She wasn't shy about it. Wasn't hesitant. Wasn't playing games or hinting or leaving room for misinterpretation.
Just honest. Direct. Sure.
Like she knew exactly what she wanted and wasn't afraid to ask for it.
I could only nod, my throat suddenly dry, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Yeah. Okay."
I signaled for the check, paid faster than I'd ever paid for anything in my life, my hands shaking slightly as I signed the receipt and left a tip that was probably too generous but I didn't care, didn't care about anything except getting out of here and being alone with her.
We walked out hand in hand, her fingers laced through mine, and the Charleston night hit us—warm, humid, alive with possibility and the distant sound of music drifting from nearby bars.
"Your hotel?" I asked as we hit the sidewalk, already trying to figure out logistics, routes, timing.
She shook her head immediately. "Too many inquisitive eyes. Beth and Natasha would know the second I walked in. They'd want details I'm not ready to give yet."
"My place?"
She hesitated, biting her lip in that way that made me want to kiss her. "That feels like ... taking me to your grandparents' house."
I almost laughed despite the tension coiling tight in my body, despite the fact that I wanted her so badly I could barely think straight, could barely remember my own name.
Then I remembered.
I pulled the black card Micah had given me out of my wallet—the one I'd sworn I wouldn't use, the one that felt like a trap—and held it up between us.
Sophie looked at it, confused, her brow furrowing adorably. "What is that?"
I grinned, feeling reckless and young and stupid in the best way, like I was eighteen again and invincible. "Your ticket to paradise."
She laughed, the sound bright and uninhibited and full of joy, and God, I loved that sound more than I should, more than was safe.
A couple walked out of the restaurant just then—older, mid-sixties maybe, well-dressed in that effortless Charleston way that spoke of old money and good taste and lives well-lived.
I stopped them before I could think better of it, before embarrassment could catch up, before common sense could remind me this was insane.
"Excuse me," I said. "What's the most expensive hotel in Charleston?"
The man gave us a look—half amused, half bemused, like he was trying to figure out if we were serious or if this was some kind of joke.
But his wife smiled immediately, warmth crinkling the corners of her eyes, like she remembered being young and reckless and desperate to be alone with someone, like she recognized what we were and approved.
"The Belmond Charleston Place," she said without hesitation. "Ask for the Governor's Suite, if it's available. You won't regret it."
"Thank you," Sophie said, her cheeks flushed pink in the streetlight, beautiful and alive and mine for tonight, at least.
The couple walked away, the wife glancing back once with a smile that saidgood luckandenjoy yourselvesandremember this.
Sophie and I looked at each other.
Shrugged.
Grinned like idiots.
And it took every ounce of restraint I had not to kiss her right there on the sidewalk, not to pin her against the brick wall of the restaurant and show her exactly what she did to me, what she'd been doing to me since the moment I saw her on that dock.
But first, we needed a cab.
I flagged one down within seconds—Charleston being kind for once, the universe cooperating—and we climbed in, Sophie sliding close enough that her thigh pressed against mine, warm and solid and real.
