The Strattons had old money, political pull, and a son who made my skin crawl. Perfect.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, already trying to remember if I’d packed a dress suitable for pretending to be interested in land deals and foundation boards.
Daddy’s eyes narrowed, but not in anger—in calculation. “You need to be seen, Sloane. Remind people you still care about this city.”
“I do care.”
“Then act like it.”
I said nothing. Just leaned my hip against the railing, trying to pretend the floor wasn’t tilting beneath me.
Then, as if he’d just remembered something, he added, “You want me to find out who he was?”
I blinked. “Who?”
“That fella who drove you.” He tilted his glass toward me. “I know a few people out at the hangars. Could get a name. Real one.”
The offer hung in the air, sticky as the Charleston humidity.
Part of me wanted to say no. Pretend I didn’t care. Let it go.
But a bigger part—the one that still felt that stupid smear of grease on my bag—hesitated just a second too long.
Daddy smiled.
“Thought so.”
Later that night, I stood alone on the balcony outside my bedroom, looking down at the empty driveway. The air was quieter now. Heavy, but still.
I picked up my phone, opened Instagram, scrolled past a few curated reels and tagged photos from my last trip to Harbour Island.
Then I typed his name.
Just his first name, because it was all I had.
Charlie Charleston truck.
No results.
Of course, not.
Men like him didn’t live online.
They lived in hangars and grease-stained t-shirts and said maddening things that made you think about them twelve hours later in silk pajamas with a chilled glass of rosé in your hand.
What was I thinking? Honestly.
I turned the phone over and stared at my reflection in the black screen.
“You’re Sloane Carrington,” I whispered.
“Act like it.”
4
CHARLIE
Ishould’ve gone back to the hangar.
