This was ridiculous.
And yet.
When the plane began its descent, my pulse spiked again, sharp and anticipatory. The landscape outside the window had changed—fields dusted with pale frost, dark lines of trees standing stark against winter-light sky.
Real winter.
Not Charleston’s polite version.
The wheels touched down with a jolt that traveled straight up my spine.
You’re here.
The thought wasn’t mine.
I gathered my things and moved with the other passengers into the terminal, the air immediately colder, drier. New York winter wrapped around me like a reprimand.
I pulled my coat tighter and scanned instinctively—not for him, I told myself, but for the driver Abigail had mentioned.
Black sedan. Discreet. Professional.
It was waiting.
The man holding the sign—my name printed cleanly beneath a small logo—met my eyes with polite neutrality.
“Ms. Quinn?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“This way.”
No drama. No commentary.
The car smelled faintly of leather and something pine-adjacent, clean and restrained. I slid into the back seat, heart ticking faster as the door closed behind me with a solid, final sound.
The driver pulled away smoothly, merging onto the road with practiced ease.
Trees thickened around us as the city fell back. The landscape shifted into something quieter. Colder. More remote.
My phone buzzed once we were well on our way.
Did you behave?
I swallowed.
“Yes,” I typed before I could overthink it.
A pause.
Then:I knew you would.
Heat flared, uninvited and intense. I shifted again, acutely aware of the space between my thighs, the friction of fabric.
The car moved steadily north, the road narrowing, traffic thinning.
“Where are we going?” I asked, surprising myself by speaking aloud.
The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Your accommodations are about forty minutes from the airport, ma’am.”
