He glanced in the rearview, eyes lighting with that salesman gleam. No doubt kickbacks from the big chains. "Cheap and quiet? Plenty of that. There's a Holiday Inn Express just off the interstate—pool, free breakfast. Or the Hampton in Mount Pleasant. You look like a guy who appreciates amenities."
Wrong direction. I could feel him steering me toward commissions. Time to pivot.
I pulled a hundred from my wallet, crisp bill between my fingers. "Take me to the last place you'd suggest. Nothing fancy. And no crack houses. This is yours if we get there."
His eyebrows shot up, grin splitting wide. "Now you're talkin'. Gimme a sec." He thought, tapping the wheel, then nodded. "Got it. There’s a place on Kiawah. Old B&B, run-down but clean enough. Owner passed recently. Quiet as a graveyard out there. You sure?"
Kiawah. The island I'd eyed. Remote. Water. I held up the folded bill. "Drive."
The ride stretched, highway giving way to bridges over intracoastal waterways, then a causeway flanked by marshes. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the reeds. Palms whispered in the wind, the air growing heavier with salt.
Kiawah emerged—gated communities, golf courses, beaches for the wealthy. But we veered off the main drag, down a narrow road lined with live oaks dripping Spanish moss. The inn appeared at the end, a faded blue structure with a wide porch and white columns leaning like tired sentinels. It sagged in places, paint peeling, ivy creeping up one side. The yard was sand and scrub, the ocean a distant roar beyond the dunes.
The driver grunted as he pulled up. "Told ya—beneath my usual. But hey, your Benjamin." He beamed, palm out.
I almost told him to turn around. The place looked forgotten, shutters askew, roof patched in spots. But it wasn't the decay that spooked me. It was the lean—the way the whole building seemed to sag under invisible weight, mirroring the old Dane ranch I'd watched through binoculars not twenty-four hours ago. Empty pastures, silent barns. Ghosts lingered in structures like this, in the creak of floors and the whisper of wind through cracks.
I paid the man—fare plus the hundred—and stepped out. He peeled away without a backward glance, tires kicking up sand.
I climbed the porch steps, wood groaning under my weight. The door was unlocked, a small bell above it tinkling as I pushed in. The foyer smelled of lemon polish and salt, faint but clinging. Dust motes danced in the slanting light from high windows. A desk sat to one side, guest ledger closed. No one in sight. I dinged the bell on the counter—sharp, insistent.
Footsteps echoed from down the hall, quick and uneven. She appeared in the doorway, and the world narrowed to her. Petite frame, red hair escaping a messy bun in wild curls, face flushed and dusted with grime. A T-shirt that clung to her curves, damp with sweat, jeans streaked in dust like she'd been wrestling the house itself.
Harried, yes—eyes wide, breath short—but holy hell, she made an entrance. Stunning in that effortless way, green eyes sharp and assessing, full lips parted in surprise.
My gaze traced her without permission: the swell of her hips, the way the shirt outlined her breasts, the strength in her stance, despite the chaos.
Women were idle time for me—quick releases on leave, no strings, no fixation. But this one hit different. Pulled a yearning from deep, inappropriate and grounding all at once. Like the land recognizing its own after too long away. My body reacted, heat coiling low, pulse kicking up a notch.
"Can I help you?" Her voice was polite, edged with that city efficiency, but surprise flickered in her eyes. She thought I was lost, some tourist who'd taken a wrong turn.
"Hoping for a room."
That floored her. She blinked, then fumbled behind the desk, papers rustling, a pen clattering to the floor. "Oh—right. Of course." She straightened, pulling out a weathered guest log, its pages yellowed and curling. Flipped it open with hands that trembled just a bit. "Name?"
"Gideon Dane."
She wrote it down, handwriting precise as typewriter keys—neat loops, even pressure. No flourish. I watched her pen move, the way her brow furrowed in concentration. She looked up, those green eyes locking on mine, asking something unspoken—payment? ID?
"Credit card? Deposit?" I nudged, voice rougher than intended.
She startled, like I'd snapped her from a trance. "I'm new at this—still figuring it out. My grandmother ... anyway. Can I get payment later? If that's okay."
"Sure." The word slipped out, surprising me. Then, jesting to cut the tension: "Wouldn't skip out on the bill."
An awkward pause hung between us, thick as the humidity outside. I wanted to close the distance, crush her against me, feel those curves yield under my hands. Or bolt upstairs, lock the door, and regain control. The pull was magnetic, unsettling.
She broke it, fishing a key from a drawer—old brass, tagged with a faded number 4. Held it out. Our fingers brushed as I took it, skin on skin for the briefest second. Electric shock jolted from the contact, straight to my gut.
What the hell?
Heat flared, my breath catching. Her eyes widened—did she feel it, too?
"Thanks." I managed, turning toward the stairs before I analyzed it further.
"Welcome to the Bradford Inn," she called after me, voice steadier now. "Dinner's at six."
I nodded over my shoulder, climbing the creaking steps. The key bit into my palm. Body buzzing, mind reeling.
