That was the worst part. The wanting felt familiar. Dangerous. Like muscle memory I didn’t remember learning.
When I looked up, he was watching me.
“You just thought of something,” he said. Not a question. A statement. His tone was low, rough velvet over gravel.
I shook my head too quickly. “I didn’t.”
He leaned in slightly, elbows resting on the table, eyes sharp and amused. “You did.”
I felt the blush deepen, betraying me. “It’s nothing,” I whispered.
“Doesn’t look like nothing.”
His voice sent a shiver down my spine—steady, patient, dangerous in how sure it was. I gripped my napkin, willing my pulse to slow.
“I should check on Maude,” I said, my chair scraping softly against the floor. “Maybe she’d like a plate.”
He didn’t move, didn’t stop me, but his gaze followed me like a touch. “Dinner was good,” he said as I passed. “But something tells me dessert could be better.”
I froze in the doorway, my breath catching hard in my throat.
When I glanced back, he was still watching me—calm, unreadable, gaze pinning me in place.
“Goodnight, Hazel,” he said, his voice a low promise wrapped in politeness.
I swallowed, my hand tightening on the doorframe. “Goodnight.”
The moment stretched, thin as silk, before I forced myself to walk away.
6
GIDEON
The key turned smooth in the old brass lock of Room 4, but my hand stayed on the knob a beat longer than necessary.Dessert could be better ... Christ. I'd known her all of an hour, and I'd tossed out a line like that? What the hell was wrong with me?
I crossed the room in three strides and dropped onto the edge of the bed. The mattress sagged under my weight, springs groaning like they resented the intrusion. I leaned forward and stared at the faded wallpaper—vines twisting up the wall like they were trying to escape the same way I suddenly wanted to.
Women had never been complicated for me. A night on leave, bodies colliding in the dark, no names if I could avoid it, no lingering. Clean. Efficient.
But Hazel ... those green eyes that sliced right through the silence, that red hair spilling from its knot like it had a mind of its own. Beautiful didn't touch it. She was a live wire in a storm, all delicious edges and hidden heat.
And her story—the will, the year, this crumbling inn—it hooked something in me I didn't let out often. Intrigue. The kindthat settled low and refused to budge. The inn itself pulled at me, too, with its leaning beams and salt-soaked air, like it was breathing, waiting.
I rubbed a hand over my beard, confusion twisting in my gut. Flirty cracks weren't my play. I was the loner—silent, watching, gone before the echo faded. One touch of fingers, one shared meal, and I'd slipped. Her quiet laugh when Maude had teased her. The way she’d moved the shrimp around her plate like it was a problem to solve. Order, she’d called it. Predictability. I understood that cage. Lived in it.
But beneath her control? Fire. The kind that could scorch, if you got too close. I could feel it.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand, cutting through the quiet. I snatched it up.Need to move our meeting up. Come to Dominion Hall tonight, as soon as you're able. —Elias
Direct. No fluff.
I cursed under my breath for skipping the rental car at the airport. I didn’t do Uber. Cab it was. I dialed the local service, voice low. "Bradford Inn on Kiawah. Pickup to Charleston. I'll give the address when you arrive."
Twenty minutes.
I had the patience of a hunter—hours in the blind, waiting for a breath out of place. But when the call came, I moved. Always.
Eighteen minutes later, I gave the room one last scan: bed still made, window cracked to the low hum of the marsh. Down the stairs I went, steps placed carefully on the creaking wood.
