“Guess Who’s Coming to Breakfast”
The dining room at Rosebriar Haven looked like a magazine spread — morning light pouring through tall windows, the long mahogany table set with silverware and linen napkins, Mrs. Marwood moving with quiet efficiency as she refreshed coffee and laid out fresh pastries.
Brad sat at the head of the table, reading the financial section. Briar Rose buttered a croissant, humming softly. Nathaniel scrolled through something on his tablet — probably work emails, because he was already acting like the head of Cunningham Holdings which annoyed Caroline, who angrily stirred her yogurt, glaring at her brother. She still had two plus years to go at uni.
Charlotte’s seat — the one between Bri and Caroline — was empty.
Mrs. Marwood glanced at the clock. “Miss Charlotte is running late.”
Brad didn’t look up. “She’ll be down. She has never been famous for her punctuality, yet has managed not to starve yet.”
A moment later, Charlotte rushed in, curls bouncing, cheeks flushed from hurrying.
“Bri, can I borrow your mini umbrella? I can’t find mine.”
Briar Rose blinked. “Uh… sure, honey. It’s in the hall closet.”
Brad gestured at her usual seat with his butter knife — a subtle, paternal command.
“Charlotte, leave Bri’s umbrella where it may be and please sit. I assure you it won’t rain in our dining room.”
Charlotte froze. Then swallowed.
“Can’t Dad. I’m actually skipping breakfast. Well, not really, I’m having it in San Myshuno. Oh, can you drive today? I already told the driver to wait out front.”
Nathaniel looked up sharply. “WHAT?! Dude, Dad and I are using the driver. Some of us have to go to work, hello?”
Charlotte grabbed a strawberry slice off the tray, kissed Brad’s cheek, and headed for the door.
“Well, you or Dad can drive. We own like a million cars and you always tell me how great a driver you are and how much I suck as a driver – so … drive. You know I can’t get another bump in my car, per Dad, or he will take my keys, and you also know I get nervous driving in big city traffic.”
“Charlotte!” Brad barely raised his voice, but the tone shifted.
She turned.
“Might we all know whom you suddenly have such urgent breakfast plans with that you choose to blindside us? Nate is right, the driver is first and foremost to take us to business appointments, for airport drop offs and such, not for fun little plans while you should be in class.”
“Daaaaad, I don’t have classes today. At least nothing I can’t work up. Come on now, I worked my tail off during my practicum. Just one single day of a break. And I can catch up remotely.”
“That still does not answer my question.”
All eyes on her, as she deepened into an unhealthy shade of crimson, as she had hoped to be quick and smooth enough to get out before they realized she didn’t fully explain.
“With Channing,” she said lightly. “We’re having breakfast at his hotel, then I’m showing him around the Bay. He’s been here so much, and nobody ever thought to give him a tour of our beautiful town.”
Caroline’s spoon clattered. “Wait — did you just say Channing?”
“That’s what I heard. Please tell me it’s not Blaine’s Channing. He’s an old man!” Nate blurted out, eyes wide.
Briar Rose’s head snapped to her son, “Excuse you!? Who’s old here? He’s not old! He may be older than you, and Charley and Caro, but I am not old, and he is younger than me!”
“Mom … you are … mom. You and dad are supposed to be … well … at a parentally appropriate age. He’s in his thirties!” Nate backpedaled.
Bri was about to rant, but Brad gave her a look — the kind that said later. He’d tell her what he saw on the camera feed last night.
Charlotte waved. “Thanks Nate for the Math lesson. So bye! Will be back for dinner or so!”
“What!? Hang on, Charley! What do you mean by dinner? How long are you planning to eat breakfast?!” Bri sputtered.
“Bri, I am sure they have plans beyond breakfast …” Brad said with a sigh, finishing his coffee.
Nathaniel sputtered. “Dad—”
“It’s fine, son,” Brad said calmly. “I’ll drive. Or maybe we’ll work from home today.”
Nathaniel groaned. “But dad, I was gonna see if we could pick up Evie later for dinner. I haven’t really seen her in days …”
“Nathaniel, we will work from home today, and once we are done, you can drive out to San Myshuno and pick Evie up, like you have done many times, I am sure she still fits in your car, unless you two were planning to buy IKEA empty again,” Brad let out another fatherly sigh, then rose up, kissing Bri, whispering something in her ear that made her giggle.
Caroline stared.
“I am sorry, so we just support rude behavior now?”
Briar Rose pressed her lips together, trying not to smile.
Brad watched the door close behind Charlotte.
He didn’t say a word.
But the decision was already made.
He needed to talk to Channing Cameron.
“Lost in Translation”
Charlotte arrived at Channing’s hotel — a sleek, modern building overlooking the water — and found him waiting in the lobby, hands in his pockets, smile soft and warm.
“You look awake,” he teased.
“You look smug,” she countered.
He laughed, guiding her toward the café. They ordered breakfast — simple, elegant, quiet — and talked like they had known each other for years.
No rush. No tension. Just two people who were very clearly falling into something.
When they finished, Charlotte stood, brushing crumbs off her jeans.
“Ready for Brindleton Bay?”
Channing smiled. “Lead the way, Little Lotte.”
“A Walk to Remember”
Brindleton Bay was glowing in late‑summer light — sailboats drifting lazily, gulls calling overhead, boutique storefronts lining the cobblestone streets. It felt like every coastal town where old money and old stories lived.
Charlotte walked beside him, pointing out landmarks — the old bookstore, the Ralph Lauren boutique, the café where she often met up with friends, the pier where she, Nate and Caroline used to feed ducks.
She dragged him into the small artisan confectionery shop, where even her dad and Bri drooled over the offerings as small children, then fed him tastes of her favorites, piling more and more little bags and boxes on the counter until Channing couldn’t help laugh.
“Little Lotte have mercy. I can’t possibly eat all that or I will never get cast for a single role ever again. Me working out so much isn’t purely because I am obsessed with aching muscles on leg day.”
“Sorry, got carried away,” she smiled, making him chuckle as he bought everything she had piled up.
Carrying the small paper bag as they strolled on down the promenade they spoke, about their youth, her growing up here, childhood memories on every corner, he shared a few anecdotes about growing up in Sulani.
Channing listened. Really listened.
Then he saw it.
The lighthouse.
Tall. White. Iconic. Standing on its own island across the water.
He stopped walking.
“That’s kinda cool,” he said quietly.
Charlotte froze.
“Oh. Uh… yeah. It’s… important.”
He turned to her. “Important how?”
She blushed — deeply.
“That’s where Bri and Dad… um… found each other again. After years apart. After everything. Bri was in San Myshuno for something music related, interview or something and since she was born and raised here, she took a daytrip down memory lane. Stopped for lunch in that restaurant down there. Dad was there with the ‘Gentlemen of the Bay’ – don’t ask, it’s a thing here, we also have the ‘Ladies of the Bay’. The restaurant has a separate bar area where they sometimes meet. Dad was there with them that day, saw mom sitting in the dining section and sent her a drink over. He ended up at her table, they had lunch while catching up, took the ferry over to the lighthouse and … well… Bri kissed him. He was smitten, still, they used to date as teens and in their early twenties and after that kiss he was head over heels for her again. Feeling was clearly mutual, they ended up at her hotel in San Myshuno and … well … Nathaniel happened. Yeah. Dad was still married to Lauren’s mother, his first wife and the moment he found out Bri was pregnant by him, he filed for divorce. My dad was forced into his first marriage, and spent a decade being miserable, but that ended fast.”
Channing smiled — soft, warm, understanding.
“That’s a hell of a story.”
She nodded, embarrassed. “It’s kind of a family legend. So that lighthouse, and the restaurant they bumped into each other again before they went there, both are family standbys. As in, every special occasion either starts or ends there, with all of us going.”
He looked at the lighthouse again.
“Can we go? There are no lighthouses in Del Sol Valley or Sulani. Never been to one.”
Charlotte’s breath caught.
“We have to take a ferry” she whispered.
He nodded. “I assumed as much, unless you want us to swim over. It’s a nice enough day for it.” he snickered.
“Hard pass. Dad made sure we all keep fit, the doctor in him, but I am not as athletic as you.”
She hesitated — nervous, excited, terrified, hopeful.
Then:
“Okay.”
"The Birds"
The ferry rocked gently as it crossed the bay, wind tugging at Charlotte’s hair. The air smelled of salt and sun‑warmed wood. Seagulls wheeled overhead, calling sharply as the lighthouse grew larger on its small island.
When they reached the island, the wind picked up — cool, briny, carrying the distant crash of waves against the rocks. The path toward the lighthouse wound upward through tall grass and weathered stone, the kind of place where stories felt heavier.
Charlotte’s heart hammered as they climbed.
Channing slowed, glancing back at her with a warm, teasing smile.
“Little Lotte,” he said softly. “Keep up.”
She caught up — breathless, nervous, excited — and they continued toward the top together.
The path up to the lighthouse was steep, winding through tall grass and weathered stone. The wind picked up as they climbed — cool, briny, tugging at Charlotte’s curls.
Halfway up, Charlotte hesitated on a narrow step.
Channing noticed instantly.
He turned back, extended a hand — palm open, steady, warm.
“Come on, Little Lotte.”
She placed her hand in his.
He didn’t let go.
Neither did she.
They climbed the rest of the hill like that — fingers intertwined, steps slow and deliberate, the world narrowing to the feel of his hand around hers. The lighthouse loomed above them, white and towering, gulls circling overhead like noisy sentries.
At the top, the wind was stronger — whipping hair, tugging at clothes, making the gulls bold.
Channing guided her toward the railing, still holding her hand.
“Show me the view,” he said softly.
She stepped forward, breath catching at the sight — the whole bay spread out below them, glittering under the late‑summer sun. Pointing as they slowly walked around the gallery, she explained landmarks and shared small anecdotes.
And then—
A gull swooped low.
Too low.
Way too low.
SPLAT.
Right across her shirt.
Charlotte jolted like she’d been electrocuted.
“OH MY GOD!”
Her screech echoed off the lighthouse walls.
Channing froze — eyes wide — then absolutely lost it, laughter bursting out of him so hard he had to brace a hand on the railing.
“Little Lotte—” he wheezed, “that gull had sniper aim!”
She swatted at the stain with a tissue, only making it worse, rather than improving the situation, horrified.
“This is DISGUSTING! Why me?! Why?!”
Her screech echoed off the lighthouse walls.
Channing froze — eyes wide — then absolutely lost it, laughter bursting out of him so hard he had to brace a hand on the railing.
“Okay— okay— I’m sorry— but—” He pointed helplessly at her shirt. “That bird was committed. Maybe a jealous fan. Maybe one of our exes figured out shapeshifting.”
She tried to glare at him.
Failed.
Then started laughing too — loud, helpless, ridiculous — the kind of laughter that made her bend over and clutch her stomach.
In between snorts she pointed at one of the gulls still hovering above.
“Listen, Jonas… and or… uh…”
She looked at Channing.
“Katia,” he supplied, deadpan.
“Yeah. Jonas or Katia, whoever you are — that was not cool.”
Channing wheezed, wiping tears from his eyes.
“If I were Blaine,” he managed, “I’d threaten payback — tid for tad — by turning you into shitty birds, literally. But he’s the one famous for dropping trou in public, not me, and with all this wind I wouldn’t trust my aim. You lucked out, you flying rats.”
Charlotte snorted so hard she startled another gull.
They dissolved again — giggling, snorting, leaning into each other for balance.
They were still laughing on the ferry ride back, Charlotte clutching her jacket closed over the stain, Channing wiping tears from his eyes every time he remembered the sound she made.
“The Conversation”
The driver took them to her home, a place Channing was well familiar with after having been Blaine’s “nurse” during the broken‑femur ordeal. Coming back didn’t feel strange. It felt familiar.
Charlotte ran upstairs to quickly change her shirt so they could go out to eat at her family’s special restaurant, while Channing waited in the foyer, hands in his pockets, admiring the Cameron‑Cunningham family photos on the wall.
Brad appeared in the doorway between the entry and the backyard, near his office.
“Channing,” he said calmly, extending a hand. “Good to see you again. A moment?”
Channing nodded. “Sure, but Charlotte is going to be right back down. She had a mishap with a gull and wanted to change shirts.”
Brad’s mouth twitched — the smallest hint of amusement.
“Knowing my daughter,” he said, “this will take a while. Come on. I won’t keep you long.”
He gestured toward his office. Channing followed.
Brad didn’t sit behind his desk. He stood — hands in his pockets, posture calm, expression unreadable.
“I know this is the type of conversation that’s uncomfortable for both of us,” Brad began. “I didn’t plan on working from home today, but I was hoping to catch you. So let me cut to the chase. I saw the camera feed last night. I saw you walk her to the door.”
Channing didn’t flinch. “Yes, sir.”
Brad studied him — not hostile, not angry, just evaluating. He moved to the edge of his desk, leaning a hand on it.
“Channing, if you were any other guy, we’d be having a very different talk. But I’ve known you a long time. I know your character. So this is more of a framework conversation.” He paused. “My daughter is an adult, but she’s young. And she’s important.”
He straightened again, hands returning to his pockets.
“I know,” Channing said softly.
Brad nodded once. “So, for my own peace of mind — and I’m sure you’ve heard at least some about her previous choices — I’d like to understand your intentions.”
Channing took a breath.
“Well, at this point, it’s hard to answer that definitively,” he said. “We’re two people who feel a clear connection. That’s as far as it’s gone. What I can tell you with certainty is that I’m not playing with her. I’m not passing time. I’m not looking for a fling.”
Brad’s jaw tightened — just slightly.
Channing continued.
“Full disclosure: she invited me to her twenty‑first birthday. I accepted. I’m planning to give her something meaningful. A trip to Sulani. To my home there. All expenses paid. A guided insider tour of the most beautiful spots.”
Brad’s eyes sharpened. He crossed his arms — not defensive, but thoughtful.
“That’s not casual.”
“No,” Channing said. “It isn’t. But I don’t know yet what it will be. Time will tell how she and I feel as we go.”
Brad exhaled — slow, controlled.
“You’re older than her. How old exactly?”
“Thirty‑one.”
Brad nodded. “That is not insignificant. She seems drawn to older boys.”
“So she said,” Channing replied. “And yes, Brad, I’m aware of her… infringement with Jonas. And the other guy. She knows about my previous relationships — as much as I felt necessary to share. If she asks questions, I’ll answer. She also knows about my marriage.”
Brad’s brows lifted. “Marriage? That’s news to me. You’re currently married?”
“No. I was married. A foolish mistake of a younger, more impulsive me. A fellow actress. Secret wedding. Quiet dissolution. Not something I advertise.”
Brad absorbed that, then asked:
“Do you care about her?”
“Yes.”
“How serious are you about her?”
“That depends largely on how she feels about me. One reason I want to take her to Sulani is so she can see my home turf. She’s shown me San Myshuno and Brindleton Bay. We’ve explored Del Sol Valley together, which I consider my second hometown. I know you and your family will return there soon — either to welcome Blaine back or celebrate Ashton’s birthday. I’ll be there as well, and I have more filming to do. If the timing lines up, I plan to take Charlotte to a shoot, so she sees what I actually do for a living. She’s gotten a small taste already. Sulani is the last part of the puzzle. After that, she’ll have a full picture of me — enough to form a real opinion about any future.”
Brad nodded once — the smallest sign of approval.
“All right. Sounds like you’ve put thought into this. Charley isn’t the type for casual relationships. But she is the type to listen to her heart more than reason when it comes to romance.”
He paused, choosing his words carefully.
“I know Charley and Lauren look alike — both take after me — and I know you’re close with Lauren, so you might think you know Charley too. But make no mistake: all three of my girls have vastly different personalities. Lauren is calm, composed, analytic. Charlotte is a dreamer — she appears level‑headed, but I guarantee you she’s still upstairs nervously redoing her makeup and hair and has changed her outfit at least five times. And Caroline…” Brad exhaled softly, a wry note in his voice. “Caroline is pure fire. Spunky, energetic, and absolutely unwilling to take nonsense from anyone — very much her mother’s daughter. Three girls, three mothers, three entirely different temperaments. So when I tell you Charlotte leads with her heart, I mean it in contrast to the other two. She feels deeply, and she moves quickly. That’s why I’m careful.”
Channing smiled faintly — and Brad caught it.
Their eyes met.
A quiet, unmistakable moment of male recognition passed between them.
Brad’s expression softened just a fraction — the kind of subtle shift only another man would notice.
You see it too. You know her too. You understand exactly what I meant.
Then Brad continued.
“I know she likes you. It’s obvious how smitten she is. When she returned from her practicum in Del Sol Valley, she broke up with Jonas almost immediately and started binge‑watching movies, seemed random at first but all those films had one common denominator, the lead actor in them was you — blocking the big TV so she – and I quote – ‘doesn’t miss a single detail.’ For my own sake I assume she meant the plot, although the realist in me knows she very much meant the lead actor. That caused discord with the rest of us and is unlike her. She doesn’t normally cause conflict; she certainly does not micro analyze films like that. But you got her mind off Jonas, which was a very pesky problem for me and her mother, who is still a very near and dear friend of mine. I can’t thank you enough for that. So yes — I’m willing to entertain the idea of seeing more of you.”
He paused.
“But I can’t help some inhibitions about the age gap. I also know you. You’ve proven yourself to be a man of excellent character. Lauren speaks highly of you. My grandchildren adore you. I was thirty‑one once. That’s the age most men mature, reevaluate their lives, settle down, start thinking about a family.”
He looked directly at Channing.
“And herein lies my concern. Charley hasn’t really lived yet. I can see you’re great with children — which makes me think the wish for your own might grow stronger, especially if you find a partner you could see a future with. Charley needs time. She may disagree, but I know her — sometimes better than she knows herself. I’ve had to curb her enthusiasm more than once. She’s a lot like Caroline in that aspect. Those girls need a firm hand sometimes to keep them from running off chasing unicorns and rainbows only to get their heart broken when they realize they were too invested. Even now, technically adults.”
Channing nodded. “I’ve noticed that about Charlotte. But she listens to reason. And yes — she’s impulsive at times. Usually in amusing ways, but I understand your concern.”
Brad nodded.
“Then we understand each other.”
Channing nodded back.
Brad opened the door.
“Enjoy your day in the Bay. Our town is a beautiful one, and like you, I’ve traveled my fair share and seen many remarkable places, but I’m always happy to return to this small piece of Eden. Despite the gulls.” He chuckled.
Channing stepped out.
Charlotte waited at the bottom of the stairs — hair done, fresh makeup, completely different outfit, nerves barely concealed.
Brad glanced at Channing.
Another quiet, knowing look.
See? Exactly what I said. Five outfit changes minimum.
Channing’s answering smile was small, respectful, and absolutely understood.
He turned to Charlotte.
“Ready?” he asked.
She nodded.
And they walked out together.
“Chocolat”
They stepped into the boutique restaurant — Harbor Haute Cuisine, or simply the Haute to locals — polished wood, soft lighting, linen tablecloths, the quiet hum of wealth without ostentation. The hostess looked up, her expression brightening instantly.
“Miss Cunningham,” she said warmly. “It’s lovely to welcome you again. How are your father and Mrs. Cunningham?”
Charlotte smiled, gracious and composed. “They’re well, thank you.”
The hostess turned to Channing — and there it was, the flicker of recognition. Not loud. Not starstruck. Just a subtle widening of the eyes, a quiet acknowledgment.
“Welcome,” she said simply. “We’re honored to have you both.”
Channing gave a polite nod — grateful for the discretion.
As they followed her to the window table overlooking the harbor, he leaned in, voice low.
“So this is what it’s like to date local royalty.”
Charlotte nudged his foot under the table. “Stop.”
He grinned. “I’m serious. I’ve never been greeted like that in my life.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“No,” he said. “I’m really not.”
She blushed — because she knew he wasn’t.
And he liked it. He liked Brindleton Bay, he liked this place and he liked being here with her. He liked being “a guy” at lunch with Miss Cunningham.
The waiter arrived with menus.
Charlotte didn’t even look at hers.
She handed it right back, eyes sparkling.
“Gentleman’s choice today,” she said. “He’ll choose my meal.”
Channing raised a brow. “Returning the favor?”
“More like payback. Yesterday in San Myshuno,” she said, “you totally put me on the spot. So, today we switch. I’ll select our drinks and you the meals.”
He nodded, amused. “All right then.”
She ordered his drink — a neat bourbon — and a crisp white wine for herself.
The waiter left.
Channing watched her over the rim of his water glass.
“You remembered,” he said quietly.
“I remember everything,” she replied, copying his words from the evening before.
He smiled at her, winking.
The waiter returned with the specials.
Charlotte slid the menu toward Channing.
“Your turn.”
He didn’t hesitate.
“For the lady,” he said, “the seared scallops with lemon beurre blanc.”
She blinked. “You think I’ll like that? I have never ordered scallops before.”
“I know you will.”
“For the lady,” he said, “the seared scallops with lemon beurre blanc.”
She blinked. “You think I’ll like that?”
“I know you will.”
“And for you?”
“The steak,” he said. “Medium rare. I know I should order seafood, but I am starving. Must be the crisp ocean breeze… or the sniper gulls. I’m famished. I have high hopes to be invited back to try the chef’s specials.” He winked at Charlotte.
She smiled — warm, soft, pleased.
“You’re very sure of yourself.”
Channing leaned back slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting. “In my line of work, hesitation and humility get you replaced. Confidence keeps you employed.”
Her cheeks warmed.
The waiter left, and the restaurant settled around them — soft lighting, quiet clinks of silverware, the low murmur of conversations drifting like background music. When their plates arrived, Charlotte’s eyes widened.
The scallops were seared to a perfect golden crust, arranged over a bed of wilted greens, the lemon beurre blanc glistening like silk. The scent hit her first — bright citrus, warm butter, a whisper of white wine.
“Oh,” she breathed.
Channing’s steak landed with equal ceremony — charred edges, rosy center, a drizzle of herb jus perfuming the air. He didn’t bother pretending restraint; he cut into it immediately, the knife sliding through like velvet.
Charlotte took her first bite.
Her eyes closed.
“Okay,” she said softly. “You were right.”
Channing smiled into his fork. “I usually am.”
They ate — slowly, comfortably — talking between bites, laughing when the gulls outside screeched like they were personally offended by the existence of fine dining. Charlotte stole one of his roasted potatoes; he pretended not to notice until she did it again.
By the time the plates were cleared, the warmth between them had settled into something easy and intimate.
The waiter returned. “Dessert?”
Channing didn’t look at the menu.
“For both of us,” he said, “the chocolate soufflé. One spoon each.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened — delighted.
“That’s my favorite. How did you know?”
“I am just that good,” he said.
They shared the soufflé, warm chocolate collapsing under their spoons.
But Charlotte wasn’t tasting it.
She was watching him. Feeling this moment.
Finally, she set her spoon down.
“What did my father say to you?”
Channing didn’t flinch.
He didn’t look away.
He didn’t pretend he didn’t know what she meant.
He rested his forearms on the table — steady, open, intentional.
“He asked me what my intentions were.”
Charlotte’s breath caught.
“Oh jeeze dad. And what did you tell him?”
Channing considered her — really considered her — the way a man chooses his words with care.
“I told him the truth,” he said. “That I’m not playing with you. That I’m not passing time. That I’m not looking for something casual.”
Her pulse kicked.
“And…?” she whispered.
“And that I care about you,” he said softly. “Enough to think about what comes next. Enough to want you to see my world before you decide anything.”
Charlotte’s eyes shone.
She swallowed.
“And what did he say?”
Channing’s mouth curved — not a smile, but something warmer.
“He’s cautious,” he said. “But he respects me. And he knows you’re an adult. He didn’t forbid anything if that’s what you mean. You are a grown woman. He’s just being a father doing his job.”
She exhaled — relief, hope, nerves all tangled.
“And he said,” Channing added, “that you were probably upstairs changing your outfit five times.”
Charlotte groaned, covering her face with her hands.
“Oh my god.”
Channing laughed — low, warm, affectionate.
“He was right,” he said. “Wasn’t he?”
She peeked at him through her fingers. “I hate you.”
“No,” he said gently. “You don’t.”
She dropped her hands.
He was right.
Channing reached across the table, brushing a smudge of chocolate from her lip with his thumb.
She froze.
He didn’t pull back.
“Little Lotte,” he murmured, “I resolved that I would go slow and allow both of us to get used to the idea, feel each other out to make sure this is what we both want. But you’re going to make this very difficult.”
Her breath caught.
“Good,” she whispered.
And the second date became something more.
Something inevitable.
Something theirs.
Promenading
They stepped out of the restaurant into the crisp, salty air of the Brindleton Bay promenade. The breeze was light, the afternoon warm, the harbor glittering under the sun. People strolled by with shopping bags, dogs, iced coffees — the easy rhythm of a coastal Friday.
Channing walked beside her, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed in a way she hadn’t seen before. Not the actor. Not the public figure. Just a man enjoying a day with a girl he liked.
He turned to her.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “For the most wonderful day.”
She smiled. “It was just lunch.”
“No,” he corrected gently. “Days. Plural. Yesterday too. I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun.”
Her heart flipped.
She looked up at him — at his eyes, impossibly warm in the afternoon light — and something inside her slipped free.
“I don’t want it to end,” she blurted.
Her face flushed instantly. “I mean … uh….
Channing’s smile deepened — soft, warm, devastating.
“I know what you meant. I don’t want it to end either.”
Her breath caught.
He slowed his pace, turning slightly toward her.
“It’s Friday,” he said. “Do you have plans for the weekend?”
Her heart kicked hard.
Was he extending his stay? Was he asking her to spend more time with him?
She shook her head.
“Are you… staying?” she asked, trying to sound casual and failing completely.
He shook his head — regretful, honest.
“I wish I could, Little Lotte. But I’m scheduled for a shoot tomorrow.”
Her face fell — just a little. “Oh …”
“But,” he added, voice softening, “I’m also attending a gala tomorrow night. And I would love for you to be my plus one. Would you do me that honor? I know it is very last minute, and probably rude to fling something like this on a lady, and I will admit I had been thinking about asking you sooner but felt that was the opposite of going slow. Before you decide, you should know that if you do attend with me, there will be assumptions about us. We will lose this veil of incognito that we have now.”
Her breath stopped.
Then rushed back all at once.
“Yes,” she said immediately. “Yes. Of course I’ll go. I am excited. And I don’t care what people think. Not really. I mean, I know from experience families like ours will always have stuff written and assumed about them.”
He smiled — relieved, pleased, something deeper flickering behind his eyes.
“Good.”
They walked back toward her home so she could pack. Charlotte practically floated up the front steps, then burst straight into her father’s office without knocking.
Brad looked up from a stack of documents — the kind of work only a man like him could juggle without breaking a sweat.
“Charley,” he said, blinking. “Is everything—”
“Dad,” she said breathlessly, “Channing invited me to a gala and we need to get to Del Sol Valley and can we please use your jet please please please—”
Brad stared at her.
Then at Channing, who stood politely in the doorway.
Then back at his daughter.
“What? He’s an affluent young man, why doesn’t he own one. Or charter one? Same thing always with Blaine, that boy can afford it, why is everyone always asking for mine?” Brad asked dryly.
Charlotte blinked. “I— I don’t know!”
Channing lifted a hand, sheepish. “I usually fly commercial. Less fuss. I would need two planes, one to fly long-haul and a small commuter for the island I live on, plus they have no private jet hub. Just nothing but hassle.”
Brad exhaled — long, resigned.
“Fine,” he said. “Take the jet. But you will be back for your Monday classes! College is no joke and shouldn’t be treated like a pesky nuisance, young lady!”
“Yeah, yeah — THANK YOU!” Charlotte squealed, kissed Brad’s cheek, and bolted out of the room like a firework.
Brad rubbed his forehead.
Channing tried not to laugh.
Charlotte reappeared only long enough to shove Channing toward Caroline, who was heading out the back door with her riding boots slung over her shoulder.
“Sorry, Channing, I almost forgot about you. You can watch some TV while I pack or … wait …. Caroline, entertain him! I have to pack! I am going to DSV for the weekend!” she yelled, already halfway up the stairs.
Caroline stopped dead.
“WTF,” she said flatly.
Channing chuckled. “You don’t have to.”
Caroline shrugged. “I’m going to my horses. Wanna come? I don’t mind. It’s either that or a very likely lecture from my dad.”
He nodded. “Sure.”
They headed down the hydrangea‑lined pathway — the blooms brushing their legs, the morning air warm and sweet. As they approached the stables, the scent shifted: garden softness giving way to the earthy mix of hay, leather, dust, and sun‑warmed wood. Even from outside, Channing could hear the muted thud of hooves, the occasional impatient snort, the rustle of straw as one of the horses shifted inside.
Caroline swung the stable door open.
The stable greeted them like a living thing.
Warm air, thick with the smell of clean straw and grain. The metallic clink of a water bucket being nudged. The soft whicker of Lumière — the dapple‑grey mare — lifting her head the moment she saw Caroline. The dark bay poked his head over the stall door, ears flicking forward. The chestnut bay stomped once, tail flicking, clearly ready to be turned out.
Caroline dropped onto the bench to pull on her boots, the leather creaking as she tugged them on. She stood, brushing straw off her jeans, and strode down the aisle with the confidence of someone who’d grown up in barns.
Channing followed, Lumière’s intelligent eyes tracking him as he passed.
“So,” Caroline said, glancing at him as she passed the tack hooks, “you’re the guy now.”
Channing smiled. “I suppose I am.”
Caroline snorted. “Well, congratulations. You’re an upgrade from the trash we used to deal with.”
He laughed. “Not a fan of Jonas, I hear.”
Caroline stopped, turned, and looked him dead in the eye.
“I know you don’t have a sister,” she said, “but imagine you did. And she started dating someone with the personality of broken pottery — and about as reliable. Just no. Does that answer your question or do you need diagrams?”
Channing laughed under his breath.
“No, I think I’m caught up on your thoughts about Jonas. You Cunningham girls are really something else.”
“Oh, you have no idea,” Caroline said. “But you picked the second sweetest one of us.”
“And the sweetest being… Lauren?”
“Yup. Not me. I’m all mom and very little dad. I’m a bitch and damn proud of it. Lauren’s the saint. Lucky for Blaine — no offense, but if he were my man, he’d be so single by now it would squeak.”
Channing couldn’t help but laugh — until she pointed a horse brush at him like a weapon.
“You don’t do that kind of crap, do you?”
“What kind of crap?”
“Drugs. Booze. And obviously the fucking around on your woman.”
“Okay!” Channing lifted his hands. “We’re putting it right out there. No, I don’t do drugs. I don’t cheat. I do drink — within reason. I’ll admit there have been nights where I might not be able to give a full report of every moment. Does that cover it?”
Caroline nodded. “Yeah, that’s fine. I’ve had days like that too. Mostly men driving me to drink, though. You guys don’t make ANY sense. Those of you identifying as male need to start using your brain BEFORE acting and speaking. Best example? My brother. I swear Nate’s on the spectrum sometimes.”
“Use brain more. Got it. Anything else?”
She crossed her arms. “I’m serious, Channing.”
“So am I.”
“No, you’re making fun of me. You think I’m just a little girl babbling or something.”
“I don’t. You’re a young woman with very clear opinions. I think you could benefit from some calming exercises, maybe.”
Caroline blinked once, then flipped him off without breaking eye contact.
“Oh, okay. Well, I don’t need calming. But if you do, how about you run along and go fuck yourself? That should be calming as well, hm?”
“Yikes. Do you talk around Brad this way too? I just can’t see him sanctioning this.”
“I do not, because a) I am not an idiot, and b) I do not enjoy being grounded or carless. And c) you are not my dad. Can you not handle straight‑talk, Channing?”
“Sure can. Just feels weird hearing a sweet young lady sounding like Blaine.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
She stepped past him, grabbed a halter and a saddle pad. Channing moved to help, but she nudged him with her shoulder — hard — and glared as she swung the saddle up with practiced ease.
“I’d stand over there,” she said. “She bites when someone agitates her.”
“I did nothing to that horse!”
“You agitated me, and she feeds off my emotions.”
“How did I agitate you?”
“You exist.”
“Whoa. All right then. The younger sister is not a fan. Noted.”
“The younger sister thinks you might be using Charley,” she corrected, tightening the girth.
“Using Charley? How would I use her?”
Caroline grabbed the reins, leading Lumière out of the stall. The mare’s hooves clopped against the concrete aisle, echoing softly.
Before mounting, Caroline paused at the turnout gate.
“Hang on.” she grabbed Channing’s hand and shoved Lumiere’s reins in them.
She opened the dark bay’s stall first. He trotted out eagerly, tail high, heading down the fenced walkway toward the lower pastures — the gravel path crunching under his hooves. The chestnut followed, tossing his head, snorting, then breaking into a playful trot down the same lane toward the training paddock.
Caroline watched them go, then turned back to Channing.
“Okay, firstly — I know you’re all over Lauren. I’ve seen you stare at her cooing over the trainwreck she married. A thought bubble over your head wouldn’t be more obvious. You want some of that.”
Channing blinked. “Caroline—”
“But of course you wouldn’t encroach on that,” she continued, “I know, I know, because you are such a total sweetheart who would never or maybe because you know it would piss off everyone. Either way, all eyes on Charley — who, in a lot of ways, is like Lauren. Sweet. Calm. Permissive. The kind of girl you can be a dumbass around and she’ll still be there picking up the pieces.”
She stopped, facing him fully.
“So what you’re looking for is your version of Lauren. Your own little saint. Someone who won’t fight you, won’t challenge you, won’t call you out. Someone who will let you be a mess and still adore you. Someone who is the total opposite of me.”
Lumière shifted under her hand, ears flicking, mirroring Caroline’s mood.
Caroline stared him down for a long moment.
“Well… good luck, Channing,” she said finally, voice low and razor‑sharp. “You’ll need it. Charley is all that, but she is not Lauren. Piss her off and watch what happens — I dare you. She isn’t the saint you think she is.”
She leaned in just a fraction, Lumière shifting under her hand.
“And even if she is, you still have me to answer to if you screw up. I’m just chomping at the bit — pun fully intended — for Blaine to get better so I can give him the full Caroline Special on how to act like a human being around Lauren, my niece, and my nephews.”
She smirked.
“So trust me. If you mess up? I won’t need a saddle to ride your ass.”
She slipped her boot into the stirrup, swung up in one fluid, athletic motion, settling into the saddle like she was born there. Lumière danced sideways, picking up on her energy.
Caroline gathered the reins, shot him one last look — half warning, half challenge.
“Try not to screw it up,” she added. “She deserves better than Jonas 2.0. Do better.”
Then she nudged the mare forward.
Lumière surged into a canter, hooves thundering across the packed dirt, mane flying. Caroline didn’t look back — not once — as she tore down the hill toward the lower pastures, then veered onto the long walkway that led toward the training paddock. The mare’s tail streamed behind her like a banner, the sound of hooves fading into the distance.
Channing watched her go, wind kicking dust around his shoes.
He exhaled.
“Okay,” he murmured to himself. “Message received.”
“Pretty Woman”
Later, after goodbyes were said, Channing brought Charlotte to his hotel so he could grab his things.
When he invited her up to his room, she froze — awkward, unsure.
He noticed immediately.
“You can wait for me at the bar if you prefer, or in the car, I won’t be long,” he offered gently.
She panicked. “No! No, it’s fine. I do this all the time.”
Channing raised one brow — amused.
Her eyes widened.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean— I don’t— I’m not—”
Channing laughed — warm, teasing, kind.
“I know, Little Lotte.”
She blushed crimson.
They stepped into the elevator. An elderly couple joined them, giving Charlotte a look — the kind that said young girl, older man, hotel room.
Charlotte stiffened.
When the couple exited, she muttered, “Did you not see them looking at me?”
“I always look at you,” he said.
“Not like that,” she huffed. “They were thinking things. Weird things.”
“Who cares?”
“I do! They probably thought I was a groupie. Or a hooker or something. OMG – grandma was definitely rolling some ‘Pretty Woman’ moments in her head. Yikes!”
He cut her off gently.
“Actors don’t have groupies. That’s musicians. And they were thinking I’m a lucky man to have such a beautiful companion.”
She went silent.
Then blushed again.
When the elevator dinged at his floor, she followed him down the hallway.
He unlocked the suite with his key card.
She stepped inside — heart pounding — taking in the view, the quiet luxury, the fact that she was standing in a man’s hotel room.
Not just any man.
Channing Cameron.
He grabbed a few of his things still strewn about, chargers, tablet, his toiletry items from the bathroom, a sweater, stuffed them in his bag, checked his schedule, then turned to her.
“Ready?”
She nodded — too quickly.
They went downstairs. He checked out. The car took them to the airport.
Brad’s jet waited on the tarmac — sleek, polished, unmistakably Cunningham. Charlotte’s excitement was impossible to hide; it shimmered off her like heat from the runway.
They boarded.
And the jet carried them toward Del Sol Valley — toward Lauren’s house, toward the gala, toward the weekend that would change everything.
The Camerons’ driver stood waiting beside the open back door of the car, posture crisp, expression neutral, the kind of professional presence Charlotte had grown up around. But this time, stepping into the backseat felt different.
Her heart pounded as she slid in beside Channing.
For one suspended moment, she let herself imagine this was normal — that this was how things could be. A life where she belonged in this world. A life where he reached for her hand without hesitation.
The welcome at Lauren’s house was warm — Ashton and Easton barreling toward her, Blakely asleep against Lauren’s shoulder, the familiar scent of baby lotion and home. Something about it felt old and familiar, like slipping into a memory she didn’t know she’d missed.
But the arrival was brief. Last‑minute plans meant Lauren had a busy day and no time to host. The kids went down early. Lauren followed soon after.
Leaving just Channing and Charlotte.
Alone.
Movie Night
They curled up on the sofa, lights dimmed, the city glowing through the windows. Channing queued up a screener of his unreleased film — the one he’d finished months ago, the one he was already promoting while filming the next.
Charlotte had always loved movie nights — with friends, with family, with her mom, just the two of them, on rainy evenings. But this was different. Watching a film with someone who had made it, who had lived inside it, who had bled for it — it felt intimate in a way she hadn’t expected.
Channing wasn’t arrogant, but he was proud — quietly, earnestly proud. Every so often he’d nudge her, voice low.
“Watch this part. Keep your eye on the left side of the screen.”
Or when she gasped at a character’s death, he’d smile — that soft, knowing smile that said there’s more coming.
“Spoiler alert,” she nudged him.
He tilted his head, eyes warm.
“Is it a spoiler when you know it’s coming? When you know it’s imminent… just not when exactly?”
Their eyes met.
And both of them knew — instantly, undeniably — that he wasn’t talking about the movie anymore.
The air shifted. The room felt smaller. The world felt quieter.
Something was happening. Something neither of them could pretend away.
Charlotte swallowed, pulse kicking hard.
Channing didn’t look away.
And the screener kept playing, but neither of them were watching it anymore.
Film Set
Del Sol Valley smelled like heat and dust and studio coffee — the kind that had been burning on a warmer since dawn. Charlotte followed the assistant through the maze of trailers and cables, her heart thudding with excitement. She’d never been on a real film set before. Everything felt electric.
Channing spotted her the moment she stepped into the soundstage.
He didn’t wave. He didn’t call out. He just smiled — slow, warm, private — the kind of smile that made her feel like she was the only person in the room.
“Little Lotte,” he said when she reached him. “Welcome to chaos.”
She laughed, breathless. “This is insane. I love it.”
He showed her around — the lighting rigs, the prop tables, the monitors, the fake snow machine they used for winter scenes. She soaked it all in, glowing, thrilled, proud of him in a way she didn’t know how to explain.
Studio 4 was colder than Charlotte expected — a cavernous space lit only by the harsh glow of spotlights aimed at a staged film sets. Everything else was shadows and cables and quiet murmurs from crew members adjusting equipment.
Channing had been showing her around the studio, explaining props and marks and blocking, when the director called out:
“Listen up everyone! Change of plan! Had some equipment malfunctions and evidently in a city as large as this one, we cannot seem to get anyone out here who can repair it until Monday. So – we’re moving up Scene 22. Bedroom sequence.”
Charlotte didn’t understand at first.
Then she saw the staffers migrate to a different set, lights flicked on. And she saw the bed.
Her stomach dropped.
Channing’s expression flickered — barely — but she caught it. He hadn’t wanted this scene today. He definitely hadn’t wanted her to see it.
“Little Lotte…” he started.
But the director was already waving him over.
“Wardrobe! Get the two leads ready!”
Charlotte stood near the monitor, heart thudding, trying to stay composed as the actress — beautiful, confident, older — stepped onto the set in minimal wardrobe, the kind designed to look revealing on camera while remaining modest off‑camera.
Charlotte saw the trick of it: the adhesive garments, the modesty coverings, the careful placement of sheets and angles. She knew it wasn’t real.
But when the lights came up, none of that mattered.
The scene began.
Channing entered the make-believe room, the moment turned fiery, the dialog suggestive, he shed his shirt — scripted, choreographed — and the actress slid into his arms with practiced ease. They moved together toward the bed, hitting marks Charlotte didn’t understand, their bodies angled precisely for the camera.
It was technical. It was rehearsed. It was fake.
But it looked real.
So very, VERY painfully real. The way she smiled up at him. The way he looked at her … it just drove ice cold daggers into Charlotte’s heart.
They fell onto the bed — a controlled, choreographed motion — and Charlotte felt heat shoot through her chest, then cold, then heat again. Her breath stuttered. Her eyes burned. Her mind knew it was make-believe, not real, all pretense, but her heart saw two people about to have passionate sex right there in front of everyone.
She saw the modesty garments. She saw the careful sheet placement. She saw the actress’s “diamond” bracelet snag on Channing’s character’s necklace, forcing them to stop.
“Cut!” the director barked.
Crew rushed in, laughing, helping untangle the jewelry. Channing laughed too — easy, professional, unaffected.
They reset.
“From the top!”
And even though Charlotte knew it was fake, even though she knew they were covered, even though she knew it was acting…
It still felt like a punch.
The second take was smoother. More fluid. More intimate.
The exact same words, moans, groans and movements as last time, yet again, Charlotte’s brain knew none of it was real, but her heart wanted to set the entire studio on fire as jealousy reared its ugly head and roared.
Charlotte’s throat tightened. Her eyes blurred. She blinked hard, hoping the darkness around the monitor hid her face.
“Cut! That’s the one. Moving on! Next scene is the farewell in the snow. Get everyone into wardrobe and makeup and that snow machine better be working!” the director roared.
Lights snapped on. Crew scattered. Channing climbed out of the stage bed, laughing with the actress, helping her up.
He turned—
Just in time to see Charlotte bolt.
“Charlotte—!”
She ran out of Studio 4, past cables and trailers, wiping her face with the back of her hand, trying to breathe, trying to pretend she wasn’t falling apart. She wanted so badly to look completely unfazed but knew she couldn’t manage it, so she ran so nobody would see how silly her reaction was. She knew it was stupid but couldn’t do anything about it.
Channing grabbed a robe and slippers from wardrobe, threw them on, and sprinted after her.
He caught up with her near the trailers, breathless.
“Little Lotte… are you okay?”
She turned, wiping her face again, forcing a smile so fake it hurt to look at.
“Totally fine! Some allergic reaction or something… must be the dusty air and—”
“Charlotte.”
“Really, I’m good. It was— it was cool. Very cool. Super cool. Cool, cool, cool!” she rambled, knowing she was rambling, yet couldn’t stop.
“Little Lotte.”
She swallowed hard, eyes shining again.
He stepped closer.
“You do know this is my job.”
“Yeah,” she whispered. “Yeah, of course. Totally. I mean… It was really uh …”
“Cool?” he helped with a little teasing smirk.
“Yeah, it was cool. Very cool. Really … cool. And I wish I could stop saying cool.”
“Love scenes are always hard to watch and even harder to do. Trust me, everyone’s iffy. We’re all glad it’s over and done with.”
“Oh, no no no … totally fine. Not iffy. I mean, I have seen all your movies, you always have steamy love scenes, and you flirt with fans all the time. It’s fine. It’s just—”
“It’s not the same,” he said gently. “You know that. I know that. And I don’t have love scenes — my characters do.”
Charlotte swallowed, still shaken.
“That in there was work,” Channing continued. “Pure choreography. Not one ounce of real feeling from either of us. She’s newly engaged — and at that stage where you learn your fiancé’s favorite meal, color, music, and shoe size when all you said was ‘hi.’ She talks about him constantly. It’s sweet.”
Charlotte’s shoulders eased a little.
“We’re both professionals,” he said. “We respect each other, we trust each other, but we’re not attracted to each other. And me smiling with a fan for a photo — or signing the occasional tit tat — is a far cry from what you saw on that set. The only thing both have in common is I am working when they happen. You know the real Channing, off-duty. Most never will. They know a character I portrayed, seen me in interviews or caught me trying to live my life while sticking a Sharpie in my face to sign my name for them and pose for them. None of that is real, let alone ‘me’.”
He exhaled, searching her face.
“That scene was blocking, lighting, timing, marks on the floor, and making sure nothing goes wrong with wardrobe. It’s not romance. It’s not intimacy. It’s not real, it’s 100% script and it is work, for all of us in there, every last one. Someone had a vision, typed it up, and we perform it for an audience, visualize it. It’s two coworkers hitting their cues under bright lights with fifty people watching. Trust me, these types of scenes are every actor’s horror. And that scene was not on the menu for today or I would have never invited you here. Most spouses of actors never see those made, watching the finished film is tough enough. I get it. We all do.”
Charlotte’s eyes softened, the panic ebbing.
Channing stepped closer.
“What’s real,” he said quietly, “is you running out of that studio because you care. And me running after you because I care too.”
She shook her head, trying to hide her face. “Yeah, I get it. Okay, it may have looked a lot realer than it actually was and that was a bit … much. So, this is what you do all day?”
“No,” he said gently. “Some days I pretend to stab people or shoot them. Sometimes I do car chases through a gated off downtown street. Or ride bikes off fake ravines. Or get chased by CGI wolves. Today just happened to be this. I cannot emphasize this enough, it wasn’t planned or scheduled, or I would have never invited you. I want you to know that.”
She didn’t answer.
He watched her — really watched her — and saw everything she was trying to hide.
“Judging by your reaction,” he said softly, “I’m very convincing. So, thank you for the rave review.”
“What? No. I mean yes, but— I mean—”
“Little Lotte.”
Her breath hitched.
Tears shot up again — hot, humiliating — and she turned away, panicking, trying to hide.
He reached out, caught her arm, and gently turned her back toward him.
She didn’t fight it.
He looked at her — really looked — and something in his expression shifted. Softened. Deepened. Like a decision settling into place.
Then he leaned in and kissed her.
Not scripted. Not choreographed. Not blocked for camera.
Real.
Her hands curled into his robe, clutching him like she needed the anchor. His fingers slid to her jaw, gentle but sure, and the world fell away — the trailers, the crew, the studio noise — until there was only the two of them and the truth neither of them could hide anymore. Her brain detonated into confetti.
When they finally parted, breathless, he brought his lips near her ear.
“That,” he whispered, “was real.”
She closed her eyes and stepped into him, burying her face against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her without hesitation, pulling her in, holding her like she was something fragile and precious and long overdue. His chin brushed the top of her head, his breath warm against her hair, the robe soft under her cheek.
For a moment — one suspended, quiet, impossible moment — she let herself exist there, in the space between his heartbeat and the truth of what had just happened.
And he held her like he wasn’t letting go.
They were still wrapped around each other — her face against his chest, his arms around her, the world narrowed to breath and heartbeat — when a voice cut through the quiet.
“Channing! Scene’s ready! Wardrobe and makeup need you ASAP!”
A staffer stood in the doorway they’d just exited, headset crooked, clipboard in hand, eyes politely averted because he absolutely knew what he’d walked in on.
Channing didn’t flinch.
He just exhaled once, slow, steady, forehead still resting against hers.
“Duty calls,” he murmured.
Charlotte nodded, though her pulse was still racing.
He pulled back — reluctantly — but kept one arm around her as they walked back inside, the hum of the studio swallowing them again.
The crew parted for him instinctively. Charlotte stayed close, tucked under his arm, still dazed from what had just happened. Floating on air.
Wardrobe intercepted him first.
“Cameron, winter scene. Coat, scarf, gloves — let’s go.”
Makeup followed.
“Snow sequence touch‑ups. Frosted lashes, windburn cheeks.”
Charlotte watched as he was pulled into the controlled chaos — stylists adjusting his collar, makeup artists dusting his skin, a hair tech spritzing fake frost into his hair.
He glanced at her over their shoulders.
That look alone made her knees weaken.
They led him to the soundstage.
It was transformed into a winter world — a cobblestone street lined with lampposts, snow‑covered benches, a backdrop of a quiet European town. Fake snow drifted from overhead rigs, catching the light like falling stars. Charlotte stared, unable to process how real it looked.
His costar stood opposite him — bundled in a wool coat, eyes already glassy with emotion. Charlotte blinked at the monitor.
How did she get there so fast? She looked heartbreak‑ready, like she’d been living in that moment for hours.
Charlotte leaned in a little, squinting.
Did she cut onions during the break? Because the tears were right there — shimmering, perfect, devastating — and Charlotte had just spent the last ten minutes trying not to cry herself.
But this woman? She dropped into the emotion like flipping a switch.
Charlotte felt a strange mix of awe and intimidation.
Is that what real actors do? Just… turn it on?
And then Channing stepped into frame — and everything inside Charlotte tightened, because she had just been in his arms minutes ago, and now he was looking at another woman like she was the last good thing in his life.
The director raised his voice.
“Scene 47B. Final goodbye. Snowfall. Roll cameras.”
The clapperboard snapped shut — sharp, echoing, unmistakable.
Charlotte stood behind video village, watching the monitors.
Channing became the man he played.
Snow fell from the rigs overhead.
His costar’s voice broke on the first line.
“I can’t follow you,” she whispered. “Not this time.”
Charlotte blinked at the monitor.
It made no sense.
Five minutes ago they’d been half‑dressed in a bed scene, all tangled emotion and heat — and now they were out here pretending to freeze in a studio that was easily seventy degrees, hotter near the lights. The shift was whiplash.
Why don’t they shoot scenes in order? And why not in actual snow so the actors don’t die of heatstroke? She was sweating where she stood — and she wasn’t the one bundled in a wool coat, gloves, and boots.
How does anyone keep up? How are they so into the moment without any context?
Channing’s reply was low, aching.
“I know.”
He reached for her hand — slow, deliberate — then let it go.
The snow thickened. His breath fogged in the cold light.
Charlotte felt her chest tighten — because she had just been held by that same man minutes ago.
And then—
The costar stepped closer. Her face softened. She cupped his cheek.
They kissed — slow, emotional, cinematic — snow falling around them like a postcard.
Charlotte’s stomach flipped.
Oh god… not that again. Not real, not real, NOT REAL!
But then—
Channing’s body jerked violently.
The kiss broke. Channing’s character staggered back, his face incredulous.
A burst of “blood” bloomed across his coat, shockingly real.
Charlotte gasped.
Channing’s character staggered, sinking to his knees in the snow, breath ragged, eyes wide with betrayal.
The costar stood over him, expression cold, detached, holding a gun with a silencer screwed on.
“I always hated you anyway,” she spat. “And you weren’t even that good in the sack.”
Charlotte’s jaw dropped.
WHAT?!
The costar turned to walk away.
And in that moment—
Channing’s character lifted his gun.
One last shot.
The crack echoed through the studio.
Charlotte jumped so hard she nearly knocked over a monitor.
The costar jerked — a burst of “blood” exploding across her coat — then collapsed into the snow, eyes frozen in a perfect look of betrayal.
Channing’s character rose slowly, wincing, opening his coat to reveal a damaged bulletproof vest beneath.
He ripped it off, tossed it aside, and spat in the snow near her body.
“Back at ya. And I am a better shot than you.”
He rubbed the spot where her bullet had hit.
“Damn you, bitch. That’s gonna bruise. Gotta love though that you always were predictable.”
The camera zoomed in on the costar’s unmoving face — eyes glassy, snow settling on her lashes.
Charlotte stared, stunned.
This is insane. How do they do this? How does anyone survive working here?
And then—
“Cut!”
The director’s voice cracked through the air.
The slate snapped shut, loud enough to make Charlotte jump again.
“It’s a wrap!”
The spell shattered. The ‘dead’ actress got up, laughing while spitting out fake snow, wiping her lips.
Crew moved. Lights shifted. Snow machines powered down. Weapons were handed back to props like it was nothing.
Channing exhaled, shoulders dropping back into himself.
Charlotte realized she had just witnessed the split in real time — the man on camera and the man who kissed her — two different worlds colliding.
The assistant director stepped forward with the slate tucked under his arm.
“Next shoot date: Monday, 6 a.m. Scenes 48 through 52. Call sheets go out tonight.”
Channing nodded, already shrugging off the winter coat.
He looked toward Charlotte.
Found her.
And the warmth in his eyes made her forget the fake snow, the crew, the cameras — everything.
No — this was real. That was fake.
She smiled as he headed over to her.
“I’d hug you,” he said, glancing down at the fake blood, “but this stuff doesn’t wash out easily. Don’t wanna ruin your pretty dress.”
She blushed at the compliment.
“That was… intense.”
“Yeah, sorry — spoiler alert. Good guy lives, bad guys die. Shocker, I know. Let’s get out of here before the director makes you sign an NDA,” He grinned. “You hungry?”
“Sure, but hey… can we maybe skip the weird stuff about who picks whose food for tonight?”
“Deal. I was thinking takeout anyway.” He tapped her nose lightly. “We have a gala to attend, remember?”
She blushed hot. She actually had forgotten.
Oh boy.
Gala of the Greats
The car pulled up to the venue — a towering, glittering hall draped in gold banners and massive LED screens looping nominee reels. The red carpet stretched out like a river of fire, lined with barricades, fans, reporters, and a wall of photographers.
Charlotte’s breath caught.
This wasn’t just an event.
This was the event.
Channing stepped out first — cameras exploding in flashes, the crowd roaring his name.
“Channing! Channing! Over here!” “Channing, who’s your date?” “Channing, look left!” “Channing, look right!” “Channing, who’s she?!”
He turned, offering his hand to her.
She stepped out.
And the world erupted.
Flashbulbs. Shouts. Gasps. A wave of speculation rippling through the crowd.
“Who is she?” “Is that his girlfriend?” “She’s gorgeous!” “She’s so young!” “Is she an actress?” “Is this official?!”
Channing leaned in, voice low.
“Just breathe.”
She tried — but the noise was overwhelming, the lights blinding, the sheer scale of it unreal.
He placed his hand at the small of her back — grounding her — and guided her down the carpet.
They posed for photos. He answered questions. Everything except anything about Charlotte. She stood beside him, radiant and terrified and exhilarated all at once.
Inside, the grandeur swallowed her whole.
Crystal chandeliers. Velvet drapes. Marble floors. A sweeping staircase lined with gold. Celebrities everywhere — gowns, tuxes, diamonds, champagne.
Channing leaned close.
“You okay?”
She nodded — breathless.
“This is… wow.”
He smiled.
“Welcome to my world.”
And for the first time, she didn’t feel like she was watching a movie.
She felt like she was in one.
The interior was breathtaking — a cathedral of light and sound. Celebrities mingled, champagne flowed, cameras flashed even inside.
Charlotte felt tiny.
Insignificant.
Awestruck.
What had Channing called her back home? Local royalty? Yeah, not there. Here she might as well be mopping the floors.
But Channing kept her close, his hand warm at the small of her back.
“Stick with me,” he said softly. “You’re doing great.”
They found their seats — front section, close to the stage. Charlotte nearly fainted when she realized who was sitting around them.
Actors she’d seen in movies. Directors she recognized from interviews. A singer she’d listened to since she was twelve.
Channing leaned in. “You okay?”
She nodded, breathless. “This is… unreal.”
He smiled. “Hey, just full disclosure, you and I are official now, no way back, but I don’t want you to be rear-ended here. I am nominated for “The Last Meridian.”
Charlotte blinked. She’d seen that one — the gritty, emotional survival drama he’d filmed last year. Critics had lost their minds over it. He was fierce in it. Long hair, long beard and crazy cool. Not to mention very hot in several strategically placed shirtless scenes, which explained why he worked out so much. Some of those had been playing in literally larger-than-life format during the nominee reels when they arrived.
The ceremony rolled on — musical performances, comedy bits, presenters announcing categories.
Charlotte tried to follow along, but her nerves were shot.
Then—
The presenter stepped up to the microphone.
“And now,” she said, “the award for Best Male Actor in a Drama.”
Charlotte’s stomach dropped.
Channing straightened slightly — not tense, but attentive.
Nominee clips played on the massive screens.
And then—
“Channing Cameron — The Last Meridian.”
His scene flashed across the screen — raw, emotional, devastating.
Charlotte’s breath caught.
He looked… different. Older. Broken. Brilliant. Hot. Wow.
The presenter smiled.
“And the winner is…”
The room held its breath.
Charlotte grabbed Channing’s hand without thinking.
He squeezed back.
The envelope opened.
“Channing Cameron — The Last Meridian!”
The room exploded.
Charlotte gasped — loud, involuntary — then clapped so hard her hands stung.
Channing froze for half a second, stunned.
Then he laughed — soft, disbelieving — and stood.
The crowd rose around him. Applause thundered. Spotlights swung. Camera flashes burst like fireworks.
He turned to Charlotte.
And the look he gave her — warm, grateful, intimate — made her knees go weak.
Then he leaned down and kissed her.
Not a peck. Not a polite red‑carpet brush.
A real kiss — soft, sure, claiming — the kind that told the entire world exactly what she meant to him.
The cat wasn’t just out of the bag. It had sprinted across the stage, climbed the curtains, and was now dangling from the chandeliers.
The audience roared.
Channing stepped onto the stage, exchanged the usual small talk, hugs, cheek‑kisses with the presenters, accepted the trophy, and exhaled into the microphone.
“Wow. I… wasn’t expecting this. I mean, getting the invitation saying I was nominated might’ve been a small spoiler, but hey. And then again, that’s been my life lately — a parade of unexpected things I never saw coming.”
The crowd laughed.
He continued, deadpan:
“Best friends who fall off stages and wake up in hospitals… hey Blaine, love and miss ya, bro.”
The audience erupted — everyone knew Blaine’s infamous stage accident.
Channing lifted the award, grinning straight into the camera.
“Oh, and looky here — I’m one more ahead of you again. Better get healthy and catch up, dude. In case that makes no sense to anyone, Blaine and I are very competitive. Obviously in sports — which he had to bow out of, but hey, it earned him a new nickname, right Hop‑Along‑Bubba?”
Laughter rippled through the room.
“But both of us grew up on the privileged side of the tracks, so of course we compete professionally too. He howls on stages until people toss awards at him to make him stop, and they give me awards so I can come up here and tell you funny anecdotes about everyone’s favorite rambunctious rock musician.”
More laughter.
“And give you the current tally of babies he and his lovely wife have made — still three, by the way. But I’m sure once his balance gets better, I’ll have news at the next award show.”
The crowd howled.
“And I am now well ahead of you by two awards. Oh Blaine, dear buddy, hope you can make that up — but if not, a few more wins for me and I might buy those unused shelves off you. You’re clearly not using them. Oh — if you all are really quiet, you can hear him flipping me off.”
The room exploded — applause, laughter, flashes.
Then Channing’s tone shifted — softer, grounded.
He thanked the director, the cast, the crew, the studio.
And then his eyes found Charlotte.
“And to the biggest win of my life so far… meeting a very special someone when I least expected to. In the last place I ever thought to look. Blaine’s home, ironically enough.”
Charlotte’s breath stopped.
People turned. Whispers rippled. Cameras swung.
Her face appeared on the massive screens — her dress, her shock, her wide eyes.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Channing said, voice warm and sure, “yes, it’s true, it’s real, and it’s official.”
He lifted the trophy slightly.
“My beautiful muse.”
He blew her a kiss.
Charlotte melted, her breath stopped.
People turned. Whispers rippled. Cameras swung.
She saw herself on the massive screens — her face, her dress, her shock.
Oh boy.
Her cheeks burned.
But Channing didn’t look away.
He smiled — soft, private, real.
And Charlotte felt her heart do something dangerous.
When he returned to his seat, he leaned close.
“You okay?”
She nodded — barely.
“That was… wow.”
He chuckled. “Yeah. It’s a lot. Hope you were ready to be out and proud about it. As I told you — we do this event, and there’s no more hiding.”
She swallowed. “No, it’s fine. It was very sweet, thank you. And funny — I liked your Blaine bit. And congrats. You deserved it. But you forgot your award statue thing! You had it when you walked off stage!”
He laughed softly.
“Little Lotte, they don’t give you the real deal here. Just something to hold. They take it back as you exit. The real one gets delivered in a couple weeks.”
“Oh! I… didn’t know.”
“I figured Briar Rose would’ve told you. I thought all this would be old news to you by now.”
Charlotte shook her head.
“Oh no. She and Dad decided early on that while he accompanies her to these events, they’d keep us kids out of it. None of us have ever been to anything like this.”
He nodded, listening — really listening.
“I’ve been backstage at one of her concerts once, when I was fifteen. It was cool, but I didn’t really like it. Too loud. Too chaotic. We’ve seen her film music video sequences a few times — she likes to combine them with family trips. Sulani, mostly. She’s filmed a bunch there. That’s why we’ve been there so much.”
“Strange we never ran into each other,” he murmured.
“We may have,” she said softly. “Just didn’t know it. Like before Blaine and Lauren got back together and all.”
He looked at her — really looked — and the warmth in his eyes made her forget the fake snow, the gunshots, the chaos, the cameras.
“Wasn’t our time yet,” he said. “But it is now. A new era for both of us. And for the world.”
And she melted.
Echoes Of Legacy 