“No,” he said. “That one’s part of the last two years.”
I wanted to ask. I didn’t.
Instead, I rinsed the soap away and pressed my mouth to the spot, once, brief and selfish.
He shivered.
“Emerson,” he said, and there it was again—that tone. The one that made my knees go weak even as my brain catalogued every reason I should walk out and never look back.
“We’re going to be late,” I said, stepping out of the spray.
“For what?” he asked.
“Dinner,” I said. “You promised me the most expensive thing on the menu, remember? I intend to hold you to it.”
His laugh followed me as I reached for a towel.
We dressed without the frantic urgency that had marked the last few hours. It felt almost normal. Dangerous word.
But my suitcase wasn’t here.
“Wait,” I said, realizing it. “My clothes are in my room.”
Levi didn’t argue—he just grabbed his card key, and a minute later we slipped down the hall like two people who definitely should not be seen together. In my room, I tossed open the suitcase that had exploded across the armchair, rummagingthrough it with the detached precision of a woman choosing armor.
He leaned against the door, watching.
I pretended not to notice.
I chose a simple black dress that hit mid-thigh, a neckline that could pass for modest if no one breathed too hard. I twisted my damp hair into a low knot and swiped on mascara, a little concealer, a hint of lipstick.
When I looked up, Levi wasn’t pretending at all—he was staring like he’d forgotten how to blink.
He stood by the window, khaki pants, pale blue button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The shirt pulled across his chest and shoulders in ways that should have been illegal.
“Say something,” I said, suddenly, stupidly nervous.
He didn’t move for a second. Then he let his gaze travel from my bare feet up, slow and thorough, lingering at my knees, the hem of my dress, the slope of my shoulders.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “We’re definitely ordering the most expensive thing on the menu, because they’re throwing us out as soon as they see you.”
Heat climbed my neck. “That was almost charming,” I said. “Did it hurt?”
“Like hell,” he said. “Ready?”
No. Not even a little.
“Let’s go.”
Verandelle sat on a quaint street downtown, all wraparound veranda and soft lantern light, the kind of place that felt built to be photographed at golden hour. Ceiling fans turned lazily overhead, stirring the heavy Charleston air. Couples and groups filled the tables, a low hum of conversation underscored by clinking glassware and the sizzle of something cooking in butter.
We were seated on the veranda, just inside the railing of wrought iron. From here, I could see the street—touristsstrolling by, a horse-drawn carriage rolling past, the driver’s patter floating up like background noise.
Candlelight flickered between us on the small table, catching on the cut crystal of Levi’s water glass, throwing shadows across his jaw.
“Reporter in the wild,” he said, picking up his menu. “How’s it feel, eating something that’s not coming out of a hotel buffet or a conflict-zone canteen?”
I scanned the options—local fish, shrimp and grits, a steak that probably cost more than my first car.
