“I want to leave. Now,” she declared, and all I could do was nod, my voice stuck, my head spinning with what this meant.
I remembered Henry Whitaker, the attorney, waiting back at the veranda, probably wondering where I’d disappeared to.
“Meet me by the valet,” I told her, my voice rough, almost foreign. “I’ll be right behind you.”
We stood there, a foot apart, the air thick with wonder, neither of us moving for a long moment. Her lips parted, her breath uneven, and I wanted to reach out, to feel her under my fingers, but I was afraid it’d shatter this fragile spell, this impossible thread pulling us together. Her gaze held mine, raw and unguarded, and I knew she felt it, too—the shock of our shared past, the pull of something bigger.
I forced myself to turn, my steps echoing in the quiet hallway as I hurried back to the veranda, my mind a tangle of Sloane, the woman in red, and the life I thought I knew.
I found Henry at our table, his salmon half-eaten, his eyes lifting as I approached.
“Gotta go,” I said, keeping it short, my tone clipped. “Put the lunch and everything else on my bill.”
He nodded, no questions, his warm, uncle-like demeanor easing the knot in my chest just enough to keep me moving.
I threw a glance at the Carrington table, where Sloane’s parents and the other couple were deep in their Southern charade, their heads bent like they were plotting a dynasty.Marshall was back, his slick smile plastered on, but when our eyes locked, I saw the unease, the kind that comes when a predator senses a bigger threat. I knew his type—trouble wrapped in charm, the kind that left scars you couldn’t see.
I held his gaze a beat, letting him know I had his number, then strode out, my pulse pounding with the need to get to Sloane.
She was waiting by the valet, her white blazer dress glowing in the midday sun, sunglasses back on like a shield. We didn’t speak, the silence heavy with unspoken truths, and when the valet pulled up in my beat-up truck, a flicker of embarrassment hit me. For a second, I wished I’d driven one of the Danes’ sleeker rides, something that matched her polish, but I shoved the thought down hard. That wasn’t me—never would be—and if Sloane was stepping into my world, it was on my terms.
The truck rumbled up, and we climbed in, me forgetting to hold her door like some polished asshole. I felt like a fumbling sixteen-year-old again, my hands gripping the wheel too tight as I pulled out of the lot.
“Where do you want to go?” I asked, the words awkward, like we were picking a coffee shop instead of running from our lives.
She reached over, her hand landing on my thigh, warm and bold, sending a jolt straight to my core.
“Somewhere I can forget this stupid fucking day,” she said, her voice raw, her fingers tightening just enough to make my breath hitch.
I knew exactly where to take her.
I made a sharp turn, gunning the engine, the truck roaring as I sped toward the private slip where one of the Dane yachts was docked. I didn’t give a damn about speed limits or the stares from the country club crowd as we peeled out. All I cared about was getting her away from that place, from Marshall, from the weight of her world and mine.
The island blurred past, the posh community’s charm fading into salt air and the next road, and I stole a glance at her, her profile fierce against the window, her hand still on my leg like a lifeline.
We hit the marina in record time, the Dane yacht gleaming in the sun, a massive beast of black and chrome that made Sloane’s eyes widen with awe. I saw it in her face—the realization that I wasn’t just some grease-stained nobody, that my family played on a level she hadn’t clocked.
The captain, Tom, a grizzled vet who’d sailed with us for years, greeted us at the gangway.
“Where to, Charlie?” he asked, his voice rough but steady.
“Anywhere,” I said, my eyes on Sloane. “As long as it’s far from here.”
He nodded, no questions, and we boarded, the deck humming under our feet as the engines roared to life.
I led her to the main stateroom, a sprawling space of polished teak and cream leather, with a bed that could’ve hosted a small party. The door closed behind us, and the silence was deafening, charged with the weight of what we’d just done.
We stood there, a foot apart, the air crackling with tension.
I reached out, my fingers grazing her arm, half-expecting her to dissolve like a mirage. Her skin was warm, real, and the contact sent a spark through me, igniting something primal.
She looked up, sunglasses gone, her eyes raw and hungry, mirroring the need that had been burning in me since the ball.
I stepped closer, my hand sliding to her waist, and she didn’t pull away. The spell held, and I wasn’t afraid anymore. I pulled her against me, my mouth finding hers, and the world vanished in a blaze of heat.
Her lips were molten, fierce and yielding, tasting of defiance and something sweet, like forbidden fruit. I kissed her deep, my tongue tangling with hers, a low growl escaping as she matchedmy hunger, her hands clawing at my jacket, shoving it off like it offended her.
I tugged her blazer down, revealing a silk camisole that hugged her curves like a lover. My hands gripped her hips, firm but not harsh, and I lifted her onto the edge of the stateroom’s mahogany desk, the wood cool against her thighs as I pushed her dress up, exposing her lace panties.
