Unpolished. Uninterested. Unmoved.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Because if he had been one of our people—the quiet, loyal kind who moved in the background and expected nothing—I would’ve known how to act. I would’ve known which smile to wear, which tone to use, what kind of power to flex.
But Charlie didn’t follow the rules.
He didn’t play the game.
And that made me realize—maybe for the first time—that I only ever felt safe when I knew where everyone stood. When I could place people into roles I understood: help, threat, asset, admirer. But Charlie didn’t stand anywhere I could point to.
He just stood.
Like he belonged.
That unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.
I turned into my bedroom and closed the door behind me, letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
The room hadn’t changed since my last stay—soft cream upholstery, oversized floral arrangements, a tufted velvet bench at the foot of the four-poster bed. Carefully curated. Timeless. Like a hotel suite frozen in a southern-belle fantasy.
I dropped my phone on the vanity, then caught sight of myself in the mirror. Sunglasses still on. Lip gloss faded. Sweat-dampened silk clinging to my back.
God.
I peeled off the blouse and let it fall to the floor. My eyes caught on a faint smear of dark gray near the bottom of my Hermès handbag.
Grease.
My jaw clenched.
Of course, that man would leave a mark. Even when he wasn’t touching me.
Before I could overthink it, the door creaked open behind me.
“Knock much?” I called, grabbing a silk robe from the back of the chair.
“Oh, hush. I’ve seen you in a diaper and worse.”
Momma.
She swept in like a social hurricane, perfectly preserved in a buttercream blouse, pearls, and the faint scent of tuberose. Her heels clicked across the tile like a warning.
“You’re flushed,” she said immediately. “You look … sun-slapped. Were you standing in that heat?”
“Yes, Momma,” I said, voice dry. “I thought I’d try heatstroke for fun.”
“Well, it’s not a good look,” she said, walking straight to the window and adjusting the curtains by a quarter inch. “Lord, it’s stifling today. Your father’s already on his second cocktail, and I told him if he breaks another glass door with that golf swing, he’s paying for the replacement himself.”
“Sounds like Daddy,” I muttered.
“And you,” she continued, turning to me with those manicured hands on her hips, “showing up in that truck.”
I stiffened. “News travels fast.”
Quentin had clearly tattled. Of course, he had. Charleston staff were trained in discretion but fed off gossip like blood.
“Your father is not thrilled,” she said, walking to my closet and peeking inside like she was taking inventory. “Youknowhow that looks, Sloane. Riding around with some … some man in a pickup truck like a country song gone wrong.”
