Sasha handed me a branded folder with my room keycard slipped inside. “You’re in a suite upstairs, second floor, far corner. Best light in the building and closest to the back staircase in case you want to sneak out for a stress cry without passing guests.”
“That obvious, huh?”
“Oh, honey,” she said, lowering her voice in a conspiratorial whisper. “Six weddings, one month, seven of the most intense men I’ve ever seen? If you don’t ugly cry at least once, you’re either a cyborg or possessed by Martha Stewart.”
I laughed, the sound catching me off guard. “Fair.”
She started down a hallway with soft carpet and warm sconces that smelled faintly of citrus and fresh linen. “Seriously though, you need anything—early breakfast, space to meet vendors, a discreet exit? You come to me. We keep things buttoned-up around here, but that doesn’t mean we don’t know how to flex when it counts.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, trailing her as we passed a cozy library nook and a sunroom with lemon water on a silver tray.
She glanced back. “I’m guessing it’s been … a day?”
I exhaled. “More like a battlefield. I just had the seventh Dane brother try to rewrite my contract mid-project.”
“Silas?”
“Of course.”
Sasha let out a low whistle. “Tall, dark, and growly? That one?”
“The very one.”
“Damn,” she said with mock regret. “I was hoping he was the nice one.”
I raised a brow. “You know them?”
She shrugged. “Not like that. Just … met them. Once or twice. Went to a fish fry at the family’s old house on Sullivan’s Island when Izzy and Ryker got engaged. Most of my interactions with them have been purely professional. But if you’re asking whether I’ve imagined waking up tangled in those arms? Girl, yes.”
I laughed again.
“Izzy might kill me if I actually touched one,” she added quickly. “But still. A girl can fantasize.”
“There’s only one left,” I said dryly.
She grinned. “Then you better lock that down. For national security.”
I forced a laugh, but heat bloomed behind my sternum.
I’d already had him.
Fast. Dirty. Mind-shattering.
And God, I was still reeling.
The way his hands had locked around my hips. The way his body moved—like a weapon, like worship. The delicious stretch, the growl in his throat when I clenched around him, the way I came so hard I saw stars behind my eyes.
It hadn’t been sweet. It hadn’t even been smart.
But it had been unforgettable.
Did he still want me gone?
Like it hadn’t happened? Like I hadn’t left him breathless and wrecked with his pants barely zipped?
He could pretend all he wanted, but I’d felt it—the shift in his body, the second he lost control. The man didn’t commit? Fine. But he’d committed to every inch of my body in that workshop, and I wasn’t going to let him rewrite the story like I was some nameless itch he’d scratched in passing.
We paused in front of a set of double doors that led to a formal parlor—mahogany accents, gas fireplace, high-backed chairs arranged around a chess table.
