The last day before fall break always felt different — lighter, looser, like the whole campus had exhaled at once. But for Charlotte Cunningham, it felt like something else entirely.
It felt like the beginning of a new chapter.
San Myshuno University’s quad buzzed with students hauling suitcases, hugging friends, shouting plans across the lawn. Charlotte moved through it all with her books hugged to her chest, her heart beating a little faster than usual. Not anxious — just… charged. Like she was walking toward something she’d been waiting for without knowing she’d been waiting for it.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Channing.
Safe travels tomorrow, Little Lotte. I’ll be waiting.
She stopped walking. The words warmed her from the inside out.
She typed back, then erased it. Typed again. Erased again. Everything sounded either too eager or too formal or too much like she was texting a professor instead of the man she’d been thinking about every day since her birthday.
Finally she sent:
I can’t wait.
Simple. True. Enough.
She tucked her phone away and kept walking, the autumn air crisp against her cheeks. Leaves skittered across the pavement. Students laughed behind her. Someone was blasting music from a dorm window — something upbeat, something careless.
Charlotte felt none of that carelessness.
She felt… ready.
Her last class of the day was a blur. She took notes she didn’t need, nodded along to discussions she barely heard, and kept glancing at the clock like it was holding her hostage. When the professor finally dismissed them, she packed her bag with a speed that made her seatmate laugh.
“Someone’s excited for break.”
Charlotte smiled, cheeks warm. “You have no idea.”
She walked across campus toward the parking lot, where the Cunningham driver would pick her up as usual. She was one of a few students who didn’t live on or near campus, but commuted on days she couldn’t do remote classes. Her hair catching the breeze, her mind already halfway to Sulani — to the moment she’d see him waiting for her, to the places he wanted her to see, to the version of himself he’d never shown anyone else.
Her phone buzzed again.
Don’t forget sunscreen. And something comfortable for the flight. And maybe a sweater — the airport AC is always set to Ice Age.
She laughed under her breath.
He was nervous too.
She typed back:
I’ll pack like a pro. See you tomorrow.
And for the first time all semester, Charlotte didn’t feel like the overlooked Cunningham daughter, the middle child, the optional one.
She felt like someone stepping into her own storyline arc. One that revolved around her, rather than her being a background character.
Fall break had never felt so much like a beginning.
Morning of Departure
Morning light poured into the Rosebriar Haven dining room, catching on polished silver and crisp linens. The table looked like something out of an upscale decorating magazine — curated without trying, elegant without effort. Fresh flowers in a low vase. Fruit arranged like art. Coffee service gleaming. Everything in its place.
It was the Cunningham ritual: no matter what life threw at them, they sat here together every morning.
Today, though, the air felt heavy.
Brad sat at the head of the table, posture tight, eyes shadowed by the kind of fatherly funk he only fell into when Briar Rose was away. He missed her — not dramatically, but in the quiet, structural way a man misses the person who steadies him. Without her, he felt… off‑balance.
Nathaniel sat to his right, suit pants on, tie draped around his neck, stabbing at his eggs with the enthusiasm of a man mourning the loss of college breaks. “Fall break,” he muttered. “Must be nice. I remember it fondly… urgh. They don’t tell you this when preparing you for adulthood.”
Brad set down his coffee cup, looking at his son with barely concealed amusement. “I did tell you this. I remember vividly your eye‑rolls whenever I reminded you to enjoy every minute of being in school, as the next fifty years won’t be so… how do you say? Chill?”
Caroline sat across from him, stirring her coffee without drinking it. Her heartbreak had faded but not vanished; it lingered in the soft puffiness around her eyes, in the way she kept her shoulders slightly curled inward.
“Dad, nobody says ‘chill’ anymore.”
“Well, what do you kids say these days? Dope? Rad?”
“Don’t worry about what we say, Dad. Just speak normal. No need to try and sound… how did your gen say? Cool?”
“Kids,” Brad muttered. “Can’t make them happy.”
“Your daughter looks happy. Or happy‑adjacent…” Nate grumbled, pointing with his yogurt spoon as Charlotte walked in — late, as usual.
And Charlotte — the center of today’s tension — sat down between them, staring at a plate she couldn’t bring herself to touch. Her stomach churned.
Her nerves were a live wire.
Brad noticed immediately.
“Charley,” he said gently, “you need to eat something. English muffins are exceptional today. Mrs. Marwood excelled as usual.”
Mrs. Marwood beamed from the kitchen doorway.
“I can’t,” Charlotte whispered. “My stomach has been churning all morning. So many butterflies running amok in there.”
Mrs. Marwood, who had run this household longer than Charlotte had been alive, appeared at her shoulder with a small plate of toast and a cup of ginger tea. “Just a bite, sweetheart. Traveling on an empty stomach is no good.”
“Ginger tea,” Brad said approvingly. “That will help settle your stomach.”
Charlotte tried. Her hand trembled.
Nathaniel sighed. “She’s going to faint at the airport.”
Caroline glared. “Why? Because that’s what you would do?”
“Why am I the target now? I’m just concerned for our sister — is that not allowed? I am the big brother…”
“Ugh. You are making me feel sick too. May I be excused?” Caroline grumbled.
“Enough,” Brad said, sharper than intended. Then softer: “No, you may not. Eat something, Caro. And Charley will be just fine, thank you, Nate. She’s nervous. Let her be nervous.”
Charlotte swallowed hard, cheeks warm. “I’m sorry. I just… I can’t calm down. Any chance you could give me something calming, Dad?”
Caroline’s snark flickered — a glimpse of her usual self. “Yeah, Dad, give your daughter some drugs so she can be the next Blaine Cameron. Luckily, she’s going to just the right place for it — Channing is well used to it.”
“Yikes,” Nate muttered. “Someone needs more coffee. Extra‑strong, Mrs. Marwood. Put it in a bucket and pour it over Caro. For the safety of all of us.”
Caroline swatted at him, nearly flipping him off until Brad’s glare stopped her mid‑gesture. He did not allow such behavior — no matter how old his children were.
“All I ever hear from each one of you is that you’re adults now,” Brad said, patience thinning. “So how about, rather than reminding me with words, you show me by acting like it. Hm?”
Before Mrs. Marwood could attempt to diffuse the discord, the doorbell rang — she answered and a familiar voice floated in from the foyer.
“Well, this looks like a mood.”
Viola Fairchild — Brad’s ex‑wife and Charlotte’s mother — stepped into the dining room, elegant as ever, coat draped over her arm, hair perfectly swept back. She kissed Charlotte’s head, then Brad’s cheek, then nodded warmly at Caroline and Nathaniel.
“Morning, all.”
Brad exhaled — a mix of relief and fond resignation. “Vi. You didn’t have to come. Our daughter is being eaten alive by butterflies, and my other two have reverted to the pubescent stage – and that’s being generous.”
“Aww,” Viola giggled, sliding into the empty chair beside Charlotte and wrapping an arm around her. Mrs. Marwood immediately brought her coffee. “But my daughter is flying across the world for a week with a man who looks at her like she hung the moon. What mother wouldn’t want to see her off?”
“Breakfast, Mrs. Fairchild?” Mrs. Marwood asked.
“Oh, no thank you. I already ate with my other family. We’re going camping — the husband is still doing last‑minute shopping. I am scarecited. Scared and excited.”
Nate shuddered, remembering his own failed attempt at camping with Evie. “I don’t blame you.”
Caroline laughed. “I was just going to say — take Nate with you. He wants a break and LOVES camping.”
“No, he does not,” Nate shot back. “Thank you. I’d rather go to work with Dad.”
“I am flattered,” Brad deadpanned.
“Nate, sweetheart, you know I adore you,” Viola said, smiling. “But don’t worry — I’d take you most anywhere with me, as long as certain criteria are met. Camping will never be on that list. I know your limits.”
Nate grinned, and the room softened. Viola had always been around; he’d grown up knowing her, just like all of them. Despite being his father’s ex‑wife, she was always welcome, always invited. Brad’s other ex‑wife — Lauren’s mother — was another story. Whenever she showed up, the kids vanished and Brad grew tense. If Briar Rose was home, her proverbial hackles went up.
Charlotte leaned into her mother’s shoulder, grateful.
Viola took one look at her untouched plate. “Oh, sweetheart. That bad?”
Charlotte nodded.
Viola brushed her hair back. “You’re going to have a wonderful trip, darling. And you’re going to be fine. You’re going to have so much fun. And he is sooooo handsome…”
Caroline slid back her chair. “Urgh. I need to go take care of my horses.”
Brad cleared his throat. “Caroline…”
“What?”
“We are still at breakfast.”
“Dad, I’m done. Can I please go? Maybe you want to hold my hand to the stables so I don’t fall down? You could carry me, Daddy.”
Before Brad could respond, the driver appeared in the doorway. “Good morning. Apologies, but it is time.”
Caroline gestured at him. “There you have it. Or are you going to make Charley stay now too?”
Brad shook his head as Caroline hugged her sister, whispering something that made Charlotte giggle, blush, and shove her away — earning a rare smile from Caroline before she left.
Charlotte stood, heart pounding, suitcase waiting by the door.
The family rose with her — a small procession of love, worry, and pride.
Brad opened his arms. She stepped into them.
He held her tighter than he meant to.
“Go,” he murmured. “Before I lock you in your room.”
Charlotte laughed — shaky, but real.
Then she walked out of the dining room, down the hall, and toward the car waiting outside.
Toward the airport. Toward Sulani. Toward Channing.
Her family watched her go — every single one of them, even Caroline — standing there, waving her off until the car disappeared behind the bend of the wooded driveway.
Welcome to Paradise
The small commuter plane dipped through a bank of clouds, and suddenly Sulani appeared beneath her — turquoise water, ribbons of white sand, islands scattered like jewels across the ocean. Charlotte pressed her forehead lightly to the window, breath catching.
Her father’s private jet had taken her to Del Sol Valley. From there, she’d continued commercial. She had been to Sulani many times, but this time was different for so many reasons. For one, her family wasn’t with her.
But someone was waiting for her.
It didn’t feel real. It didn’t look real. It looked like a dream someone had painted too perfectly.
Her stomach flipped — nerves, excitement, the weight of everything she’d been feeling since her birthday. She wasn’t just flying to a place. She was flying to him. A whole week alone with him. The butterflies rampaged in her stomach.
When the plane touched down, her pulse kicked hard. She gathered her bag, stepped into the aisle, and followed the slow procession of passengers toward the exit. The humid air hit her first — warm, soft, scented faintly with salt and hibiscus.
She inhaled.
It felt like stepping into another world.
The airport was small, open, breezy — nothing like San Myshuno’s steel and glass. Ceiling fans spun lazily overhead. Locals moved with an easy rhythm. Tourists shuffled with wide eyes. Everything felt slower, gentler.
Charlotte’s heart was anything but.
She walked through the arrival hall, scanning the crowd even though she knew he wouldn’t be inside. Channing hated crowds. He’d told her he’d wait outside, near the palm‑lined walkway.
Her suitcase wheels clicked over the tile. Her palms were damp. Her breath was uneven.
And then—
She stepped through the sliding doors into the sunlight.
And saw him.
Channing stood a few yards away, hands in his pockets, wearing a soft linen shirt partially unbuttoned and light trousers, hair pushed back by the breeze. He wasn’t posing. He wasn’t performing. He was just… there. Waiting for her. Watching her.
The moment he saw her, his expression changed — subtle, but unmistakable. Something warm. Something relieved. Something that made her legs feel like wet noodles.
He walked toward her. She walked toward him.
They met halfway, the ocean wind tugging at her hair, the sunlight catching in his eyes. For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. They just looked at each other — really looked — like the last few weeks had been a year.
“Hi,” she breathed.
His smile was quiet, private — the one he only ever gave her. “Hi, Little Lotte. Welcome to Sulani.”
Her chest tightened — in the good way.
He hugged her. Kissed her. And when the kiss ended, she exhaled for what felt like the first time since leaving home many hours ago.
He reached for her suitcase first, not her hand, because he knew she was nervous and didn’t want to overwhelm her. But when his fingers brushed hers on the handle, she felt it — the spark, the recognition, the certainty.
“You made it,” he said softly.
“I did.”
“You look… happy.”
“I am. And so excited.”
He nodded once, like he needed that confirmation more than he’d ever admit.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Let’s get you home.”
Home.
The word hit her like a warm wave. His home was now her home — at least for the next week.
He led her down the walkway toward a white Jeep Wrangler parked beneath a cluster of palms. The driver opened the door. Channing helped her in, then circled to the other side.
As the car pulled away from the airport, Charlotte looked out the window — at the ocean, the mountains, the bright colors of Sulani. Everything felt alive. Everything felt new.
But when she glanced at Channing, sitting beside her, watching her instead of the scenery—
She realized the real destination wasn’t Sulani.
It was him.
They reached a boat dock, where the driver stopped and immediately unloaded her bags, carrying them to a waiting water taxi.
Channing chuckled at her surprised face. “My home cannot be reached any other way — only by boat, Little Lotte. My family always cherished privacy.”
He helped her into the wobbly boat, then sat next to her as the driver took off, the beautiful scenery flying past, wind in their hair, and him next to her.
It took longer than she expected, toward areas she and her family had never thought to explore, until a light‑spreading home grew larger as the boat rounded a bend. Nobody had to tell Charlotte this was it. She could tell.
The boat drifted toward the peninsula, cutting through water so clear Charlotte could see the shadows of fish gliding beneath the surface. The house came into view slowly — first the pale curve of the shoreline, then the silhouette of palms, then the structure itself, rising like something half‑dreamed.
It wasn’t ostentatious. It wasn’t loud. It was… breathtaking.
A modern island home built of white stucco, dark island hardwood, and glass, perched above the water on sturdy stilts, sunlight spilling across its wide decks. The architecture felt effortless — open, airy, private. The kind of place someone built not to impress the world, but to escape it.
The exterior contrasted beautifully: white walls, deep espresso‑brown beams, and blue accents that echoed the ocean. The roofline was clean and modern, but the carved wooden posts and subtle Polynesian motifs grounded it in heritage. Palm trees framed the house like guardians, their shadows dancing across the deck.
As they drew closer, Charlotte saw how the home seemed to float — the water lapping gently beneath the stilts, the lower deck stretching out over the lagoon like an invitation. A wraparound lanai hugged the structure, furnished with soft seating and warm lanterns that would glow like fireflies at night.
Charlotte’s breath caught.
Channing watched her reaction, quiet, almost shy. He didn’t need her to say anything. He just needed her to feel it.
The boat eased up to the dock. The driver hopped out, unloading her bags. Channing stepped off first, then turned and offered his hand. She took it, steadying herself on the wobbly planks.
The breeze lifted her hair. The ocean glittered. The house stood before her like a secret finally shared.
Channing paid the driver — clearly handsomely, judging by the man’s grateful grin — and the boat pulled away, leaving them alone on the dock.
“Welcome to paradise, Little Lotte,” Channing said softly.
He gestured toward the house. “Unfortunately, there is some walking involved.”
Charlotte followed him up the short path, her sandals brushing over warm wooden boards. Then it was sand, no more firm path. Just soft sand, which felt like walking on clouds to Charlotte. The front door was simple — dark mahogany, smooth, sun‑warmed. He pushed it open.
And the inside unfolded.
Light. Space. Air.
It was masculine, but beachy. Modern, but rooted. Luxurious, but lived‑in.
Charlotte could feel him in every detail — the calm precision, the quiet need for peace, the way he’d rebuilt this place not just as a home, but as a sanctuary.
Sulani was beautiful. The island his house sat on, on its own private peninsula, was stunning. The house was paradise.
But the real reveal wasn’t the home.
It was him.
Charlotte turned to him, stunned.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
Channing watched her, hands in his pockets, expression soft. “I hoped you’d like it.”
“It feels like…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Like peace.”
His smile deepened — quiet, relieved. “That’s what it’s supposed to feel like.”
She turned back to him, heart full. “You live here alone?”
He nodded. “Yes, technically it’s only me. And now you. For the week.”
Her stomach fluttered — not nerves this time, but something warm and certain.
He stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I wanted you to see this place. My real home. And the real me, unfiltered in a way a person can only be in the place they were born and raised.”
Charlotte looked around again — the sunlight, the ocean, the quiet, the space that felt like him in every detail.
“It’s amazing,” she said.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Let me show you the rest. You up for a tour or do you want to really … arrive first?”
He took her hand — finally — and led her deeper into the house.
The house took her breath away the moment she stepped inside. It was masculine, but beachy and airy — the kind of place that felt lived‑in without ever feeling cluttered. Channing mentioned he had fully renovated it after moving back from Del Sol Valley; the old version held too many memories, too many ghosts. He needed it to be his, fully.
And it was.
White walls, dark woods, and maritime hues woven in like threads of the ocean. Modern lines, but softened by island heritage — carved frames, woven textures, subtle Polynesian motifs that didn’t scream for attention but whispered of home. The kitchen and dining area were open and sprawling, sunlight pouring in from every angle. Out of every window she saw turquoise seas and blue skies, palm trees swaying near and far like they were greeting her.
The living room was comfortable, clearly meant for entertaining — but not in a way that felt lonely when he was here alone. It felt like a place where people laughed, where music played, where someone like him could breathe.
As they stepped into the hallway, a young man with cocoa‑brown skin, dark hair, and black eyes passed them, carrying Charlotte’s luggage.
“My butler, Keoni Mahoe.”
“Ma’am,” he said warmly, bowing his head just a little. “Keoni will do. We’re not so formal on the islands. Would you like refreshments? Maybe a small meal?”
“No thank you, Keoni. I plan on taking Miss Cunningham out to eat to experience some local delicacies — unless she’s absolutely parched and starving?”
Both men looked at her.
Charlotte shook her head quickly. “Oh no, I’m way too… ah… not hungry. Or thirsty. Thank you.” She caught herself before blurting out the truth — that she was too nervous and excited to feel anything at all. Even so, she blushed.
Channing led her outside, where a deck sprawled out into the ocean. Only now did Charlotte realize how close the house really sat to the water. It was practically built out into the ocean. Her home in Brindleton Bay perched on a cliff, a good walk from the edge. This house sat on the ocean. She walked to the railing and looked down — colorful fish darted beneath the surface like living jewels.
Channing pointed at kayaks and jet skis lined neatly along the side. “For later. Ever done that before?”
“Kayak? No. Jet ski yes. Badly. I can never gauge the speed right and at some point I end up in the water.”
He chuckled, then pointed toward a shaded side area where she saw workout equipment. “My personal gym. Gotta stay fit for those roles. I don’t think I’ve ever had a single one where my character doesn’t end up shirtless, if not worse.”
Charlotte’s cheeks warmed as she remembered the shoot months ago — the director insisting on filming a literal sex scene while she was visiting. Neither he nor his costar had actually been naked, but the moment had been far too close for comfort. Even knowing the whole behind the scenes truth, watching them on the monitors still felt like watching a couple go at it for real. Ugh.
Channing pointed upward to a long flight of stairs leading to the roof. “Party deck up there.”
“Why would you put it up there? Assuming people drink during your parties, is that safe?”
He laughed. “Well, before all his rehab rabbitholes, Blaine tested it thoroughly. I’m convinced it’s safe. If there was a way to kill yourself up there, he would have found it.”
He led her back inside, showing her different rooms — a media room, a guest suite, a small office — then upstairs. To the left were two doors. He pointed at one.
“Another guest bathroom,” he explained, then turned toward a hallway lined with several doors.
Charlotte glanced back at the second door on the opposite side. “What’s that one?”
“That’s my room,” he said simply.
Something about the way he said it — casual, but not careless — made her blush again.
“Bedrooms and bathrooms up here,” Channing said. “Everything else is downstairs.”
He opened the first door on the right.
Charlotte stepped in—and froze.
It was a children’s room. Two small toddler beds sat side by side, each with ocean‑themed blankets. A low dresser held tiny clothes folded with impossible neatness. Toys were tucked into woven baskets, and a little nightlight shaped like a turtle glowed softly in the corner.
She blinked. “Channing… this is a kids’ room.”
He smiled, a little sheepish. “Yeah. For the boys.”
“The boys?” she echoed. “What boys? You have kids?”
“No, I mean Ashton and Easton,” he smiled as he opened the next door.
A nursery.
Soft coral and cream tones. A crib. A changing table stocked with wipes and lotions. A rocking chair by the window. A mobile of shells and stars swaying gently in the breeze from the ceiling fan. “For Blakely.”
Charlotte turned to him, stunned. “You made rooms for people you’re not even related to?”
Channing rubbed the back of his neck. “Well… Blaine and I grew up quasi like brothers. That’s how we both feel. Your nephews and niece are sort of mine too. I’m the godfather to the boys. Did you not know that?”
Her mouth parted. “No. I didn’t.”
He shrugged, gentle. “They’re here a lot. Lauren loves Sulani. Blaine pretends he doesn’t, but he does. And the kids adore the water and playing in the sand, and love watching the colorful fish. So, I wanted them to have their own spaces. Somewhere they feel at home.”
“Huh, I guess I missed that memo. I do not remember Lauren mentioning this.”
Charlotte looked back into the rooms — the tiny beds, the toys, the soft colors — and something warm settled in her chest. It wasn’t just thoughtful. It was revealing. A glimpse into the kind of man he was when no one was watching.
He gestured to the next door. “Guest room number one,” he said, letting her peek inside. Then the next: “Guest room number two.”
Finally, he walked to the last door on the left and opened it for her.
Airy, sunlit, soft linens, a view of the water so close it felt like she could touch it.
“This one is yours,” he said. “So you can have privacy whenever you’ve had enough of me.”
Charlotte smiled, heart thudding.
He nodded down the hall at the door across from them, past the stairs they’d come up. “That one is mine, like I said. Private balcony, ensuite, all that. But it could also be… ours, if you choose. No pressure. That’s entirely up to you, Little Lotte. I just wanted to put that out there. These aren’t clean lines, but choices. YOUR choices. I will say though, I have a hot tub on my balcony with the best views. Maybe one evening you want to come over just for that, no strings, obviously.”
His voice was gentle, steady — offering, not assuming.
Her heart raced.
First Day
Charlotte woke to the sound of waves breathing against the stilts of the house. Morning light spilled across the pale wood floors, warm and soft. She had slept in her room — the guest room down the hall from his — because the arrival had overwhelmed her in the best way, and she needed space to settle her nerves. And because she didn’t want him to think she was needy. Or impulsive. Or somehow give him the wrong impression. He had seemed to almost expect her to take the guest room.
When she stepped down the stairs, she could see straight into the kitchen — sunlight pouring through the open layout, catching on the dark island wood and white stone counters. Channing was already up, barefoot, in loose shorts and a tank that looked unfairly good on him, making coffee like he’d been born doing it in that exact spot. He looked relaxed here, more himself than she’d ever seen him in San Myshuno or Del Sol Valley. The island softened him, smoothed him, made him glow.
Charlotte had gotten fully dressed — hair done, makeup on, a cute outfit — and now felt absolutely overdressed. She didn’t want to be rude assuming pajamas were acceptable, but standing there in her carefully chosen look while he was casual and sun‑kissed made her feel suddenly… extra.
“Morning, Little Lotte,” he said, handing her a mug as she approached. His voice was warm, unhurried. “You look ready for the real Sulani. I’m taking you out for breakfast. Sulani style.”
“Oh. Right. I didn’t know coming down in bedhead and sleepwear would be acceptable,” she said with a small smile, accepting the mug and sipping the strong coffee. He watched her — then snickered softly.
“This is your home for the week. This isn’t formal. I want you to be comfortable.” He leaned against the counter, easy and unguarded. “I’ve seen the bedheaded version of you many times over the years. I’ve seen you sick with the flu and stomach bugs. You don’t need to impress me.”
He paused, then added with a crooked smile, “I’m not trying to impress you either. Well… maybe I am a little bit. Do you like the coffee?”
“It’s super strong, but very good,” she said, taking another sip. “What type of espresso machine do you have? Bri and Dad would buy one instantly.”
He pointed to a wooden bowl on the counter filled with dark, glossy beans. “It’s Kona. An island delicacy.”
She blinked. “This is Kona? Like… real Kona?”
“Real Kona,” he confirmed. “Grown on the slopes of Hualālai. Picked by hand. Roasted here on the island. It’s not like the mainland blends — this is the actual thing.”
She inhaled again, and the aroma hit differently now — richer, deeper, almost sweet. “Wow. Okay. That explains why it tastes like it could wake the dead.”
He laughed. “Exactly. Locals call it sunrise in a cup.”
She looked at him — barefoot, relaxed, glowing in the morning light — and felt her heart thud. She was standing there fully styled, mascara perfect, hair curled, while he looked like the embodiment of effortless island mornings.
And somehow… he made her feel like she belonged anyway.
Not the tourist version. Not the glossy brochure version. The version only locals knew — the version his family had known for generations.
And now, the version he was letting her see.
She glanced around. “Where is your butler?”
“Keoni had the night off,” Channing said, leaning against the counter. “He’ll be here… eventually. He has to come back; all his things are here. I’d wager he met someone and spent the night with them, since he won’t bring them here. We’re a lot more casual on the islands and I told him it would be okay, but he won’t do it. I am also not making him wear suits, but he insists. I did put my foot down when he started wearing white gloves. I am not royalty. That was too much for me.”
“He lives here? Like Mrs. Marwood lives with us?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “He’s lived with me for years, even when I was in Del Sol Valley he stayed here and looked after the house. He was orphaned at fourteen, no living relatives. We don’t have an orphanage on the islands, so they were going to send him off to whatever big city had space, which is the worst thing you can do to any islander. So, I fostered him instead.”
Charlotte blinked. “You fostered him?”
Channing shrugged, casual but not careless. “He wanted to work in exchange. Obviously, I don’t need a gardener or a pool boy — my pool is the ocean — so I made him my butler. He took it very seriously. Every day after school he put on a suit and did whatever needed doing. Started watching YouTube videos on how to be a butler. Very determined young man with a solid work ethic. When he doesn’t remember he is young and goes clubbing, his timeline gets a bit blurry then.” He smiled, fond and a little amused. “He’s nineteen now. Still hasn’t left. Guess I am not the worst boss.”
Charlotte looked toward the open windows, the ocean glittering beyond them, the house humming with quiet life. Something warm unfurled in her chest.
Not the tourist version. Not the glossy brochure version. The version only locals knew — the version his family had known for generations.
And now, the version he was letting her see.
Just then, the front door creaked open.
Keoni shuffled in, looking like he had barely survived the night — hair mussed, shirt wrinkled, eyes half‑closed. He didn’t even notice them at first, just made a beeline past them toward a door off the kitchen with the single‑minded determination of someone trying not to die in bright light.
Channing called after him, “I brought new aspirin from the mainland!”
Keoni lifted one hand in a weak wave without turning around. “Not so loud,” he muttered, disappearing through the door that led to his room.
Charlotte stared. Channing just shrugged, amused. “See? Butler-slash-teenager. It’s a whole thing.”
She couldn’t help smiling — the dynamic was unmistakable. Keoni wasn’t staff. He was… family. And Channing, whether he admitted it or not, was the closest thing the boy had to a big brother or father figure.
He took her to a tiny café tucked beneath palm trees, where the owner greeted him with a hug and a teasing comment about “finally bringing someone special.” Charlotte blushed; Channing didn’t deny it.
They ate a typical island breakfast — fresh papaya with lime, sweet rolls, eggs cooked with green onion, and strong Kona coffee.
They wandered through the village market, where vendors called his name, offering fresh fruit and stories about his childhood. He wasn’t just famous here. He was theirs — a son of the island.
When Charlotte commented on how he stood out — blonde, turquoise‑eyed, among the bronzed, dark‑haired locals — he laughed.
“Oh, the bane of my existence. I used to hate looking different. I was born here, so was my father and my aunt. My dad looked just like me. My aunt — his twin — inherited a lot of Grandma’s afro‑Caribbean genes, so she looked deceivingly local even though she lived most of her life in Oasis Springs. The other kids used to call me keokeo — ‘white.’ Maybe that’s why I’m so arrogant, as I’m always accused of. I learned early on to deal with standing out.”
He took her to a hidden cove only reachable by a narrow footpath. They sat on the rocks, feet in the water, talking about everything and nothing. They kissed — soft, warm, unhurried.
It felt like a dream. It felt like belonging. It felt like the beginning of something she didn’t dare name yet.
That night she slept in her room again — not out of distance, but because the day had been full, overwhelming, beautiful. She needed one more night to breathe. To work up to it becoming fully real. Even though it was hard. She was more than curious what it would be like, falling asleep and waking up next to him. And of course… all the other things too. Just thinking about it made her blush.
Day Two
By the second morning, Charlotte felt lighter. More settled. More ready.
Channing took her paddleboarding across water so clear it looked unreal. Locals waved from passing boats, calling his name, teasing him about bringing “a beautiful girl” to the quiet side of the island.
Charlotte felt shy at first — then proud. He wasn’t flaunting her for attention. He was simply… happy she was there.
They ended the day at a cliffside overlook, watching the sun melt into the ocean. Charlotte leaned against him without thinking. He didn’t move away.
He stayed.
They watched the sun disappear into the horizon, then the sky fill with stars — huge, bright, close.
When it came time to turn in, Charlotte hesitated at the top of the stairs.
Her room felt safe. His room felt… right.
She stepped toward his room.
Channing’s breath caught — barely — but he didn’t touch her, didn’t assume, didn’t rush. He simply nodded, opened the door for her, and said softly:
“Let’s get some rest, Little Lotte.”
She slept in the bed that smelled faintly of ocean and cedar, with him just a few inches away, the quiet comfort of his presence settling and unsettling her nerves in equal measures.
Their bodies touched lightly — an arm, a shoulder — but he didn’t encroach, didn’t try, didn’t force anything. He gave her space. He understood she was working up to more, in her own time.
Waking up was strange and wonderful. Early sun filtered in, waves lapped so close it sounded like they were floating on them. The salty air was familiar, but different from Brindleton Bay — laced with tropical blooms and the faint warmth of him.
She turned her head and found his eyes — impossibly turquoise in the morning light. Her heart thudded.
“Good morning,” he said softly.
“You’re awake…”
“For a while. Just enjoying the view.” He meant her.
Her heart thudded again.
“I want to kiss you, but I haven’t brushed my—” she began, embarrassed.
He moved before she finished, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. She melted.
“Let’s make breakfast,” he whispered, pulling away.
She held onto him. “Don’t leave… not yet.”
“I have to. Trust me.” He said it gently — and she understood. He was restrained, but even he had his limits and his had been reached and breached. He got up, pulled on a fresh shirt, and left the room.
She stretched out like a cat, giggling into the pillow.
It was amazing. And somehow, the fact that he chose to leave — because staying might blur the line between affection and impulse — felt like a compliment she wasn’t expecting. It told her he cared enough to be careful. It told her he respected her. It told her he wanted their story to unfold the right way. But it also said the feeling was very much mutual. He wanted her just like she wanted him. And it would happen. She knew it. In due time. But it had to be right.
Their first kiss had been passionate, yes, but also unexpected — not the way either of them had imagined it. This next “first” between them needed to be something else entirely. Something intentional. Something they would both remember forever.
Not like the first times she’d had with other boys, each one seeming meaningful at the start but ending in disappointment or heartbreak.
This felt different. This felt like endgame.
And because of that, it needed to be special in its own way — the moment, the setting, the mood, all of it aligning naturally, perfectly, without being rushed. She knew the moment was getting close, and she was ready for it.
He took her to a family‑owned fruit grove, where elders greeted her warmly, offering stories of Channing as a mischievous child. He let them tease him, let them embarrass him, let her see every side of him.
He took her out on his jetskis, after teaching her a few helpful tricks.
They swam with dolphins in a lagoon where the water glowed turquoise — just like his eyes. They ate lunch at a tiny beach shack where the owner refused to let Channing pay. They walked barefoot along the shoreline, talking about future plans, dreams, fears.
Charlotte felt herself falling — not fast, not recklessly, but deeply.
Their eyes met. Again and again. They held hands. Every moment spiked her pulse in the best way.
When Briar Rose texted asking how “island living” was going, Charlotte sent a photo of Channing shirtless, walking toward her carrying two coconuts with straws sticking out.
Her caption: “I am in paradise.”
Briar Rose responded with a row of emojis.
Day Three
The beach nightclub pulsed with warm light and music, the kind that made the air feel alive. Charlotte had been here before — years ago, watching Nate and Evie circle each other in their painfully slow burn. Back then she’d rolled her eyes at them, wondering why two people who clearly cared so much kept dancing around the obvious.
Ironically, here she was now. Doing the same.
Why?
Maybe it was the cocktail she’d already finished. Maybe it was the one she was holding now. Maybe it was the way Channing moved to the beat — loose, graceful, confident — his eyes flicking to her every few seconds like he couldn’t help himself.
She wanted him. He wanted her. They were adults. They were in love. They were in paradise.
So what exactly was she waiting for?
She swallowed the rest of her drink, heat blooming in her chest, and danced closer to him. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath when she leaned in.
“Let’s get out of here,” she whispered.
He blinked — surprised but not confused. Then he nodded, finished his drink, and took her hand, guiding her through the crowd with a protective arm around her shoulders until they reached a quieter stretch of sand.
“Everything okay?” he asked softly.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him — slow, certain, answering the question without words.
“Just fantastic,” she murmured. “Take me home, Raoul.”
His eyebrows shot up at the nickname, but he didn’t question it. He grabbed her hand again, scanning the shoreline, then led her to the nearest dock. He helped her into the water taxi, jumped in after her, and they kissed the entire ride — breathless, laughing, unable to stop.
When they reached the house, he paid quickly, helped her out, then lifted her into his arms and carried her inside.
They stood in the entryway, chests rising and falling, staring at each other like the world had narrowed to just this moment.
“This is it, isn’t it?” he whispered.
She nodded.
They kissed again.
What followed was private, intimate, and deeply meaningful — not rushed, not clumsy, not like anything she’d ever experienced before. It wasn’t about urgency. It wasn’t about performance. It was about choosing each other, fully, openly, without hesitation.
Later, they lay in his bed, her head on his chest, his arm around her, the ocean breathing beneath the stilts. She felt elevated. Secure. Real. But also surreal — like she’d stepped into a version of her life she didn’t know she was allowed to have.
He didn’t speak at first. His eyes were open, thoughtful, emotional in a way she hadn’t expected from him.
“Channing…?” she whispered.
He turned his head, the rustle of the pillow sounding loud in the quiet room. “Hm?”
“At the risk of sounding like the cliché girl… what are you thinking?”
He chuckled softly. “You don’t want to know.”
“I do.”
He rose up slightly, kissed her, then looked down at her with a distant, vulnerable smile.
“I’m thinking I may not let you leave here again. I’m thinking I never realized how possessive I could be. I’m thinking that—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “No. I’m not going to sound even needier than I already do. What are you doing to me, girl?”
She smiled up at him. “Let me leave? You mean you won’t be able to get rid of me now.”
He kissed her again.
They fell asleep wrapped around each other, and woke to the same sunrise as before — except everything felt different now. The world looked the same, but it wasn’t. Not anymore.
Neither wanted to get up, but eventually Charlotte slipped out of bed to shower. She had barely turned on the water when a knock sounded.
“Room for one more?” his voice asked through the door.
Her heart raced. “Always…”
She had never shared a shower with anyone before. It wasn’t the physical closeness that struck her — it was the emotional weight of it. The belonging. The quiet trust. The way it felt like another step deeper into something real.
Afterward, they drifted downstairs to make breakfast together, still floating on that high. The coffeemaker grumbled, eggs sizzled, bacon crisped, Charlotte sliced papaya and toasted English muffins.
Preparing breakfast took longer than expected, interrupted again and again by them celebrating their next step in their relationship. They made it a game of drive-by kisses, until he caught her and boxed her in against the counter to the scent of slightly too crisp bacon. Neither cared. They were hungry for each other more than any food.
Then someone banged on the front door.
They froze.
“Are you expecting someone?” she asked.
“No. Nobody comes here this early. The only early risers on this island are fishermen and gym bros. Neither usually makes house calls.” He grinned, kissed her, gave her a playful swat on the hip, and went to answer.
She watched him — the casual elegance in the way he opened the door.
But then something shifted.
He stiffened. Stepped outside. Pulled the door shut behind him.
Charlotte’s stomach dropped. There were many windows, but none let her see much of the front door area. The front door had milk glass insets. Peeking around the corner all she could see was silhouettes.
This was strange.
She tried to ignore it, focusing on the toaster clanking, the eggs finishing, the papaya glistening on the cutting board.
Channing’s voice got loud for a moment, but she couldn’t understand what he was saying.
Charlotte froze in the open kitchen, the papaya knife still in her hand, the toaster ticking behind her like a countdown. She heard Channing’s voice outside — low, clipped, colder than she had ever heard it.
Then a woman’s voice. Sharp. Insistent. Too familiar, even though Charlotte had never heard it in person.
She edged closer to the door, heart pounding.
“…you’re really not going to let me in?” the woman demanded.
“No,” Channing said, voice icy. “You shouldn’t be here. What do you want?”
Charlotte’s breath caught. He never sounded like that. Not with anyone.
The woman laughed — brittle, practiced, theatrical. “Oh, come on. Don’t be dramatic. It’s me.”
Charlotte pressed her ear closer.
“Exactly,” Channing snapped. “You don’t get to show up here. Leave. Now.”
A pause. Then the unmistakable sound of a hand brushing fabric — a touch.
“Channing,” the woman purred, “don’t be like that. It doesn’t suit you.”
He stepped back; Charlotte heard it in the sand shifting under his feet.
“Don’t touch me.”
Charlotte’s pulse spiked.
Fan? Stalker? Paparazzo with boundary issues?
But then—
“Channing, stop pretending,” the woman said, irritation creeping in. “You and I both know I have every right to be here.”
Every right?
Charlotte’s stomach dropped.
She couldn’t stay behind the door anymore.
She yanked it open.
The scene outside hit her like a slap of heat.
A woman stood on the porch — tall, striking, black hair cascading down her back, skin pale as porcelain, eyes icy and sharp. She looked like Snow White carved out of marble and Russian winter.
Katia.
Had to be.
Charlotte knew instantly. She had seen photos. Articles. Movie scenes. Red carpet shots.
But seeing her in person was different — unsettling, electric, wrong.
Katia’s gaze snapped to Charlotte, and for a moment her expression faltered. Surprise. Annoyance. Then a slow, assessing smirk. The kind that made Charlotte have the urge to just slap her.
Channing, however, looked horrified.
“Charlotte—” he started, but she stepped out beside him, chin lifted.
Katia’s eyes swept her up and down, dismissive, cruelly amused.
“Oh,” she said. “Is this little girl your flavor of the day? I’m impressed he even remembered your name. Hopefully it was your name and not one of his last adventures. That’s our Channing.”
Charlotte felt the words like a sting — but Channing reacted first.
“Don’t talk like you know me,” he said sharply.
Charlotte cut in, voice steady despite her racing heart, asking a question she already knew the answer to.
“Who is she?” she hissed, even though she had already figured it out, she wanted to show the woman how unimportant she was.
Katia didn’t hesitate.
“Yes, Channing, do you want to tell her? Oh, never mind — I will. I’m his wife.”
The world tilted. Something about hearing that word. Wife.
Channing’s reaction was immediate, explosive.
“EX‑wife,” he snapped. “Ex. I insist. Didn’t you even change back your name before the ink was dry on the divorce papers?”
Katia shrugged, bored. “Semantics. Katia Orlova sounds much better than your last name. Katia Cameron made me sound like a fifty’s housewife.”
“No,” Channing said, jaw tight. “Not semantics. Reality. There is nothing left between us. It’s been over for a long time. You were nothing but a sad, ridiculous mistake.”
Charlotte stared at him — at the fury in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the way he positioned himself slightly in front of her like he was shielding her.
Katia rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. I was the mistake? Laughable. You are so immature, and I needed a real man. Adults know there are ups and downs. We had a down. You’re still pouting — like a cranky toddler. Get over it. Or are you really going to pretend this—” she gestured at Charlotte “—is serious? Give me a break.”
Charlotte didn’t think. She acted.
She stepped forward, grabbed Channing by the shirt, and kissed him — hard, certain, claiming him in a way that made Katia’s eyes widen.
Channing froze for half a second, then kissed her back with equal certainty.
Charlotte pulled away, breathless, turned to Katia, and said with a bright, almost sweet smile:
“Nice meeting you. I’ve heard so much about you — none of it good, but clearly all of it true. Anyway, this is boring and pointless, so why don’t you grab your broom and head back to wherever you flew in from, because Channing and I have better things to do than stand here while you audition for Real Housewives of Where‑the-Heck‑Ever. Channing and I need to go inside for round five now. And that’s just for this morning. He’s very… hungry. And he makes me very hungry too. No offense, I can tell you feel very important, but I rather bang my boyfriend than stand here and do this with you. And unlike you, I care what my man wants and that face isn’t saying he wants this. Or you. So … k-byeeeee.”
She grabbed his hand, yanked him inside, and slammed the door shut.
The silence afterward was thick, electric.
Channing stared at her — stunned, impressed, a little breathless.
“Little Lotte…” he whispered. “Where in the world did that come from?”
She swallowed, adrenaline buzzing. “Actually, I borrowed it from one of Briar Rose’s music videos. Let’s hope your ex isn’t a fan. Was kinda fun playing the possessive-aggressive bitch.”
He laughed — a soft, disbelieving sound — and pulled her into his arms.
“That was perfect. I also appreciate you highlighting my… bedroom bravado. Round five, huh?”
“For this morning,” she said. “I was very specific.”
“Wow. I appreciate your faith in my vigor, but I’m a little concerned about having to live up to that, considering it’s only seven a.m.”
“Seven‑thirty,” she giggled.
“Oh yeah, that changes everything …”
They both laughed.
“Not to stir this pot unnecessarily,” Channing said, wiping a hand over his face, “but you forget she and I were a couple for a while. I don’t think she’d buy that for one second. She’s well aware of my… performance capabilities.”
Charlotte arched a brow, smirking. “Maybe. But maybe with a different inspiration you soar to new heights.”
He blinked, amused already.
“My dad always says the right tool takes the quality to another level,” she continued. “He’s usually talking about surgical instruments, but the logic holds.”
Channing shook his head, laughing under his breath, visibly amused — and visibly charmed.
“You really surprise me sometimes,” he said. “I would’ve never expected such… crude innuendoes from someone who seems so wholesome. I would also never liken you to a tool, but speaking of tools … I think I owe Jonas a lot of respect if that’s how high he set the stakes.”
“Don’t worry about Jonas. I admit I am all bark, no bite here but glad you found it believable enough to wonder. But I watch a lot of movies and read a lot of books — and watched enough of Bri’s music videos to know the most surefire way for one woman to tell another to back off is to demonstrate how much the man they’re fighting over wants her.”
“Demonstrate?” he teased. “I think you mean insinuate.”
“Oh, you don’t even know how far I was willing to go. If that insinuated demonstration of our mutual lust for each other hadn’t worked, I might have gone all out with you right there on your front porch. I have no shame if it comes to claiming you.”
Channing laughed hard, then pulled her close and kissed her until both were breathless.
Outside, Katia stepped into a water taxi like a dark cloud receding.
Inside, Charlotte leaned into Channing’s chest, heart still racing, realizing she had just crossed a line she didn’t regret crossing for a second.
The week continued joyful and undisturbed, but all good things must come to an end.
Whiplash of Joy
The Cameron‑Cunningham estate came into view as the car rolled up the long drive. Charlotte practically vibrated with energy, bouncing in her seat like she might explode if she didn’t get out immediately.
The moment the driver opened her door, she bolted.
“Daddy!” she shouted, sprinting inside.
Brad barely had time to stand before she launched herself into his arms, hugging him so tightly he stumbled back a step.
“Daddy, I love him, I love him, I love him!”
Brad blinked, stunned. He had expected tears. Or melancholy. Or at least the post‑vacation slump.
Not… this.
“Well…” he managed, “that is… unexpected. But I’m happy you’re happy.” He cleared his throat. “How is… Channing?”
Charlotte beamed, pointing toward the driver hauling in far more luggage than she had left with.
“Ask him yourself! I invited him to stay for the rest of the break. Hope that’s okay — I mean, it’s not like we don’t have the room, and not like he hasn’t been here a million times. You don’t mind, right? He’s on a call, he’ll be right in. I have to pee!”
She darted off, leaving Brad standing in the foyer, confused, stunned, and holding her sunglasses.
The back door of the car opened. Channing stepped out, still finishing his call, voice low and professional. He ended it, pocketed his phone, and walked toward Brad with a steady, respectful stride.
“Brad,” he said warmly, extending his hand. “Good to see you again. I’m sorry to just show up like this. I hope this is alright with you.”
Brad shook his hand, still processing the whirlwind that had just blown through his house. “Sure. Come on in. Coffee?”
He gestured toward the living room, but Channing paused.
“Could I speak to you in private for just a moment?”
Brad’s brows rose. “Certainly.”
They walked to his office. Brad closed the door. He gestured to the cart of fine spirits. Channing nodded once. Brad poured bourbon for both of them. They clinked glasses.
“I hear the vacation was a success,” Brad said. “Rave review from Charley.”
Channing smiled — small, genuine, a little overwhelmed.
“I would call it… enlightening.”
Brad waited.
Channing continued. “Brad, I know we had a talk about all this — your feelings, your fears, your doubts. I heard you. And I had many of the same worries then.”
Brad’s eyes narrowed slightly. “…but you don’t anymore now? Is that what I’m hearing between the lines?”
Channing nodded.
“Brad, I feel like you and I have always had an open dialogue. And I know how this may sound to you now, but…” He took a breath. “I would like to ask your daughter to marry me. And I would like your blessing.”
Brad’s eyes widened. He finished his drink. Poured himself another. Looked at Channing’s glass — still half full — and topped it off. Then topped off his own again.
He took several healthy swallows.
Channing frowned. “I didn’t expect cartwheels and screams of pure joy, but I also didn’t think this would be such a matter of concern that it drives you into alcoholism.”
Brad snorted despite himself. “It’s not. You’re not. But I was afraid something like this might happen.” He sighed. “She still has university to complete. She’s only twenty‑one. She—”
“It’s an engagement, not a marriage,” Channing said gently. “She is in her final two semesters before graduation. I want to promise her a future, not claim hers.”
Brad studied him. “Does she know?”
“Of course not. And I’m not planning on asking her tomorrow. Just… soon. Maybe New Year’s Eve. Or Valentine’s Day. There will be no wedding before she is graduated, established in her career and ready for it. So, I am planning well ahead. – If you agree.”
Brad leaned back. “What if I were to say no?”
Channing smiled — soft, confident, respectful. “Then I would try harder to convince you to say yes. It is important to me to have your blessing, Brad. I respect you, a lot. And I hope the feeling is reciprocated.”
Brad exhaled, shaking his head, unable to stop the reluctant smile tugging at his mouth.
“You are a smooth talker, Channing.”
Channing lifted his glass. “I prefer ‘determined.’”
Brad clinked his glass against Channing’s again.
And the future shifted.
Digestif
Charlotte and Channing had barely disappeared toward the pool — towels, sunscreen, laughter trailing behind them — when Brad retreated into his office like a man seeking shelter from a natural disaster.
He shut the door. Exhaled. Stared at the bourbon. Sighed. Then reached for his phone.
He called Viola first. She picked up on the second ring.
“Hi Brad? Has the eagle landed?” she giggled.
“The eagle has taken a big fat dump on my head, but yes, Charley’s home safe and sound.”
“What’s going on?” she asked, somewhere between amused and concerned.
Brad rubbed his forehead. “Charley is home but… well…”
“Oh no. And she’s all sad and mopey?”
“I wish.”
“Huh? What happened, Brad? Do I have to worry? Another breakup? I know it doesn’t involve Jonas, as I am looking at him, and he has been home all day.”
Brad huffed a laugh and took a sip of bourbon.
“Not to sound like a broken record, but I wish… or maybe I don’t, but… well…”
He explained — the glowing entrance, the hugging, the “Daddy I love him,” the rooming arrangement suggestions, the pool house idea, the towels, the hurricane‑level enthusiasm.
Viola squealed. Loud. Brad had to pull the phone away from his ear.
“Oh my GOD, Brad! FINALLY! I told you Sulani would do it! I told you! I told you! Oh my God, they are so cute together. My sweet baby dating a famous actor. And a hot one at that. I am one happy mom!”
Brad waited until the ringing in his ear subsided.
“Vi… that’s not even the big part.”
“What? Do tell?!”
“Channing asked to speak to me privately.”
“Oh my GOD—”
“Viola, please—”
“Bradford DID HE PROPOSE?!”
Brad winced. She only used his full name when she was about to rupture the sound barrier.
“No,” he said, “thankfully not, but he asked for my blessing.”
The scream that followed could have shattered glass. Brad held the phone a full foot away.
When she finally calmed down, he brought it back to his ear.
“So our answer would be that we give our blessing then?”
Another excited screech. Higher pitched. More chaotic.
Brad ended the call before she could rupture his eardrum.
He poured himself another drink.
First: the usual amount — two fingers. Then: a splash more, for good measure. Then: he shrugged, filled the glass almost to the brim.
He stared at it.
Then he set the glass down, picked up the bottle, and took a long drink straight from it.
His phone rang.
He nearly dropped the bottle.
It was his wife, Briar Rose. He answered instantly.
“Oh thank God, Bri, it’s you…”
“Uh oh,” Briar Rose said. “Do I dare ask?”
Brad sighed. “Charley got back home from Sulani…”
“Oh no. Another heartbroken daughter for you to juggle?”
“I wish.”
“Uh oh — again. What happened, Brad? Did they elope?” She was joking. Mostly.
Brad huffed a laugh.
“No. But they might as well have.”
He told her everything up to Viola’s reaction.
Briar Rose laughed so hard he had to hold the phone away again.
“Oh my GOD, Brad, I knew it! I knew it! I told you Sulani was basically a romance cheat code!”
“She’s twenty‑one,” Brad muttered.
“She’s twenty‑one and in love,” Bri said. “And he’s thirty‑one and finally acting like a grown man. This is GOOD. I am living out my girl fantasy here. I might make that into a song.”
“She suggested shared sleeping quarters.”
“So? Oh Brad, come on now. You don’t really think they each slept in their own bed during the week in Sulani. Babe — have I not thoroughly corrupted your prude side yet? I will work on that more when I get home… in a felt hundred years from now. Oh, why did I choose to be a singer?”
“Briar Rose.”
“What? I didn’t say she did anything untrue. Think about yourself at twenty‑one.”
Brad groaned.
“At that age I was a father of a small son with a wife I didn’t love, trying to get through med school, while my heart was shattered in a million pieces after losing you. I spent my days pining after you, all because of my awful, inhumane, controlling father. Not a great reference point, my love.”
Briar Rose wheezed. “Brad, I swear, if you don’t calm down, you’re going to need a sedative.”
“Has crossed my mind. For now, I’m sticking to bourbon. Straight from the bottle.”
“Oh Braddy, chill, will you? Trust me, this is a good thing. Seriously.”
“She’s impulsive,” Brad said. “Bri, you know if Channing as much as mentions engagement to Charlotte, we’ll all be in a chapel before dinner. So, if you call back later and I don’t answer, I am probably walking one of my daughters down the aisle, even though I told everyone to take it slow!”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Bri said, laughing, voice softening, “that’s why he asked you first. He’s doing it right. He is being respectful. His grandpa Blake was a true gentleman, and he was very involved in raising Channing. I think it’s great. And hey, could be worse — it could have been another Blaine. Or – dun dun dunnnnn – Jonas.”
She burst into laughter, while Brad groaned, then snickered too.
“Are you trying to kill me, Bri?”
“No,” she wheezed, “I am making you laugh. Come on, admit it’s funny that Lauren of all people married Blaine and has three kids with him. Molly hates him so much, it squeaks. That alone should thrill you.”
“It does. That part is actually the best part about Blaine. Not much else I could think of worth highlighting, other than that Lauren really loves him for reasons I will never comprehend. I will say this though about Channing — he is a delight to talk to. Such an articulate young man.”
“Ha! You called him young. See? Perfect for Lauren. Quit trying to make him sound like a mummy.”
“Young compared to me. He IS a fossil compared to Charley.”
“Brad — you are hopeless.”
Brad stared at the bourbon bottle.
“So I have been told. Anyway, Viola gave her blessing. At least I presume so. I couldn’t hear much after all her screaming in my ear.”
“Of course she did. She’s been shipping them since it first came on our radars. Like I have too. Which mother wouldn’t? Duh!”
Brad sighed. “I’m surrounded by lunatics.”
“No,” Bri said warmly. “Dr. Cunningham, if you feel like the only sane one in a sea of idiots, wouldn’t you agree that maybe, just maybe, you might be the lunatic?”
Brad didn’t answer.
“Brad?”
“…I know. You are right. I am crazy to think there is a chance this isn’t going to happen. And yes, I know it could be worse, I know he is a great guy and blah blah blah. Argh.”
“Good. Now stop drinking from the bottle. You just about grounded Nate for doing that with the milk from the fridge. No double‑standards, Dr. Cunningham.”
Brad looked at the bottle in his hand.
“…I hate when you’re right. And I hate not having you here.”
“I know. I’ll be home in two days. Try not to marry off any daughters before then.”
She laughed at Brad’s groan.
“I love you, Braddy. I am almost back to keep you sane. Or drive you more insane, not really sure which. Miss you, babe.”
“Not as much as I miss you, love.”
He hung up, set the bottle down, and exhaled.
Outside, Charlotte and Channing splashed in the pool, laughing like the world was perfect.
Inside, Brad finally let himself smile.
He’d take Channing aside later and tell him he had his blessing. Vi and Bri were right, and he knew it. It could be worse. And if he was truly honest, her age didn’t matter — not really. Twenty‑one, thirty‑one… he’d had just as hard a time giving Lauren away, and she’d been in her late twenties then. Charlotte could be fifty and he’d still die a thousand deaths at the thought.
Some fathers never stop feeling that ache. Brad Cunningham was one of them.
Echoes Of Legacy 