After dinner, Eleanor asked to see the garden. Alexander followed reluctantly. Charlotte lingered on the porch with Marco and Olivia.
"Well," Marco said, sipping his espresso, "that was a fun little disaster."
Charlotte groaned and buried her face in her hands. "I literally said he was emotionally constipated and a pizza snob, to his face, without knowing it."
Marco shrugged. "All true, no?"
"Still!"
Olivia added, "Honestly, I think he needed to hear it. He's been living in this gilded bubble where everyone worships him. Watching him try not to implode? That was the best cardio I've had in weeks."
Charlotte peeked through her fingers. "You two are evil."
Marco smirked. "We're supportive."
Just then, Alexander appeared at the porch steps, hands in his pockets, his eyes meeting Charlotte's with something unreadable—annoyance? Curiosity? Jealousy?
"Charlotte," he said quietly, "could we talk? Alone?"
Charlotte froze.
Marco raised an eyebrow. Olivia looked ready to grab popcorn.
Charlotte straightened, wiping her hands on her apron. "Sure. Let me guess. You're here to set the record straight? Or deliver a dramatic monologue about how pineapple on pizza ruined our destined connection?"
A flicker of amusement touched Alexander's lips. "Something like that."
They stood beneath the old oak tree near the garden. The sunlight filtered through the leaves like confetti, but the tension between them was anything but soft or celebratory.
Charlotte folded her arms, chin lifted. "Well? Say what you came to say, Hastings. Or is this just a field trip to the land of people with actual emotions?"
Alexander gave her a flat look. "You really don't know when to stop, do you?"
"On the contrary," she said sweetly, "I've had years of practice holding back. This is me finally letting it out."
He stepped closer, hands still in his pockets. "I heard every word you said."
"Oh, I know," she said, fluttering her lashes. "You always did have perfect timing—showing up right when it's most inconvenient."
"You called me emotionally constipated."
"You are."
"You said I was replaceable."
"You are."
"You said I had a shitty attitude."
She paused, smiled brightly. "Do I need to repeat that one slower?"
Alexander took a deep breath, clearly fighting the urge to strangle her or cover her mouth—possibly both. "I don't appreciate being gossiped about like some high school rumor."
Charlotte rolled her eyes. "Please. I wasn't gossiping. I was venting. Huge difference."
"To your Italian gym partner?" His voice sharpened. "Is that what this is now? Some summer-farm-fling?"
Her brows shot up. "Wow. Jealousy looks terrible on you. Tightens your face and really brings out the inner asshole."
"Jealousy???"Alexander took a sharp step forward, towering now. "You don't know what you're doing with him."
"Funny," she snapped, "he seems to think I know exactly what I'm doing."
His jaw flexed. "He's not serious. Guys like him—charming, overly friendly—they're just after one thing."
"Does it have anything to do with you? "Charlotte's eyes gleamed. "And what would you know about serious? You ghosted me for months after I brought you hand-baked brownies with your name on them."
"That's not—"
"Shut it," she said, stepping in until their faces were inches apart. "You don't get to lecture me on relationships when your idea of affection was a raised eyebrow and a cold shoulder."
"I've never been one to show many expressions."
"Oh, spare me. You were trying not to deal with your feelings."
He stared at her. "And what if I had feelings?"
She blinked. "Then you should've said something before I became the goddamn punchline of the society gossip circuit."
They glared. Neither moved.
Then, without warning, Alexander reached out and brushed a loose curl off her cheek. His hand lingered for half a second too long.
"You look different," he murmured.
Charlotte's breath caught. "Yeah, well. Life kicks you in the ass and you either change or die."
He nodded slowly. "You changed."
She smirked. "So did you. Still emotionally stunted, but now you work out more."
His lips twitched. "You noticed?"
"I notice everything. I'm a chef. Details matter."
He leaned in, voice low. "Then tell me, Chef—do you always cook with this much fire, or is it just me?"
Her stomach flipped. "You wish."
"I do," he said, so soft it felt like a confession.
Charlotte's heart pounded. She hated that his scent still did things to her, that his voice made her remember every stupid, sweet thing she'd ever felt for him. But she wasn't seventeen anymore. She wasn't baking him love-shaped cookies and hoping he'd look her way.
She leaned in, just close enough to see the storm behind his eyes. "If you want a second chance, Alexander, you're gonna have to earn it. No more cryptic silences. No more disappearing acts. And definitely no more judging my friends like you're some jealous ex."
"I'm not jealous."
"Liar."
A long beat passed.
He finally said, "I don't like sharing."
She smiled. "Then you'd better step up. Because Marco? He doesn't ghost people. He teaches them how to dice onions with ninja speed and tells them their thighs are perfect."
Alexander's nostrils flared. "Your thighs are dangerous. There's a difference."
"Oh?" she challenged. "Prove it."
For a second, it looked like he would. His hand twitched. His eyes dropped to her lips.
But then Eleanor called from the porch, "Alex, darling! I need you to carry the basket of tomatoes!"
He closed his eyes, muttered something that sounded like a curse in a very expensive accent, and stepped back.
Charlotte grinned. "Saved by the heirloom produce."
He looked at her like she was a puzzle wrapped in wildfire. "This conversation isn't over."
She winked. "Better bring wine next time."
And just like that, he walked away—leaving behind the scent of cologne, regret, and something far too unfinished.
Charlotte was still staring at the porch steps long after Alexander disappeared inside. Her fingers brushed the spot where he'd touched her cheek, and she mentally cursed her traitorous heart for beating like a damn salsa drum solo.
"You're blushing," came a voice behind her, smooth as espresso and twice as bold.
She spun around, almost tripping over her own feet. "Marco! Don't sneak up like that."
He grinned, leaning casually against the old wheelbarrow like he was modeling for a rustic farmer calendar. "I was going to ask if the tomatoes were too spicy for Mr. Cold-and-Controlled... but then I realized, you're the one steaming."
"I'm not steaming," she snapped. "I'm just… standing in the sun."
He cocked an eyebrow. "It's shady here."
She glared.
He walked over, eyes twinkling. "So… that looked intense. I saw the whole thing from the herb garden. Very dramatic. Lots of sexual tension. I give it an 8 out of 10. Would've been a solid 10 if you'd grabbed his tie and kissed him like in those telenovelas."
"Oh my God." She covered her face. "I'm going to bury myself in the compost pile."
Marco laughed. "No need. Unless Hastings did something really unforgivable. Did he touch your risotto without permission? That's grounds for murder."
Charlotte peeked at him through her fingers. "No. Worse. He said things—and now I don't know if I want to punch him or kiss him or both."
Marco chuckled, then leaned in with mock seriousness. "I vote for neither, unless he also compliments your thighs. It's a requirement."
She burst out laughing despite herself. "You're impossible."
"And you're adorable when flustered," he said with a wink, then bumped her shoulder. "Come on, tell me what happened. I promise not to say too many I-told-you-sos."
Charlotte sighed and sat on the bench near the garden beds. "He heard me talking to you earlier. About him. About how I used to—well, you know. How I chased him like a dumbass teenager."
"You were seventeen. Everyone's a dumbass at seventeen."
"And I kind of... may have said he had a terrible attitude and wasn't irreplaceable."
Marco gave a mock gasp. "Scandalous. How dare you speak the truth?"
She smiled faintly. "He didn't like it. We had a bit of a—moment. Lots of arguing. Then he got all intense and said things that made my knees go wobbly."
Marco's brows rose. "Wobbly knees? Dios mio. Should I be worried?"
Before she could answer, Olivia stormed across the yard like a woman on a mission, waving her phone like it was a sword. "CHARLOTTE. YOU. HAVE. TO. SEE. THIS."
Charlotte flinched. "Oh no. What now?"
Olivia shoved the phone under her nose. On screen was still a grainy paparazzi - style photo of Charlotte and Alexander standing together by the elevator. Only this time, the comments were exploding because one of the photo's subjects, Alexander, had made an appearance.
The top comment read: "Alexander Hastings himself just liked this photo! What's going on? ".
Another one followed: "Is there a rekindling of an old flame? Why else would he like a picture of him and Charlotte Evans looking so... tense?"
Charlotte's eyes widened as she scrolled through the rapidly multiplying comments. "What the hell? Why would he like this? He's just fueling the fire!"