We stayed there, panting, her legs still wrapped around me, my hands still on her ass. The air was thick, heavy with what we’d done. I didn’t move, didn’t want to. She’d fucked me up, and I wasn’t ready to admit it.
Then she did.
Portia slid down, slowly, her heels hitting the floor with a soft click. She adjusted her skirt, smoothing it like nothing had happened, and grabbed her clipboard from the workbench. Her eyes met mine, cool and unreadable, like she hadn’t just turned my world inside out.
“Good luck with your work,” she said, her voice steady, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.
She turned and walked out, the door swinging shut behind her. I stood there, my cock still throbbing, my chest heaving, shock rooting me to the spot.
She’d taken me apart, piece by piece, and left me standing in the wreckage. I’d wanted to put her in her place. Instead, she’d put me in mine.
I ran a hand through my hair, cursing under my breath. My brothers would lose their shit when they heard she was gone. Their fiancées would probably try to castrate me.
But that wasn’t what gnawed at me.
It was her. Portia Lane. She’d walked in here, seen through my bullshit, and matched me blow for blow. I’d wanted her gone to focus on 77, on my mother, on the war that never ended. But now, all I could think about was the way she’d felt, the way she’d looked at me, the way she’d left me standing here like a fucking idiot.
I grabbed the tool, my hands shaking, and tried to focus on the rifle.
Didn’t work.
Her scent was still on me, her heat still in my veins.
I’d fucked up. Big time.
And the worst part?
I didn’t regret it. Not even a little.
5
PORTIA
The Palmetto Rose looked like it had been plucked from a Charleston travel magazine and spritzed with perfume—grand front porch, antique lanterns, and crepe myrtles that danced like they knew they were being watched. Everything about it said quiet luxury. Understated money. The kind that didn’t need five-star ratings to stay booked year-round.
When I’d tried to look it up online, there was next to nothing.
No reviews. No photo tags. No WeddingWire features gushing about the linen thread count or bespoke welcome cocktails.
It wasn’t just odd, it was intentional.
The Danes had scrubbed it, clearly. Maybe to protect their privacy. Maybe to keep certain guests from ending up in search engines. Either way, the message was clear: this place wasn’t for just anyone.
Which made it all the more ironic that I was here on business—checking in, clipboard in hand, scoping it out as a host location for out-of-town guests. Half the wedding party would be stationed here. And I needed to know every inch ofthe place in case a groomsman wandered drunk into the wrong suite or someone’s mother demanded lavender sachets and a hypoallergenic mattress before she’d consider sleeping near salt air.
I stepped through the front doors and was immediately greeted by the soft whoosh of air-conditioning and a voice that practically sparkled.
“Ms. Lane?” the woman at the front desk chirped. “Welcome! We’ve been expecting you.”
She was tall, with honey-gold skin and a riot of curls pulled into a high puff. Her lip gloss caught the light, and her name tag—Sasha—was pinned just off-center over a pale pink blouse with tiny embroidered roses. Everything about her said warm, hospitable, and extremely competent.
“I’m Sasha Bennington,” she added, stepping around the counter with a folder in one hand and an iPad in the other. “Izzy said I should give you the deluxe tour.”
I blinked. “Izzy—as in Isabel Harper, soon to be Dane?”
“That’s the one,” she said with a grin. “We’re old friends. She’s way too cool to admit she basically runs this place, but she does. And since you’re the one planning her wedding, that officially makes you a VIP.”
I couldn’t help it—I smiled back. “Nice to meet you.”
