Bright Lights – Light Across Oceans

Channing stepped closer.

Charlotte’s heart kicked hard — the kind of pounding that made her feel weightless and rooted at the same time. She knew he would kiss her again. She felt it in the way he moved, in the way the air shifted around them, in the way the party noise blurred into something distant and irrelevant.

And he did.

She couldn’t look at him at first — afraid she’d say something awkward, afraid she’d break the spell — but he lifted her chin with two fingers, gentle and sure, and kissed her in a way only he ever had.

She’d been kissed before. But never like this. His kisses always stood out, always felt different.

Every boy she’d dated suddenly felt like rehearsal — clumsy, forgettable, irrelevant. This wasn’t practice. This wasn’t teenage fumbling or noble‑family politeness or Jonas’s brittle ego. This was the real thing. This was a man kissing her like he meant it.

His mouth was soft, deliberate, charged with a quiet intensity that made her knees unreliable. When it ended, he didn’t step away. He stayed close, breath mingling with hers, the warmth of him sinking into her skin until she felt lit from the inside.

When he finally leaned back, she looked up at him — at the face she’d memorized in secret long before she ever had the right to touch it — and thought, with dizzy certainty:

He’s mine.

And everyone at her party knew it.

Her friends had already dragged her aside earlier, demanding explanations, scolding her for keeping this from them. They’d been less than lukewarm about Edward Kensington. They’d despised Jonas. Jonas had despised them right back, calling them pretentious rich sluts to their faces.

But now? Now she was dating a famous actor.

She — the middle child, the overlooked daughter of the Cunningham legacy. The child from the marriage that barely lasted long enough to be called one. The girl who grew up in the shadow of Graham, Lauren, Nate, and Caroline — each of them born with a destiny already sketched out for them.

Graham had been the heir. Lauren, the prodigy. Nate and Caroline, the prophecy fulfilled — the children Brad had dreamed of since he was a teenager in love with Briar Rose.

And Charlotte? Everything she did had always felt optional.
Ballet, sure.
Dating a noble in Henfordshire, sure.
Average‑to‑good grades, atta girl.
She was loved — deeply, genuinely — but never central. Never the axis of anyone’s world.

Until now.

Now people saw her. Not because she chased the spotlight — but because Channing had shielded her from it until she was ready. And now that she was ready, he didn’t hesitate to flaunt her, and she loved the way it felt. Loved being present. Loved being seen next to him. With him.

“Little Lotte, are you dreaming? Did you hear anything I just said?”

She blinked, heat rising in her cheeks. “Wha—what? Sorry. I must’ve zoned out. Your eyes… I’m still trying to figure out the actual color.” A half‑lie, but a good one.

The corners of his mouth lifted, eyebrows following, then his expression softened into something serious.

“Here.”

He handed her an envelope. Another birthday card.

She opened it — tasteful, understated, elegant. The kind adults give each other, not the glittery nonsense lined up on the credenza. She smiled, then unfolded it fully.

It read:

Charlotte,

I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who makes the world feel quieter and louder at the same time. You walk into a room and everything shifts — not because you try, but because you exist the way you do.

I hope twenty‑one feels like a beginning, not a milestone. You deserve beginnings — real ones, the kind that open doors instead of closing chapters.

Thank you for letting me be part of your life, even in the small ways. I don’t take any of it lightly.

When your break comes, I want to show you Sulani. Not the version you’ve seen on family vacations. Not the version people see in magazines — the real place, the one that feels like home. My home. The place I was born and raised.
If you want to come, I’ll make sure it’s yours for as long as you’re there.

Happy birthday, Little Lotte.

— Channing

She read it twice. Then a third time.

Her heart didn’t just flutter — it tilted, like the ground had shifted beneath her.

And when she looked up, he was already watching her.

Channing brushed his thumb along her knuckles. “You don’t have to decide right away,” he said softly. “It’s a big trip. Take your time.”

She didn’t even let him finish.

“Are you kidding me?” Her whole body launched forward, arms around his neck, nearly knocking him a step back. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes — of course I want to come!”

He laughed under his breath, steadying her as she kissed his cheek, his jaw, anywhere she could reach without crossing a line.

“But—” she pulled back just enough to look at him, breathless, “my next break isn’t until fall…”

“Then we’ll wait until fall.” His hands stayed at her waist, warm and sure. “I’m not going anywhere, Little Lotte. Are you?”

“No!” She shook her head so fast her hair bounced. “I mean—yes! I’m going to SULANI!”

She hugged him again, tighter this time. “Thank you… Raoul.”

He smiled — that quiet, private smile he only ever gave her — and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

Parental Supervision

Across the room, Dr. Bradford Cunningham watched them with the expression of a man trying very hard not to react. Not disapproving — just processing. The kind of look only a father of three daughters could master.

Briar Rose leaned in, resting her chin lightly on his shoulder.

“Babe,” she murmured, “it’s okay. I know what you’re thinking, but he’s the best one yet. And he’s not Blaine. Speaking of — where is he? I haven’t seen him in a bit. Hopefully he isn’t getting into trouble again. We do have alcohol…”

She started to turn, scanning the crowd of Brindleton Bay’s Old Guard — pearls, linen suits, quiet wealth — but Brad caught her wrist gently.

“I saw him and Lauren disappear into the pool house about ten minutes ago,” he said. “Let’s assume he was exhausted from the travel and the party excitement and leave it at that.”

A beat.

“Even though we both know they’re probably wide awake in the pool house bedroom right now.”

Briar Rose giggled and kissed his cheek. “Got it. Another grandbaby incoming, huh?”

“Bri… please… have mercy.” Brad rubbed his forehead. “I have one daughter doing that, another potentially working up to that with a man a decade older, and—where is Caroline?!”

“Don’t worry about her.” Bri sighed. “I wasn’t going to tell you before the party — didn’t want to ruin it…”

Brad closed his eyes. “Good lord… please don’t say what I think you’re about to say.”

“Wait, what do you think I’m about to say?”

“Just say it.”

“Brad…”

“She’s pregnant?”

“What!? NO! Why would THAT be your first thought?”

“Well, she’s my child with a Cameron…”

Briar Rose swatted his arm, laughing. He grinned, unrepentant.

“Well, so is Nathaniel. But you never thought Nate might be the one with the oopsie baby?” she teased.

“Bri, I love our son, I do, but… no. That has not occurred to me. He’s sweet with Evie, I love them both, but… no. I would sooner think to leave medical pamphlets lying around for them to find with detailed instructions and diagrams about… proper placement and positioning during intercourse.”

Briar Rose nearly doubled over. “Oh my God, Braddy! Are you calling our son a dork? I’m sure they’ve figured that out flawlessly by now. I have faith in my Cameron genes.”

“So do I, but I think we can agree that Nate’s Cameron genes are mostly of visual nature. His demeanor, behavior, and thought process are very much Cunningham — specifically Cunningham awkwardness around girls. I was like that, Graham was like that. Why do you think he was almost thirty before he finally proposed to Whitney? And we both know Nathaniel is smart as a whip, certainly easy on the eye, but his problems reading and understanding girls and their intentions are legendary. Our son slept in the same bed with a girl several times and nothing happened — both attest to it, and I have no reason to doubt either of them.”

Briar Rose laughed, touching Bradford’s arm lightly. “Oh baby, that was him being respectful. He didn’t want to rush things — or her. I thought it was very sweet.”

Bradford sighed, smiling despite himself, eyebrows raised as he lifted his champagne.

“Bri,” he said, “I love the idea of our son being such a gentleman. Truly. But at that age — late teens, early twenties — boys generally are not. All we think about at that time is… well… bedroom matters. And we have a very hard time passing up any opportunity to engage in such, unless we’re dealing with something like stage fright.”

He took a sip, expression dry and amused.

“Just believe me, my love.”

Briar Rose shook her head, laughing softly. “Well, maybe Nate really is the exception.”

Bradford snorted, the sound low and wry. “He’s the exception because he’s a Cunningham. Our boys don’t know what to do with girls until they’re practically grown men. I was like that — we both remember our attempt at having our first time together ended with you running out of my very empty house and straight into Jackson’s arms. He, clearly, had the proper experience, an overload of confidence, and none of the shame.”

Briar Rose didn’t laugh.

Her expression shifted — not angry, not embarrassed, just quietly regretful. A small crease formed between her brows as she looked down at her champagne, thumb tracing the rim. “Brad…” she murmured, soft, acknowledging the memory without wanting to linger in it.

Brad’s tone changed instantly — still dry, still honest, but gentler, protective in the way only he ever was with her.

“Bri, I’m not complaining,” he said quietly. “Not anymore. Bygones are bygones. And truth be told, when I finally had my first time with someone, I was so damn awkward I was genuinely glad it wasn’t you. I wish I could gloat with fantastic anecdotes, but it wasn’t until you and I reconnected — the very night Nate was conceived — that I finally learned to just let go. And it made all the difference. For me. For both of us.”

He lifted his champagne slightly, a small, rueful gesture. “So trust me when I say Cunningham men all share the same fate. It takes practice. And a very patient, very loving partner to reach the proper heights in the bedroom.”

He exhaled, eyes softening. “Graham and I talked about that when he was still alive. And while Nathaniel isn’t the type to overshare, the little we’ve discussed tells me he’s… let’s call it still deep within a developmental journey.”

Briar Rose smiled but didn’t laugh — but she didn’t sink into sadness either. Her shoulders dipped just slightly, a quiet acknowledgment of a memory she’d rather not revisit. She took a small sip of champagne, steadying herself, then met Brad’s eyes with a rueful, grown‑woman honesty.

“Well,” she said softly, “all I can say for sure is that you will never hear any complaints from me. I have no redline as far as our bedroom endeavors are concerned. None, whatsoever – and while you didn’t ask, and I don’t mind oversharing here – I would put you up against Jackson every day of the week and twice on Sunday. It’s all about you, baby, and no regrets there. Amy can have him. I have someone much, MUCH, better. You know I love you to death, Braddy, inside and outside our bedroom. And various other places, as I would like to add, further refuting your notion about being lame. So, I have faith in our son. It’s always the silent waters that run deepest.”

Brad’s mouth curved — warm, private, the kind of smile only she ever got. “I toast to that,” he murmured, winking at her.

Then he sobered, the shift natural and smooth. “So… what’s the news with Caro?”

“She broke up with Chad. This morning. Or he with her, I honestly haven’t been able to make much sense of the who-dunnits here through her sobbing. Either way, hearts were broken.”

“Oh.” His tone was far too chipper. He cleared his throat, deepening it, trying to find the appropriate level of paternal gravity — because cartwheels were clearly not the reaction Bri was seeking, even though that’s what the ‘sad’ news really evoked in him.

“She’s heartbroken, Brad,” Bri said softly. “I guess he was just too… um… too…”

“Lifeless?” Brad helped, dry sarcasm oozing.

“Brad.”

“Tell me I’m wrong. I know I’m on the stiffer side, but compared to any Lockwood man I’m the life of any party. And that’s … concerning, even to me. Not sure that is whom I like for any of our daughters. I almost prefer a Blaine over that, at least I don’t have the constant urge to check his vitals.”

“Well… you’re not wrong.” Bri sighed. “I think she really liked him, though. So she’s taking it hard. Her first real heartbreak, not counting those little crushes from high school before she got together with him. And it’s rough for her, watching her siblings with their partners — smooching and happy. She’s with her horses.”

“Understood.” Brad nodded. “Another fire to put out tomorrow.”

“Not a fire. Prepare for floodgates. I mean it, Braddy, this is going to require a very delicate surgical parental touch,” She touched his chest. “And Braddy… I need you to take care of this. I have to get back to the tour. I only scheduled a break long enough to be here for Charley’s birthday — since it’s so close to Ash’s and I have to take another break for that — I can’t extend. I have to leave tomorrow morning, bright and way too early. Can you handle it? Anything it takes, baby, take her shopping or buy her a new damn horse for all I care. Anything to put that frown upside down, it’s killing me having to leave her like this. Damn Chad. I’ll just blame him.”

“Bri,” he said, with a soft, confident smile, “I have three daughters. I helped raise Briony at times — so I can almost claim four – at least as long as Jackson isn’t around. I can see a young lady through heartbreak. Worry not. I’ve got this.”

A familiar voice chimed in behind them.

“Well, I can attest to that. Brad is excellent at consoling the broken-hearted.”

Brad turned — and Viola Fairchild – his ex-wife, Charlotte’s mother – slipped into their little circle. Elegant, amused, holding a champagne flute she clearly hadn’t touched.

“Vi,” Bri said warmly, kissing her cheek. “I take it you saw them?”

Viola kissed Brad’s cheek then turned to Briar Rose.

“Oh, honey,” Viola laughed, “the entire Eastern Seaboard saw them. I’m fairly certain the lighthouse blinked in approval.”

Brad groaned. “Sorry Vi. We were gonna tell you, but it started with a slow burn and while I wanted to see how it turns out it – well – turned out big – and fast. One minute she is commandeering my driver to show Channing around the Bay, the next she’s begging for the jet to attend an ‘event’, which we all found out along with everyone else on live TV were the SAA awards. Not exactly the type of thing to reveal over a phone call.”

“Bradford,” Viola said, patting his arm, “our daughter is twenty‑one. An adult, a young woman. We don’t need to exchange parental notes whenever she looks at a young man. And she’s dating a handsome, well‑mannered actor who looks at her like she hung the moon. This is not a crisis. This is a win. I am beyond thrilled. And you should be too, so quit it with the sourpuss face. Especially since he solved our Jonas problem. Now that was something that would drive any parent to drink.” she said and remembered her champagne, so she took a healthy drink of it, practically shuddering.

Briar Rose nodded. “Exactly.”

Viola sipped her champagne. “I have high hopes for them, maybe he is ‘the one’, after all those duds. Besides, if you think you can stop Charlotte Cunningham from doing anything once she’s decided she wants it, you’re adorable.”

Brad sighed. “I just… want her happy – and protect her from heartbreak. He is older … significantly so.”

“Oh Brad – seriously?! You, the man born into a long line of Brindleton Bay Old Guard men, is standing here and worried about something that is common practice here in the Bay – and with a straight face? Give me a break! Besides, and I am sure Bri will confirm this: men mature much slower than women. So, at their age, I’ll gladly take the ten years. And before you get offended, you might well be the exception, Braddy. But why do you think Grant is eight years older than me, huh? I wasn’t going to chance having to teach my own husband how life works. No thank you.”

Briar Rose just nodded, while sipping champagne.

“She is happy,” Viola said. “Look at her, Brad. He’s a good man, judging from the few times I met him here. Wasn’t he the one who came to stay with you to take care of Blaine when he ran off all the nurses you hired? Come on, any man who would do that for his friend is an instant keeper. She is floating on air. Look at them, what a beautiful and cute couple. I 100% approve.”

They all did.

Charlotte was laughing at something Channing whispered, her face lit up in a way none of them had seen in years.

Briar Rose leaned her head on Brad’s shoulder again.

“Braddy,” she murmured, “she’s in love.”

Viola smiled softly. “And he is too. I know he’s an actor, and I am sure he’s good, but not that good. This looks genuine to me. Awww – swoon.”

Brad exhaled — long, resigned, but not unhappy.

“God help me,” he said quietly, “I think you’re right. Somehow, I had hoped she’d meet a nice man here and stay in the Bay. From the looks of it, her future will be even further away than Lauren. Good grief. Why can’t kids stay closer?”

A guest swept in — one of the Old Guard matrons Charlotte had known since childhood — and kissed her cheek.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” she said, handing her a small velvet box.

Charlotte thanked her, slipping into polite conversation. Channing stepped back, giving her space, champagne flute in hand.

He scanned the room.

And saw them.

Bradford. Briar Rose. Viola.

All three watching him with the unmistakable expression of parents evaluating the man kissing their daughter.

Channing lifted his champagne glass toward them — a small, respectful salute. Bradford’s mouth twitched. Briar Rose beamed. Viola raised her own glass back, amused and approving.

He took a sip.

As he lowered the glass, movement caught his eye.

Blaine and Lauren slipped back into the party — hair slightly mussed, clothes a little rumpled, faces glowing with the unmistakable look of a married couple who had just enjoyed a private moment. Lauren tried to smooth her dress. Blaine tried to look innocent.

Channing snorted quietly.

And just like that, he flashed back — ten days earlier — to Blaine’s return from Jackson’s ranch.

Flashback

The Cameron Mansion had settled back into its usual cadence — quiet, orderly, sunlit. Their butler Harrington moved through the halls with his trademark precision, restoring the house to its normal rhythm after Blaine’s return.

Channing arrived in the late afternoon, respectful as always. He never just walked in; he waited for Harrington to open the door.

“Mr. Cameron is in the lounge,” Harrington said with a polite nod. “He will be thrilled to see you. Mrs. Cameron is out back with the boys. A refreshment, maybe?”

“No thanks,” Channing murmured, stepping inside.

The mansion felt different now — calmer, steadier. Blaine’s presence filled it again, but not the chaotic version of him. This was the grounded, post‑ranch Blaine. The one Jackson had rebuilt. Channing hadn’t seen him in over three months, but he could feel the change the moment he crossed the threshold.

He found Blaine exactly where Harrington said: lounging on the sofa, legs stretched out, flipping through a magazine he clearly wasn’t reading.

Blaine looked up.

A slow grin spread across his face.

“Well, well, wellllll,” he said, “if it isn’t the man who’s been kissing my sister‑in‑law on national television.”

Channing froze mid‑step.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Blaine continued, waving a hand, “I’m not pissed. I’m just mildly offended you didn’t tell me first.”

Channing sat down across from him. “If I had known how… look, I was trying to go slow, and I did, until… well… it just happened faster.”

“Please, no TMI.” Blaine cut in. “I’m just glad I found out before Lauren and I got your wedding invite. Or since we’re both Camerons – maybe I should have said the invite to the gender reveal.”

Channing groaned. “I didn’t want to make it weird while you were at the ranch. I asked Lauren if there was a way to see you or talk to you, but she said Jackson only allowed one visit halfway through — and only her. Not even your kids.”

Blaine’s expression shifted — softer, honest.

“Chill, bro,” he said. “I’m messing with you. We’re good. I’ll admit I freaked the fuck out at first, but Jackson talked me down. All good. Weird, still… but all cool.”

He leaned back, arms draped over the sofa.

“But seriously — my sister‑in‑law, you idiot? Really? Of all the women out there wanting a piece of you, it had to be Lauren’s sis?”

Channing exhaled, relieved. “I didn’t go looking to date her. It just… developed.”

Blaine smirked. “You know how I found out?”

Channing didn’t. He sat forward.

“TV,” Blaine said. “Jackson’s living room. He and Amy wanted to watch some old‑ass western. I was just thrilled to watch ANY TV. And then some celebrity news crap came on. Someone’s wedding, a boob job — and my bestie stepping out at an award show with his new lover. I just about shit broken toys.”

Channing winced. “Yeah… sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry,” Blaine said, “I think Charlotte is good for you. And you for her. Just don’t fuck it up, because that’ll make shit weird for me too. But if it lasts and you marry her, we’ll both have Brad as father‑in‑law. That’s priceless.”

Channing laughed — really laughed — relieved.

Blaine’s grin softened.

They ended up talking for hours — sprawled across Blaine’s lounge, Harrington bringing coffee, the afternoon sliding into evening. Blaine told hilarious anecdotes about his rough times at the ranch, making both of them laugh so hard they were wheezing. They talked about Charlotte. About Lauren. About the future. About everything two men talk about when they trust each other completely.

And while Blaine was still very much Blaine, he was also different somehow — steadier, clearer, anchored. When Lauren joined them later, Channing could tell she felt the same way.

Back to the Moment

Charlotte went off with some of her friends, so Channing found Blaine, who seemed ravenous, piling finger foods onto a plate while already munching on some.

“Can take the redneck off the ranch, but can’t take the ranch out of the inner redneck, huh? Yee‑haw, brother.”

Blaine looked up at him, chewing.

“Listen, I am not even remotely ashamed.”

“Why would you be? We are all familiar with the after‑nookie munchies. Bravo to your enthusiasm, but could your romp in the hay with your wife not have waiting until AFTER Charlotte’s party?” Channing said dryly, just loud enough for only them to hear.

Blaine stopped chewing, stared at him, then grinned and nodded.

“You got me. Can’t sneak anything by you, huh? Can you blame me? Three months of torture and lonely nights… me missing my wifey, while I could hear Jackson and Amy ride their nightly rodeos in the room next door. I’ve got blue balls for months to work out. Poor Lauren won’t be walking right for weeks because of my … enthusiasm backlog. And honestly, she has been more than willing, to put it mildly. I was missed, for sure in all the ways that matter. Speaking of, how’s all that going with little Miss Cunningham?”

“None of your business, that’s how.”

Blaine chewed, then froze again. “No. NO! Oh my God, don’t tell me our dime‑store Casanova has kept it in his pants! Oh, you have, I can see it in your face! That has to be a record… Who are you these days bro? Not the same guy who barely made it out of the parking lot with some of your conquests from your younger years.”

“Keep your voice down!” Channing gave Blaine a punishing glare, then grabbed his arm to pull him away, but Blaine hunkered down.

“I am not done here! I am starving. Half the food I was given over the past three months was inedible, the other half I could hardly get down because I knew them personally. YUCK! This here is the Garden of Eden for me. Real food. Tasty food. Food I didn’t have to club to death before biting into it. You have no idea, man.”

Channing grabbed two Cornish hens, plopped them on Blaine’s plate, and pulled him along, out into the backyard, down some paths until they were alone.

Blaine was complaining, but amused.

“Quit pulling me and why are we running? Let go, you fool, I can walk on my own! But hell, look at you! You are really in love! Holy shit! HA! Just when you think you’ve seen it all. What the fuck is this anyway that you threw on my plate? Are we eating chicks now? These needed another growth spurt.” Blaine lifted one of the hens.

“They are Cornish hens, Blaine.”

Blaine squinted at it. “Cornish hens. That sounds like something a British guy calls you when you cut him off in traffic.”

Channing sighed. “They’re a small breed of domestic chicken. They’re meant to be this size. Individual portions. Elegant.”

“Elegant?” Blaine snorted. “Bro, they look like the chickens that didn’t make the height requirement for the roller coaster.”

Channing stared at him. “Do you ever listen to yourself?”

“Constantly. I’m hilarious.”

Channing shook his head, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

Blaine jabbed the hen with his fork — then abandoned the fork entirely, grabbing the whole thing with his bare hand. Grease immediately slicked across his fingers, dripping down his wrist. He didn’t care. He tore into it like a starving raccoon, talking around a mouthful of meat.

“So let me get this straight,” he said, bits of Cornish hen visible as he spoke. “You and Charlotte are officially official now… I mean, you flaunted her to the entire nation, and now we’re here on Brad’s turf — which you wouldn’t be unless he thinks you’re here to stay.”

“I’ve been here many times,” Channing corrected. “Just in a different capacity.”

Blaine snorted, a fleck of roasted skin flying off his lip. “Different capacity? Are you listening to yourself? You sound like the Brindleton Bay crowd now. Damn, you’re fully in character here.”

He ripped another piece off the hen, heartily bit into it, grease now smeared across his cheekbone. Channing stared at him like he was witnessing a crime scene.

“I’m not in character,” Channing said. “This isn’t a role I’m playing, Blaine. This is very serious to me. And important. Which is why I’d appreciate it if you didn’t embarrass me — if you can help it.”

Blaine wiped his mouth with the back of his hand — which only made it worse — then shrugged.

“Yeah, you’re in love. No doubt now. I wasn’t sure at first. With all the drama I caused, I didn’t know if I got in your head too. But no — wasn’t me. It was our little Charlotte. Damn dude, I did not have that on my Bingo card. Just when you think nothing can surprise you anymore, you pull that out of your magic hat.”

Channing didn’t answer.

Blaine nudged him with the back of his hand, leaving a faint smear of seasoning on Channing’s sleeve.

Channing stared at it — disgusted, offended, betrayed — like the smear had personally insulted his lineage.

“Oh for—Blaine,” he muttered.

“What?” Blaine said, still chewing. “Adds character.”

Channing reached automatically for the nearest cloth… only to realize Blaine didn’t have one. Except—

He snatched the pocket square sticking out of Blaine’s blazer.

“HEY! What are you doing?!” Blaine yelped. “Dude, that is one hundred percent silk! Lauren picked that out for me!”

“And now it’s being used for something useful,” Channing said flatly, wiping the smear off his sleeve with brisk, surgical strokes. “Teaches you not to eat without a napkin. And not to wipe your filthy hands on other people.”

Blaine listened to his friend’s rant, then grinned wider, shaking his head.

“What?”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this bad for a girl before. I thought Katia was that for you, but compared to how you are with lil Charley, that train wreck was barely warm‑up.”

“You just had to bring up Katia? It’s humiliating enough having to explain that misery not only to Charlotte, but also her father.”

“Look, man… I gotta give you shit. It’s what we do. But I’m happy for you. Really. Just don’t screw it up. For her. Or for me. You’re my best friend, and Charley is my sister‑in‑law. Don’t make it weird.”

Channing huffed a quiet laugh. “Me? You are worried about me making this weird? Wow. But yeah, Blaine, I’ll do my best. Speaking of weird … Listen — I’ve invited Charlotte out to Sulani. Just us. Next uni break she gets. I’d like a week where we can be ourselves, uninterrupted.”

Blaine’s grin widened — grease shining on his chin — it was obvious where his mind was going, so Channing shoved him before he could say anything.

“Dude, relax,” Blaine wheezed, still chewing. “I’m just saying — a trip like that? That’s big. Boom-chicka-bow-wow.” Blaine made certain suggestive motions, Channing shoved him while looking around them to make sure nobody was watching them.

“Blaine… stop. It’s not about anything like that.” Channing exhaled. “I’m thirty‑one. And something Brad said really stuck with me. You’re two years younger than me, but married — despite all your attempts to self‑sabotage — and you have three children. Honestly, I always thought I’d have all that by now too.”

Blaine grabbed the second Cornish hen, holding it like a barbarian king claiming a trophy.

“You want kids, huh?” he said, tearing into it. “Man, they’re a blessing, but you better nanny up big time or you’ll cry with your estate surrounded by water on all sides. That’s just asking for trouble. Toddlers have serious death wishes. They live for trying to find creative ways to off themselves.”

He gestured with the half‑eaten hen, spraying crumbs. “And horses? Same thing. Did I tell you about me kicking a horse in the ass to save Beau?”

“Only about five million times now, Blaine.”

“Hey, it’s a great story. I’m making a song about it.”

Channing sighed. “Fantastic. Can’t wait to hear it. Hope you send Jackson a copy.”

Blaine snorted, a fleck of meat landing on the path. “Ha! As if. All that crowd listens to are twangy country tunes, and I am not ever going there. I am and always will be all about that rock.”

He pointed the hen at Channing.

“Speaking of, listen, I think it’s great for you to take sweet little Miss Cunningham off to your luxury cave in Sulani and rock our with your cock out. Hella romantic. She’ll love it. I heard there is that waterfall that is perfect for … the naked pas de deux type stuff. I am sure you know which one, you’re the local.”

“Blaine! Shut your mouth! I am not inviting her to some boundless orgies. I want her to see the real me, all of me ….”

Blaine grinned.
“Now we’re talking. Finally admitting it!”

“Blaine, stop! This isn’t about sex, it’s about future. Hers and mine. And my legacy and lineage. I’m past the casual stuff. But she’s young, and I don’t want her to rush into something without fully understanding what that is. Yeah, we’re both from affluent backgrounds, but the life she knows is vastly different from mine. As you well know, the entertainment industry is not for the faint of heart, and she is very… naïve in many ways. I don’t want her to run into this heedlessly.”

He rubbed his forehead. “Though I will say she did exceptionally well at the SAA awards gala and on a film set. I thought it would be nice for her to see me work, but that almost turned into a major failure. We suddenly had equipment issues, the director ended up shuffling the schedule, and we were pushed into filming a sex scene instead. I’m not prude, but that was absolutely not what I wanted her to see, and it almost tanked everything right there.”

He exhaled, remembering the chaos.

“Ironically, I had just finished talking to my costar about all of this after she met Charlotte. She told me it would rain gold coins before she’d ever consider bringing her fiancé to set. And there I was, making what turned into an almost catastrophic mistake.”

He shook his head.

“When Charlotte ran out of that studio all emotional, I genuinely thought she was headed straight for the airport, kicking me to the curb for good. Somehow I managed to turn the moment around, and it became our first kiss. But I really don’t need anything like that again. You’re the adrenaline junkie out of the both of us.”

Blaine snorted, remembering the chaos of his own film days. “Oh, rookie mistake. I’m guilty of it myself. Brutal. Those scenes are the worst. Luckily I bailed on the film industry, but even in my music vids we sometimes have these full‑contact setups because of the kind of stuff I write. And one time — one single time — I made the mistake of taking Lauren with me to a shoot like that, thinking, ‘Music video, right? What can go wrong?’ Ha! Turns out a lot can go wrong.”

He shook his head, grimacing at the memory.

“Man, she was not happy with me or the director when he showed us the script edit they conjured up overnight — and I was contractually locked in. So, there I was, peeling not one, but three models out of their already minimal wardrobe, doing all this staged, up‑close nonsense with them crawling all over me, their hands in all my censored ‘wife-only’ areas while singing ‘Dark Town,’ one eyeball constantly on the sidelines watching my wife turn redder by the second until I swear there was smoke coming out of her ears.”

He pointed at himself. “I didn’t think my girl had a jealous bone in her body, but she sure corrected that idea. I spent the rest of the day apologizing so hard mixed with serious ass-kissing my lips felt like sandpaper. And that was before my whole drug‑spiral disaster era and that stepping-out incident. I swear if that had happened now … ugh.”

He waved a hand. “I swear, any lyrics I write now aren’t even gonna mention other women. Or if they do, I’ll make Lauren play the part in the video so nobody gets mad. Lesson learned. I think of it like I wouldn’t ever go and stand there watching Lauren perform a surgery on a patient, so she doesn’t need to see me do my thing, and everyone’s happy. Keep the mystery alive.”

He pointed at Channing with a half‑laugh. “Well, glad you managed to talk your way off that ledge. Starting to think you two really are endgame material. Who’d’ve thunk it?”

Channing exhaled. “I’m really trying here, Blaine — to be respectful and paced — but it’s getting harder. I know she’s young, and a little naïve, and maybe even immature at times, but I find that charming and endearing and… man, I gotta watch myself or I’ll be sitting there with wedding magazines, picking out tuxes.”

Blaine exploded into laughter — full‑body, wheezing, snorting — nearly choking on the hen. When he finally calmed, he slapped Channing’s back with a greasy hand, leaving a visible print.

“Good,” Blaine said, lifting the Cornish hen again. “Then you know how I feel about Lauren. I got it bad for her — always did. Which is why dating after she and I broke up was nothing but BS. If you know, you know. Sounds like you know.”

He shrugged, licking his fingers loudly. “And if you think about it nothing’s stopping you from putting a ring on it — as a promise. Send a flare up to each other and the world that you both are damn serious about each other without taking a speedboat down the harbor of matrimony before you both are ready for that. You don’t have to start a family tomorrow. Just drop on one knee, if Sulani works out. And publicly claim her as yours. Mark your territory. I mean, she’s very easy on the eye, and with her pedigree, I bet she has panting dudes running down her door.”

He jabbed the hen again. “Not to change the subject but explain to me how this is supposed to be food for grown men. It’s a chew toy for humans; you work off all the calories by having to nibble every ounce of gooey goodness off bones. Feels more caveman inspired, I don’t see what’s supposed to be elegant about this. Tastes pretty decent though but my jaw’s getting tired and sore.”

Channing rolled his eyes. “Just eat it, Blaine. I almost said a sore jaw would be great for the nerves of the rest of us but then remembered it probably won’t be enough to keep you from flapping your gums anyway.”

Blaine took a bite, chewed, then nodded slowly. “Hey, pump the hate brakes, will ya? I just had the most hilarious idea: Imagine us getting a few of these fun‑sized chickens to take to Jackson — just to watch his face when I suggest adding these chicken nuggets on legs to his flock. I can already hear him losing his shit like ‘look like someone washed them too hot!’”

Channing smiled. “I think you’re forgetting Jackson was married to Briar Rose. He’s not as unpolished as you think. And he has been to the royal palace in Bellacorde. I wouldn’t be surprised if he even has eaten those before.”

“True. But au contraire, mon frère,” Blaine said, waving the hen like a baton. “I’ll admit, I may have thought he was a dumb country bumpkin at first – I own that — but nope. I quickly learned the dude’s sharp – in his own, ruffian way. And once you decode their weird ranch drawl, he’s actually funny.”

He gestured wildly, grease flying. “But his lifestyle and ours … man, two entirely different dimensions. I have no idea how he and Bri were ever married. That place is not livable. If it’s not rabid roosters or deranged coyotes, it’s rattlesnakes or insane horses. And if you want meat? They make you kill it!”

“Blaine,” Channing said, “how is that a shocker? Where did you think meat comes from? The big steak trees and fish‑fillet orchards?”

Blaine snorted, leaning back like he was about to deliver a lecture from 1953. “Oh, gee whiz, sport, thanks for telling me, cos I is dumb AF,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I know where it comes from. I just don’t care what happens before, and I definitely never needed first‑hand knowledge. My steak comes on a plate, cooked to perfection — that’s all I need to know. I do not want a step-by-step playthrough on how it got there, nor fond memories of when I refilled its feeder earlier that day.”

He pointed at Channing with mock authority. “Maybe you should go spend a month on that ranch. You’ll come back with a whole new attitude too.”

Channing shook his head. “I will pass, because I really don’t need to see all that firsthand and don’t do drugs, drink myself stupid, and jump off gigantic stages breaking every bone in my body — so I will never end up in the position you put yourself in to have that as my Hail Mary approach.”

“Arrogant smartass! All hail King Channing Cameron, the perfect, first of his name.”

“Well, Blaine, you know what they say. Better a smartass than a dumbass.”

Channing laughed at the raised middle finger — greasy, of course.

He reached out and hugged Blaine — still holding his plate, fingers oily, lips covered in spices from the Cornish massacre he’d been working through.

“I’m glad to have you back, you crazy dude. I really missed you and you really had me worried.”

“Feeling’s mututal,” Blaine snickered, then returned to demolishing the second Cornish hen — fingers slick, mouth shiny, seasoning smeared across his cheek like war paint — when Channing finally snapped.

“Okay. Enough. I can’t watch this anymore. You’re fat enough now,” Channing muttered.

He reached out, grabbed Blaine’s plate mid‑bite, and intercepted a passing server like a man performing a hostage exchange. The server blinked, startled, as Channing deposited the greasy plate onto the tray with surgical precision.

Before Blaine could protest, Channing plucked the white service towel from the waiter’s sleeve.

“Dude—HEY—what are you doing?!” Blaine yelped, trying to twist away.

Channing grabbed his jaw with one hand and started wiping his face with the other, Blaine flailing like a toddler being cleaned after a spaghetti incident.

“Hold still.”

“What the … —this is assault!”

“You look like you bathed in poultry. I can’t take you serious like that.”

“Get off of me! Let me live!”

“Hold still.”

Channing wiped Blaine’s hands next — Blaine trying to yank them back, complaining loudly, seasoning flying.

“Quit it,” Channing said.

“You gotta be kiding me! You really need some kids in your life to get this shit out of your system! I’ll let you watch mine and you get to wipe hands and faces to your heart’s content!”

“You’re filthy.”

“I’m celebrating your girlfriend’s birthday!”

“You’re feral.”

“I am trail-rated! Ask Jackson.”

Channing finally released him, exhaling sharply — only to notice the smear of grease on his own sleeve.

“Fantastic,” he muttered, trying to wipe it off with the towel.

That was the exact moment Charlotte walked up.

“Am I interrupting?” she asked, amused.

Channing straightened instantly. “Of course not.”

Blaine grinned. “More the merrier. Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have a piece of gum or something? Those miniature chickens got launched all over my teeth.”

Charlotte blinked. “Uh… no, sorry.”

Channing pointed toward the pool house. “Blaine, you’re staying in the pool house, which is literally ten steps from here. Go brush your teeth. GO.”

Blaine backed away, hands raised. “Okay, okay! Behave, children. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do — but if you do, name it after me.”

He disappeared toward the pool house.

Charlotte watched him go, then looked at Channing — and her eyes widened.

“Um… there’s a greasy handprint on your back. How did that happen?”

Channing sighed. “Blaine happened. What do you think?”

He slipped off his dress blazer, looked at the mess, decided no napkin could make that disappear, then tried to fold it neatly. Charlotte took it from him, rolled her eyes affectionately, and tossed it onto a nearby hydrangea bush without hesitation.

“Hey—” he started.

She stepped close, hands on his white‑shirted chest, fingers curling lightly into his tie as she pulled him down to her.

“Hey,” she purred.

He smiled. “Hey.”

They kissed — soft, warm, private despite being outdoors. Her arms wrapped around his neck and the gentle kiss deepened.

And that was when Nate and Evie rounded the corner, clearly looking for Charlotte.

They froze.

Nate grabbed Evie by the arm and immediately pivoted back toward the house.

“Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Not again.”

Evie snorted as they hurried away.