show,” he said. “Anniversary special for The Last Protocol.”
She blinked. “In San Myshuno? Gotta be The Week In Review.”
He nodded.
“Look, joking aside,” he added, voice low, “I don’t have your number. But you mentioned this place once. Thought I’d try my luck and see if you had time to… maybe be my tour guide? I’ve been to San Myshuno a few times, but only for short stints or to blow smoke up Blaine’s ass when he tried to off himself this last time. Sorry — too soon?”
She shook her head, smiling. “I’d totally show you around, but I’m better with Brindleton Bay. Have you ever seen anything other than Rosebriar Haven and the immediate vicinity?”
He shook his head. “For all I know, Brindleton Bay is a long coastal road, then a very long wooded driveway, then Rosebriar Haven.”
“That is absolutely unacceptable. My hometown is beautiful — you need the full guided tour. How long are you here for?”
He shrugged, smiling. “I make my own schedule.”
She smiled back. He remembered. He listened. He came here — not to chase her, but to be findable.
She stepped closer, the city humming around them, the breeze lifting her hair.
“You found me,” she said quietly, almost out of context, but to him it made perfect sense.
He shook his head.
“Well,” he murmured, “technically you found me. I was here first. Technically.”
She sat down on the bench. He sat beside her — not close enough to touch, not far enough to ignore.
The rooftop garden was quiet, sunlight warm on their shoulders, the city stretching out in every direction. The campus noise felt far away.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t hesitant.
It was gravity.
Two adults who had tried very hard not to want to be something to each other — and failed.
It was recognition.
The kind that settles quietly in the chest. The kind that feels like coming home to someone you didn’t realize you missed.
Channing cleared his throat softly, turning the paperback over in his hands.
“So,” he said, voice low, “I was thinking… if you’re free tonight, maybe you’d want to come to the taping? Not the most riveting thing you’ll ever see, but maybe interesting anyway?”
Her head snapped toward him.
“The taping? Of The Week In Review?”
He nodded, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. They said I could bring someone. I figured… maybe you’d like to see it? It’s not glamorous, but it’s fun. And you’d get to see the behind‑the‑scenes stuff.”
She stared at him, stunned.
“You’re inviting me?”
“Well,” he said lightly, “I don’t know anyone else in San Myshuno. And I figured a twenty‑year‑old college student might think it’s cool.”
She laughed — soft, warm, genuine. He felt it like sunlight.
“I’d love to,” she said.
He exhaled, relieved in a way he didn’t show.
“Good,” he murmured. “I was hoping you’d say yes.”
She tucked a curl behind her ear, trying to hide the smile she couldn’t suppress.
“What time?”
“I have rehearsal at five. Taping starts at seven. I can meet you outside the studio back entrance at six‑thirty.”
She nodded. “I’ll be there. Uh… is there a dress code?”
He looked at her — really looked — and she felt the weight of it. Not heavy. Not overwhelming. Just sincere.
“Something cute but comfortable, because you’re going to give me a tour of San Myshuno at night. The night scene here is legendary. I want to see it.”
“You know,” she said, “I’m not really the biggest party girl, but I guess I could take you to a few highlights. Okay, we’re on.”
“And not to sound possessive or something,” he added, “but maybe tomorrow… if you’re free… you could show me Brindleton Bay? The greatness beyond Rosebriar Haven and its driveway.”
She blinked. “Yeah, totally. Umm… what kinda stuff do you like?”
He shrugged, eyes steady. “I trust your taste. You’re the local.”
He flashed her that signature smile — the one that had women swooning in his movies — and her heart dropped straight into her stomach. Not because it was dramatic. Not because it was cinematic.
But because it was intentional. Unscripted. And just for her.
She swallowed. “I’d love to.”
He smiled — small, warm, quiet.
“Good,” he said again. “Can’t wait.”
They sat there for a long moment, the city humming around them, the breeze moving through the rooftop garden, the sunlight softening into late‑afternoon gold.
Charlotte looked out over the skyline, then back at him.
“I can’t believe you remembered what I said,” she murmured. “I barely remember telling you about it.”
He didn’t pretend otherwise.
“I remember everything you say,” he replied.
Her breath caught.
He didn’t reach for her. He didn’t lean closer. He didn’t cross any line.
But the truth was unmistakable.
Something was happening between them.
Not loudly. Not recklessly. Not in a way that demanded attention.
But in the quiet, steady way that changes everything.
The First Look
Charlotte arrived at the studio entrance at 6:32 p.m., breathless from the cab ride and the rush‑hour crowds. She had dressed with intention — quiet intention, the kind that didn’t shout but couldn’t be ignored.
A soft blue top with a gentle drape. Dark tailored jeans that fit like they were made for her. Her hair in loose curls, glossy under the streetlamps. Light makeup. Heels that looked elegant but walkable.
She looked like someone who knew she was meeting a man she wanted to impress — without trying too hard.
Channing saw her instantly.
And stopped.
Not in shock. Not in disbelief.
Just… arrested.
She walked toward him, and something shifted — a quiet, internal click, like a door opening he hadn’t realized was closed.
“Hey,” she said, smiling.
He swallowed once, steadying himself. “Hey.”
His eyes lingered — not on anything specific, just on her. Her hair. Her coat. The way she carried herself. The way she looked like she belonged in this world.
“You look…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Amazing.”
Her cheeks warmed. “Thank you.”
“You’re… ready for TV,” he added, softer. “Maybe you should take my spot and I’ll hang out backstage.”
She laughed — warm, genuine. He felt it like sunlight.
He guided her inside, past security, past bustling hallways filled with producers, interns, and camera operators. The studio smelled faintly of coffee, hairspray, and the metallic tang of equipment. Screens flickered with graphics for The Week In Review, and the host’s voice echoed faintly from the rehearsal stage.
Charlotte took it all in — wide‑eyed, excited, trying not to look like she was about to burst.
“This is insane,” she whispered.
He smiled. “Good insane?”
“Very good insane. Thank you for inviting me. This is the coolest thing ever.”
He led her to the backstage viewing area — a narrow corridor behind the curtain where crew members moved with practiced efficiency. She stood beside him, close enough to feel the warmth of his presence, but not touching.
A stage manager approached.
“Channing, five minutes. Get into mask.”
He nodded. “Got it.”
Charlotte watched him shift — not into a different person, but into the version of himself meant for cameras. Focused. Calm. Professional. The same man she’d seen at the pool, in the kitchen, on the rooftop — but sharpened.
He turned to her.
“You’ll be right here,” he said. “You’ll see everything.”
She nodded, unable to speak for a moment.
He hesitated — just a beat — then added softly:
“I’m glad you came.”
Her breath caught.
He didn’t wait for her reply. He stepped away.
“LIGHTS, CAMERA… HER”
The lights hit him instantly — bright, hot, relentless. The audience erupted in applause as the host introduced him:
“Tonight we have the star of The Last Protocol — Channing Cameron!”
Charlotte felt her pulse jump. Hearing his name said like that — confidently, publicly — made something warm unfurl in her chest.
Channing walked out with the easy confidence of someone who had done this a hundred times, but she could see the subtle tension in his shoulders.
He wasn’t nervous. He was aware.
Aware of her watching.
He sat opposite the host, smiling, answering questions with charm and humor. He talked about filming in freezing conditions, about stunt mishaps, about the anniversary of the movie and how surreal it felt.
Charlotte watched him — really watched him — and felt something shift inside her.
He was magnetic. Not because he was famous. Not because he was handsome.
But because he was him.
She had known him since she was a child, when Blaine spent his exchange year in the Bay. Channing showed up a few times — an older boy, a teen like Lauren and Blaine, someone she barely interacted with. Then life moved on. Blaine returned. Charley grew up. Blaine and Channing became men — present, familiar, but not relevant.
Until now.
Now Charley was a woman, and Channing was very much aware of that — and she of him.
Which girl wouldn’t want to be noticed by a handsome actor? But sometimes those turned out to be disappointing in real life.
Charley had known Channing long before he became this famous celebrity. And he had proven, over and over, that he was solid underneath.
She was hyperaware of that fact — because compared to him, Jonas really paled. Jonas had made her feel cool and free, rebellious, exactly as everyone suspected. But the other side of that coin was the part she struggled with:
Unreliability.
It was the thing they kept fighting over. He would say he’d do something, be somewhere — and forget. Sometimes he straight‑up admitted something more interesting came up and he did that instead. No text, no call — just left her waiting while he went out riding bikes with his friends all night. He’d promise to pick her up and then call her from the movie theater.
“I was already over in San My and it seemed dumb to drive all the way across the bridge again. Just have your dad’s driver bring you and I’ll take you back later.”
Not the kind of thing a young woman dreams of. It knocked any sliver of affection out of her. She’d already been drowning in doubts before visiting Lauren in Del Sol Valley, and afterward, breaking up with him wasn’t hard at all. She asked him to meet in person — twice. Both times he flaked. So she sent a break‑up text.
His response: “K, if that’s what u want.”
The guy she dated before him was an aristocrat — sweet, handsome, amazing. But he was too calm. Too composed. Too punctual. Too predictable. She felt awful ending it, but she knew they weren’t endgame.
She knew that after watching her father with her stepmother, Bri — deep love, respect, but Bri had the fire her dad lacked, and they balanced each other perfectly. And then watching her father with her mother, Viola — calm with calm. Two calms equal rut.
Bri was fiery and had been married to a firecracker, Jackson — and two fires create an explosion.
Balance mattered.
Probably why Charley and Eddie didn’t work — both too calm. Jonas brought the fire she craved, but he wasn’t reliable.
Unreliable equals untrustworthy.
Channing was considerate. He had dropped everything several times to help Blaine out of self‑inflicted chaos. He was the only one who could handle cranky Blaine after his release from the hospital this last time.
He dropped everything to help Lauren when Blaine went to rehab. He was reliable to a fault.
But Channing was also alive. Exciting. Warm. Funny. Self‑deprecating. Sharp. Alive.
And every so often, he glanced toward the backstage curtain — toward her — just for a second, just enough for her to feel it like a pulse.
The host noticed.
“You keep looking over there,” he teased. “Someone special backstage?”
Channing didn’t miss a beat.
“That has to remain top secret for now or I will have to eradicate all of you, as my character liked to say in The Last Protocol. For now, let’s just say I really enjoy the view.”
Charlotte’s stomach flipped.
The audience laughed. The host chuckled and moved on.
But Charlotte felt the warmth bloom in her chest.
Cue the Applause
When the show wrapped, applause thundered through the studio. Channing stood, shook the host’s hand, waved to the audience, and stepped offstage.
He walked straight toward her.
Straight.
His expression softened the moment he saw her.
“Well?” he asked. “How’d I do?”
She smiled — wide, bright, unable to hide it.
“You were incredible. I could never be so calm with all those people and cameras.”
He exhaled — quiet, relieved, the kind of relief he never let the audience see.
“Good,” he said softly. “Glad you approve.”
Her pulse kicked.
He didn’t touch her. He didn’t lean in. He didn’t cross any line.
But the truth was unmistakable.
Something was growing between them — steady, quiet, impossible to ignore.
And now they had the whole evening ahead of them.
“Ready to explore the city?” he asked.
She nodded. “Born ready.”
Into the Night
They stepped out into the balmy San Myshuno summer night — bright lights, temperate air, the hum of the city — and walked side by side, two adults who had tried very hard not to want something…
…and failed beautifully.
San Myshuno at night felt different than during the day — louder, brighter, more alive. Neon signs buzzed overhead, car horns echoed through the streets, vendors called out their specials, wannabe musicians busked under streetlamps, and traffic roared between skyscrapers like a living thing.
Charlotte stepped out of the studio beside Channing, the cool evening breeze playing with her curls. She looked radiant under the city lights — the blue top glowing softly catching the wind, her eyes reflecting the skyline like glass.
Channing noticed. He didn’t hide it.
“You look like you belong here,” he said quietly.
She glanced up at him, surprised by the sincerity. “Here? In San Myshuno?”
He nodded. “Yeah. You fit the big city lights.”
Her cheeks warmed. “Thank you.”
He smiled — small, warm, intentional.
“Where to first?” she asked.
He shrugged. “You’re the local.”
She laughed. “I’m a Brindleton Bay local, not San Myshuno. I don’t really come here a lot, especially at night.”
“Still more local than I am.”
She rolled her eyes, smiling. “Fine. Come on. But I don’t want to hear any complaints. There was no money-back guarantee.”
She led him down the street, weaving through crowds of students, tourists, and office workers heading home. The city buzzed around them — food carts steaming, music drifting from open windows, lanterns glowing across the arts district.
Channing walked beside her, hands in his pockets, listening to her talk about the city — the places she studied, the cafés she liked, the shortcuts she took to class. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t tease.
He just listened.
Really listened.
She felt it.
They reached the Lantern Market — a narrow street lined with vendors selling handmade jewelry, art prints, pastries, and warm drinks. Strings of lanterns hung overhead, casting everything in soft gold and red.
Charlotte slowed. “This is my favorite part of the city.”
Channing looked around, impressed. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s chaotic,” she corrected. “But beautiful and orderly chaos.”
He watched her as she spoke — the way her eyes lit up, the way she gestured when she got excited, the way she seemed to breathe easier here.
“You’re different here,” he said.
She blinked. “Different how?”
“Lighter.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. She didn’t need to.
They walked past a vendor selling warm sweet buns. Charlotte paused, eyeing them.
“You want one?” Channing asked.
She hesitated. “They’re my favorite. I am obsessed.”
“Then let’s have some,” he said immediately.
She laughed, stepping forward to buy two. Channing watched her interact with the vendor — polite, warm, charming without trying. When she handed him the bun, he took it with a soft smile.
They ate as they walked, the warm sweetness mixing with the cool night air.
“Thank you. I don’t think I’ve ever been on a date where the girl bought me dinner.”
“We’re on a date?”
“Well, what would you Brindleton Bay natives call this?”
“Uh… well…” She blushed deeply. “I guess it’s a date. But this is not dinner. This is a sweet treat. I can do much better for dinner. You hungry?”
“I could eat. I never eat before interviews. They’re not as easy as they look, and nerves can play tricks on digestion. Better to be hungry than… well, use your imagination.”
“Alright, so what kind of food would you like, Channing Cameron?” she asked as they tossed the wrappers into a trash can.
“I am low maintenance there.”
“I don’t believe that.” She stopped and turned to face him.
He smiled. “You got me, it was a lie. I am so damn picky, it’s not even funny. Blaine calls me Gordon Ramsay. It’s that bad.”
“Oh good, expert level then. So what type of food are you in the mood for? Asian, Italian, African, French…?”
“I like all of those.”
“Spicy, mild…?”
“I like both, depending on circumstance.”
“Channing, come on. There are a million restaurants in San Myshuno. Give me something.”
“Take me to your favorite.”
“My favorite is not what you would like. It’s a boring seafood place. Definitely not impressive.”
“Lead the way.”
“Okay.” She gestured a direction and they walked.
Dinner With a Leading Man
They sat at a table overlooking the harbor — the industrial side, not the postcard‑perfect tourist stretch. One of the famous bridges cut across the skyline at a slightly odd angle, its lights flickering against the water.
The waiter approached.
Before Charlotte could speak, Channing closed his menu.
“We’ll start with a bottle of the Sancerre,” he said, calm and confident. “It’ll go well with whatever she chooses.”
Charlotte blinked — impressed despite herself.
Channing smiled at her, then handed his menu to the waiter.
“It’s ladies’ night tonight. I’ll have what the lady chooses for me.”
“What?” Charlotte stared at him, panicked, then at the waiter, then back at Channing’s smirk. Something inside her made her smile back — challenge accepted. Clearing her throat, she ordered:
“For him, the pan‑seared halibut with lemon‑herb butter. And for me, the seafood risotto.”
The waiter nodded and left.
“You are… something.”
“Because I challenged you? Presented you with a problem that needed a quick decision? Isn’t that what they teach in uni, or have things changed so much?”
“You went to college?”
“Is that so shocking?”
“Uh, no, I guess not. What degree do you hold? Fine Arts? No, wait — Performing Arts, right?”
“Communications.”
“What? Why? I thought Blaine said you always wanted to be an actor like your parents and grandparents?”
“I did. But something important they all taught me was to try and be my own agent and manager. Best advice they could have given me. So, I got the degree that made that possible. Looking at how things went for Blaine when his manager couldn’t protect him from promoters and leeches, I cannot thank them enough. I do what I want, within reason. Negotiate my own contracts and conditions. Very liberating.”
“Wow, I didn’t realize you were that smart.” She blurted it out, then blushed deeply.
Channing chuckled.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it like that!” she said, mortified.
“It’s okay, no offense taken. Relax.” He leaned back, sipping his wine. “Tell me about you.”
“Oh, I think I already told you everything noteworthy about myself back at Cameron Mansion. I’m afraid I’m not very… interesting. Lauren and I both take after Dad in that aspect.”
“I never found Brad or Lauren boring. And that thought definitely never crossed my mind with you.”
“Okay, thanks. Uh… what would you like to know?”
“Alright.” He set down his glass. “What do you want out of life? Right now, sure — finishing your final semesters, graduating. I remember the home stretch. But I know you’re thinking beyond that.”
Their food arrived, buying her a moment. He looked curiously at his plate, tried it, and she held her breath as if her life depended on him liking it. He chewed, closed his eyes, then smiled at her.
“You like it?”
“I am… obsessed.” He used her most overused word. She blushed, giggling.
“Well, I’m waiting…” he reminded her — not easily distracted.
“What I want… well, I want a good job, something I actually enjoy doing, maybe even something meaningful if that exists. I want to—”
“Charlotte. No. What do you dream of? What do you really want?”
Their eyes locked, and she realized he always had this way of making her feel seen.
“Okay, what I want… what I want is… I want… I want to feel loved. For me. Really loved. By someone other than family, I mean. I don’t want another boyfriend just to have a boyfriend — someone to text with, kiss when we’re in the same orbit, and then just… exist. I want someone who makes me feel… things. Makes me feel different. Intense, but… oh, I don’t know. I sound like an idiot. Forget what I said.”
“Why? It was honest.” He chewed, watching her. “Look, Charlotte…”
“Why do you call me that?”
“What? Charlotte? It’s your name.”
“Everyone I’m close with calls me Charley.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone. Except maybe Mom and Dad, and Bri when I’m in trouble. Am I in trouble with you?”
He gave her a different kind of look — one that stopped her heart and then had it racing.
“I think we’re both in trouble and we both know it. To answer your question, I call you Charlotte because you’re not a Charley. Maybe you were, when you were little, back when we first met. Now, you’re a grown woman — smart, elegant, beautiful, confident. That is not a Charley, is it?”
She swallowed, shaking her head, holding his gaze.
“But Charlotte is so formal…”
“Would you like me to give you a nickname?”
She nodded.
“Have you ever seen The Phantom of the Opera, live?”
“At the theater? No. Dad took us once, but… I was only six and Caroline and I fell asleep. Why?”
“Well, when I was taking acting classes — something my parents insisted on — Grandpa Blake made me star as Raoul in an amateur rendition of The Phantom of the Opera. I wanted to be the Phantom, but he insisted I was much better suited as the Vicomte de Chagny. There are these lines of a fictional poem he recites when meeting Christine again after all those years, realizing he’s in love with her. Somehow the words keep popping up in my head.
Little Lotte let her mind wander… Little Lotte thought: Am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or shoes? or of riddles of frocks or picnics in the attic or of chocolates…
And when you learn acting, you learn character analysis — understanding who you’re supposed to be, and who your co‑protagonists are, so the interactions feel real. You remind me of how Christine Daaé was explained to us. I’ve been secretly calling you Little Lotte in my head for a while. Perfect fit, considering your name is Charlotte… not a stretch to Lotte.”
She laughed — confused, flattered, blushing.
“Little Lotte? And you think that sounds more grown up than Charley?”
“Of course. Phantom is a masterpiece — and a classic. Coming from the man with the name Channing. Good luck turning that into a nickname.”
“Why is your name Channing? It’s so… unusual.”
“It’s tradition. When my grandpa Blake married my grandma Mila, who was biracial, they got pregnant with twins — my dad and his sister. But it started such a fuss with everyone weighing in on the names, it became a literal feud, so my grandparents said screw this and decided to use the maiden names of the closest family members. Reed, my dad, was from the paternal side, Maeve Cameron’s maiden name, who is a legend in our family. And Sheridan, for my aunt, which was my maternal great-grandmother’s maiden name. That tradition was kept for the next generation. When I came along, my name was decided before I was conceived. Luckily, I was a boy. Can you imagine a girl named Channing?”
“Hang on — so if you and I were married and had a kid, we would name them Cunningham? For the first name?! Oh my God.”
“Why do you think my ex divorced me so fast? Her maiden name was Orlova. And she wants boys.”
Charlotte’s mouth gaped open, but he laughed.
“Relax — a joke. I would never do that to a kid. Not the Cunningham bit — the last‑name recycling as a whole. After thirty‑one years with this name, I’m still not crazy about it. Unfortunately, they didn’t think to give me a middle name to use instead.”
“You’re thirty‑one?”
He nodded.
“You’re ten years older than me. I’ll be twenty‑one in a couple months.”
“I know.” Plain. Simple. True. And both of them could fill in the part he didn’t say: Yes, ten years — and that’s why I try to restrain myself.
“I like older men.” She blurted it out, then blushed. “I mean older than me. Not old. I’m not calling you old. You’re not an elder. I mean I— oh God, quit talking, Charley!”
Amused by her horror, he chuckled.
“Relax, Little Lotte. I’m not easily offended. And I think there was a compliment in there. Or at least an open door.”
“Do you want an open door?” she asked, hopeful — and a little shocked by her own courage.
He had paid in the meantime, slipped his card back into his wallet, and nodded toward the door.
“Ready? I think this might turn into a conversation we should have in a more private setting.”
Taxi to Paradise
They stepped outside; the night felt cool compared to the warm restaurant, even though it was a balmy late‑summer evening.
“Walk you to your car?” Channing asked.
“Oh, I don’t drive in San Myshuno. Took a cab.”
“Well, I don’t have a rental.”
“I… I can call a cab. No problem.”
“I can call a cab as well. Watch.”
Channing craned his neck, then stepped off the sidewalk, waving his arms as he moved into the road. Tires screeched. A cab stopped inches from him, the driver leaning out the window, yelling as other cars honked in protest.
Unimpressed, Channing leaned into the window.
“Looks like you’re free. Little Lotte, come on.”
He waved her over. Giggling, she approached as he opened the back door for her, then slid in after her.
“You are one crazy son of a beach, man!” the driver ranted — until Channing handed him a few large bills.
“Brindleton Bay,” Channing said. “Unless you want to get honked at some more.”
The driver’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline as he stepped on the gas and merged into traffic.
“Address?” he asked.
“Little Lotte?”
Smiling and blushing, she gave the driver her address.
Channing slid the little glass window closed. The driver noticed and turned up the radio to give them privacy.
He turned to her — quiet, steady, intentional.
“About earlier,” he said softly. “At the restaurant. You asked me something.”
Her breath caught.
He hadn’t answered then. He was answering now.
“You asked if I wanted an open door.” He held her gaze. “I do.”
The words landed between them — warm, heavy, unmistakably adult.
She swallowed, pulse kicking.
“I want you to keep calling me Little Lotte,” she whispered.
He smiled — slow, warm, undone.
“And you need a nickname too,” she added, trying to steady herself. “How about… CC? Channing Cameron, so… CC.”
“CC sounds like a girl who makes makeup tutorials. No.”
“Fine. What does Blaine call you?”
“Oh, depends. Mostly bro, asshole, asswipe… should I go on?”
“No, thanks. How about… Chan?”
“Sounds like I run a Chinese restaurant I inherited from my father.”
“You’re right. Our names are hard to create nicknames for. Challenge accepted. By the end of this ride, I will have a perfect nickname for you.”
Silence fell — warm, charged, comfortable.
“Does it bother you that I’m… older than you?” he asked.
Heat shot through her.
She shook her head, then looked at him — bravely launching her own version of the question.
“Does it bother you that I’m younger than you?”
“A little,” he admitted. “I mean, come on — if you saw a couple and found out he’s ten years older, what would you think?”
“I’d think that I know about five or six couples where that’s the case, and I never once thought anything strange. Especially in Brindleton Bay and the kind of Old Guard circles my dad frequents in.”
He smiled, leaning back in the seat.
“Can I ask another… kinda personal question?” she wondered softly.
“Hit me with it.”
“Why did you and your wife divorce? Honestly, I didn’t even know you were married before. I don’t remember reading about that — just several breakups with actresses, models, singers, socialites. All I know is that you once said she decided you were over and you weren’t married very long. But she must have given a reason.”
“You’re asking if I’m a douche deep down, beneath all this carefully curated Mr. Nice‑Guy image?”
“No. I’m asking exactly what I’m asking.”
“Well… I wish I knew. She never gave a real reason. It’s as I told you — she grew colder toward me, which wasn’t easy to tell, and you’d agree if you knew her. And then one day she came up to me and handed me the divorce papers. No explanation. She’s an Orlov. If they want a divorce — especially after only a few months and a secret elopement — it will happen, and fast.”
“You eloped? Why would you do that? I thought everyone wants a nice wedding they can look back on one day and… I don’t know. Swoon.”
He chuckled softly. She kept going — nervous, earnest, adorable.
“Do guys swoon about their weddings or is that a girl thing? Actually, Dad still talks about his and Bri’s weddings — both of them. You know they divorced somewhere in the middle, he married my mom, then that broke apart and it was him and Bri again, part deux. But then, you’re a Cameron. Your family is uber‑famous. If you don’t want a divorce, I’m sure you—”
“Who said I didn’t want it?” he cut in gently. “I made a mistake with her. I liked her fire. She was so… controlling and in charge, and somehow it seemed great at the time. She was the first woman I dated who wasn’t starstruck. Dating isn’t easy when you’re famous.”
He exhaled.
“Katia is an actress too — that’s how we met, on set. And yes, the cliché is true: more often than not, two leads end up entangled even after the camera stops rolling. And she was different. Normally, I’m the main event, even when trying to date — whether I like it or not — and I’m supposed to charm the ladies, impress them, decide everything, while knowing the deal is pretty much in the bag already.”
He paused.
“But not Katia. She made me work for it. She called the shots. It was new — a woman telling me what to do. I thought I liked it. Until I realized it wasn’t just a game. It wasn’t teasing or flirting. She was a drill sergeant about everything. Absolute control freak. And then I realized it takes more than fire and great sex to— sorry. TMI.”
“No, I get it,” Charlotte said softly. “I just figured out some things that are important to me, and I never had them combined…”
She told him everything — Eddie, Jonas, Bri and Brad, Lauren and Blaine, what she wanted and what she didn’t. And she brought up Blaine’s infidelity.
He listened — really listened.
“I get that Lauren loves him, and wants it to work because of the children, but honestly, if a guy cheated on me, I don’t think I could forgive that. Have you ever cheated on someone?”
“No,” he said quietly when she asked if he’d ever cheated. “I’ve been cheated on. And after feeling how that feels, I decided I’d rather be able to look at myself in the mirror than have some sidepiece thrill ride that would lose my self‑respect. And not to make excuses for Blaine, we both know he is a major construction site on many levels, but don’t be too hard on him about that. He really wasn’t himself. The drugs turned off his brain and as you well know, it’s not always running at full capacity to begin with. I know him well enough to say with confidence, clear-minded, he never would have done that to Lauren. He wants her, and nobody else. I have watched them together, and apart, and there just isn’t another woman for him. Just like his Dad.”
The cab arrived at Rosebriar Haven. Channing got out with her and walked her to the door. They turned to each other, smiling.
“You failed,” he said, winking.
“What?”
“You said you’d have a nickname for me by the end of the car ride. Here we are — me still blissfully nickname‑less. Told you it was impossible.”
“Who says I don’t have one? I just haven’t told you yet.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
She beckoned him closer with her index finger.
He leaned in.
She brought her face up to his ear and whispered, “Good night, Raoul.”
He chuckled. Their eyes met.
“All right, nice one. I like it. Very clever, Little Lotte. Now, what is Little Lotte fonder of — shoes, or dolls, or goblins, or—”
“…older boys,” Charley said quietly.
He leaned closer.
“I really enjoyed tonight. Can’t wait for my tour of Brindleton Bay tomorrow. When do we start?”
She blushed, smiling. Somehow, she had expected a kiss — and now was both relieved and disappointed at the same time.
“I’ll play hooky tomorrow. How about nine o’clock, down at the old downtown parking lot by the Bay Café? You can’t miss it.”
“Does it come with a free shuttle service? I told you I don’t have a rental.”
“Oh, I’ll ask our driver to come get you.”
“No. I would like my tour guide to pick me up.”
“Channing, I—”
“Raoul.”
“Fine. Raoul. I told you I don’t drive in San Myshuno. I don’t have a good history as a driver. If I scratch or dent my car again, Dad will melt down.”
“Then come pick me up with your driver. I insist. We can have breakfast together at my hotel.”
“Fine. All right. You are a tough customer, Channing Cameron.”
“Nothing worth having ever comes easy.”
“Are you… worth having?”
“I can’t make that call. Had good reviews, though. Apparently I’m reliable. And I don’t cheat. Plus, if you ask your sister, I’m good with kids — who knew. Truth be told, I really thought I’d have kids by now. Guess not.”
They talked a little more, until the cab driver got antsy. With a soft peck on her cheek, Channing left.
Inside, Brad was sitting at his desk, laptop open, illuminating his otherwise dimly lit office. He leaned back in his chair, took a strong sip of bourbon on ice, rubbed his forehead, emptied the glass, and rose to leave the office.
On the laptop screen: the front door camera feed — Charlotte waving as a cab drove off, triggering the driveway alarm as the car rolled away and she unlocked the front door.
Echoes Of Legacy 