"Belmond Charleston Place," I told the driver, my voice steadier than I felt.
"Yes, sir," he replied, pulling away from the curb.
And then we were moving through the city, lights streaking past the windows in blurs of gold and white, Charleston alive around us but distant, separate, like we were in our own bubble.
Sophie's hand found mine in the dark.
Neither of us spoke.
We didn't need to.
The silence between us wasn't empty. It was full—charged with anticipation and desire and something deeper that I wasn't ready to name but couldn't ignore.
I looked at her in the passing streetlights, her profile beautiful and familiar and devastating all at once, and thought:
This is it. This is the cliff.
And I was jumping, anyway.
22
SOPHIE
The cab pulled under the porte-cochère of the Belmond Charleston Place, and the doorman opened my door before I even reached for the handle. Warm light spilled out from the lobby, gold and inviting, but all I could feel was the heat of Wyatt’s hand still wrapped around mine in the backseat—like he was afraid I’d vanish if he let go.
We stepped out together. The night air was warm, thick with jasmine and salt, but it did nothing to cool the flush crawling up my neck.
Wyatt paid the driver without looking away from me, then guided me through the revolving doors with his palm low on my back. Possessive. Steady. The kind of touch that saidminewithout a single word.
I absolutely loved it.
At the front desk, he slid that black card across the marble like it was nothing. The concierge didn’t blink—just smiled the practiced smile of someone who’d seen a thousand nights like this and knew better than to ask questions.
“Governor’s Suite, please,” Wyatt said, voice low and rough from bourbon and want. “If it’s available.”
It was.
Of course, it was.
The elevator ride up was torture. Twelve floors felt like twelve miles.
We stood side by side, shoulders brushing, neither of us speaking. I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears, loud enough that I wondered if he could, too. His thumb traced slow circles over the back of my hand, and every pass sent a fresh pulse of heat straight between my legs.
When the doors opened on the top floor, he didn’t wait for me to step out first. He scooped me up—arm under my knees, other around my back—like I weighed nothing. I gasped, then laughed, the sound shaky and surprised.
“Wyatt—”
“Been waiting too damn long to walk through a door with you in my arms,” he murmured against my temple. “Not stopping now.”
My arms wound around his neck. His scent filled my lungs. I pressed my face into the crook of his shoulder and let him carry me down the hallway like I belonged there. Like I’d always belonged there.
The suite door clicked open with the key card. He kicked it shut behind us without setting me down.
Inside, it was exactly as the older woman had promised: soaring ceilings, cream-and-gold everything, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering harbor. A massive four-poster bed dominated the bedroom, visible through open double doors. Candles had already been lit—someone had anticipated romance tonight—and soft jazz drifted from hidden speakers.
Wyatt finally lowered me to my feet, but he didn’t let go. His hands framed my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones, and he looked at me like he was trying to memorize every freckle.
“Sophie,” he said, and my name in his mouth sounded like prayer and promise and possession all at once. “Tell me you’re sure. This will change things between us.”
