Chapter 10
T he car door closed behind me with a sound that felt more like a lock than a click.
Black leather, cool against the back of my thighs.
Windows tinted dark enough that Charleston blurred into smears of light and shadow.
Atticus didn’t explain where we were going.
He didn’t look at me, either. He just leaned back, one elbow resting loose on the center console, the other hand draped over his knee like he owned gravity itself.
I should’ve asked questions. Normal women did that, right?
Where are we going? How long will it take? Why the hell am I climbing into a stranger’s car in broad daylight when I have invoices sitting back on the shop counter?
But I didn’t ask.
Because the truth was, I didn’t want answers. I wanted this—this silence heavy with implication, this sense of being ferried somewhere on his terms, not mine. Every second that passed without an explanation made my pulse ratchet tighter.
I folded my hands in my lap to stop them from fidgeting.
My blouse clung to me from the humidity outside, and I was very aware of how ordinary I looked.
Not the woman in the dress at Stephen’s party, not the robe-draped witch under the moon.
Just Simone, wrung-out doula in a work blouse and sandals, hair barely tamed into a knot.
Would he see through me now? Would the shine wear off? If there ever was shine, to begin with.
I risked a glance at him. He didn’t look bored. Didn’t look anything, really. Just … intent. His profile cut against the passing scenery—sharp nose, strong jaw, light hair cropped close, that throat inked with the cleaver I hadn’t stopped thinking about.
He didn’t need to speak. His silence was already a kind of ownership.
The car turned off Meeting Street and angled closer to the water. When the Ravenel Bridge came into view, its towers rising pale against the midday sky like a crown of steel, my chest squeezed.
The driver swung into the circle drive of a glass-fronted hotel I’d passed a dozen times, but never entered. Too sleek. Too expensive. The kind of place that catered to yacht owners and luxury-conference types who thought “downtown Charleston” meant the five-block radius with valet parking.
The car rolled to a stop under the porte cochère. The driver opened my door, but it was Atticus’s hand I noticed—offering nothing more than a slight gesture toward the entrance. Not pressure. Not command. Just inevitability.
My plain sandals clicked across the polished floor of the lobby. Gold light poured from chandeliers. A wall of glass gave way to the harbor, the bridge glittering beyond. People in cocktail dresses and dark suits lingered near the bar, their laughter a hum.
I felt like a total imposter in my dull clothes, but Atticus moved like the floor was his, like every eye that slid his way was just confirming what he already knew—that he belonged everywhere, always.
The elevator ride was silent. He didn’t press the button. The driver did. The number glowed: 21. Penthouse.
My stomach flipped.
What was I even doing here? I mean, really?
The elevator opened onto a private landing, no hallway, just one set of double doors waiting. He unlocked it with a keycard that looked permanent, not borrowed. Ownership, again.
And then?—
The suite.
Gracious.
I stepped inside and felt my breath catch.
Floor-to-ceiling glass stretched across the entire wall, Charleston unfurling beneath us in sharp daylight.
The Ravenel Bridge rose pale against the sky, its cables gleaming like silver threads pulled taut over the water.
Sunlight shattered across the harbor, catching on white wakes as sailboats drifted past and cargo ships carved slow, certain lines.
The city looked both near enough to touch and impossibly far away.
Inside, everything gleamed. White marble floors. A sectional sofa the size of my living room. A dining table set with champagne already chilling in a silver bucket. One wall was an expanse of black-veined marble with a built-in fireplace, flames dancing even though the day was warm.
It was gorgeous. Luxurious. And utterly, terrifyingly … not mine.
I wrapped my arms around myself, partly to contain the shiver that ran up my spine, partly to keep from reaching for something—anything—that might ground me.
“This is …” My voice faltered. I cleared my throat. “Something.”
Finally, he spoke. “It’s where you are today.”
No explanation. No apology. Just fact.
I turned back to the glass, the city blazing clear in the sunlight, my own body a faint silhouette against the glare. My pulse thudded low, restless. I couldn’t decide if I felt like a queen on display or a captive in a gilded cage. Maybe both.
When I glanced back, Atticus stood between me and the city, dark shirt stretched over the breadth of his shoulders. He looked carved, deliberate. Watching.
Always watching.
“You should shower,” he said, low, even.
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve been working. You’re tired. You’re wound tight.” His gaze didn’t waver. “Shower.”
The way he said it—it wasn’t suggestion, wasn’t kindness. It was a directive softened only by the fact that I could refuse. I think. But the strange part was, I didn’t want to.
The air conditioning hummed low as he led me down a short hallway.
The suite’s bathroom opened wide, all marble and glass and brushed brass.
A freestanding tub perched near the window, but it was the shower that stole my breath—glass-walled, double-headed, and set so that whoever stepped inside would be framed against the city.
I hesitated at the threshold. “That’s … not very private.”
He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Precisely.”
Heat prickled across my skin. He wasn’t even touching me, and still he was stripping me down.
And, of course, I hadn’t prepared for this.
Not in the ways that mattered. I’d been up all night at a birth, and the last thing on my mind had been razors or wax strips.
My legs were prickly, my bikini line definitely not runway-ready.
The kind of details I usually had handled before a date—or even a casual hookup—suddenly felt glaring in the face of a man like Atticus.
A man who looked at me like grooming didn’t matter, but still made me wish I’d had the chance.
It was silly, maybe even feminist blasphemy, to care. And yet, I did.
I stepped inside. The marble was cool under my bare feet, the air thick with the faint scent of eucalyptus from a waiting bottle of soap. I found the controls and turned them, water hissing to life, steam blooming.
It didn’t feel like my world. Not the wood floors of The Nesting Place, not the warm clutter of my little house with its half-burned candles and stacks of birth books.
Here, everything gleamed—stone and glass and money I couldn’t begin to touch.
I felt like I’d been dropped into someone else’s skin, a woman who belonged to this suite and this view. And I wasn’t her.
I wanted to run back to the familiar, to the places where I knew every corner and every scent, where I blended in instead of sticking out like a girl playing dress-up in someone else’s fantasy.
But then came the guilt, sharp and immediate. Shouldn’t I have enough self-esteem to stand here? To believe I deserved this, deserved him, deserved whatever came next? The fact that I was even questioning it made me restless. Made me angry at myself.
I wanted to shrink away and rise taller at the same time.
For a moment, I just stood there, blouse clinging, heart pounding. I could tell him to leave. Ask for privacy. Draw a line.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I unbuttoned my blouse one slow press at a time, my fingers fumbling more than I wanted them to. Each button undone felt like an admission. By the time the fabric slipped from my shoulders, my skin was flushed hotter than the steam.
I heard him shift behind me—just the quiet drag of breath, the weight of his eyes.
The rest of my clothes followed. My bra. My panties. Every piece left me more exposed, until finally, there was nothing between me and the city but glass, and nothing between me and him but the steam curling in the air.
And God, wasn’t this the worst possible moment to notice every flaw?
The curve of my stomach that softened more than I liked.
The faint stretch marks on my hips I usually pretended were constellations.
The way my thighs pressed together when I shifted my weight.
Under the glare of this suite, with its marble and its glass and its impossible luxury, I felt like my body didn’t belong here—like it was too human, too marked, too real.
Embarrassment crept up hot under my skin, and with it, that familiar war. The one where I reminded myself of every pep talk I’d ever given a client or a friend: confidence is the most attractive thing a woman can wear. Own your body. Own your story.
Men—good men, at least—were drawn to certainty, not perfection. I’d said it a hundred times, believed it for everyone else. Now, it was time to believe it for me.
At least, that’s what I told myself. At least, that’s what I’d always told them.
I stepped under the spray. The water hit hot and heavy, rushing down my shoulders, beading across my chest. I tilted my head back, eyes closing, letting it wash over me. For a few seconds, I could almost believe I was alone.
But I wasn’t.
He was there. Watching.
The thought made my thighs press harder together, shame and hunger twisting tight.
I should’ve hated it. Instead, it felt like every nerve in my body was awake, sparking.
I soaped my skin slowly, deliberately, like my own hands could substitute for his. The water ran slick down my curves. I imagined what he saw—my body framed against the city, the glass turning me into a silhouette, every movement sharpened.
Every time I glanced sideways, I caught him still leaning there, unmoved. Eyes steady, consuming.
He didn’t move to touch me.
And it was driving me insane.
The steam blurred the edges of the glass, but not enough to hide me. Not enough to hide the fact that I was trembling.
I pressed my palms against the marble tile, head tipped forward, water running over my back. Every inch of me knew he was there. Every inch of me wanted to ask him why he didn’t move, why he didn’t close the space and touch me like I’d asked for in that letter.
But the silence was its own answer.
He wanted me to feel this. The anticipation. The exposure. The not-knowing.
My nipples tightened in the spray, sensitive and aching. I soaped them with slow, circular strokes, trying to act casual, like this was just hygiene, not performance. But I felt like I was on stage.
Did he know what he was doing to me?
Of course, he did. That was the whole point.
I dragged the lather lower, down my stomach, over the curve of my hips. My thighs shook when I reached between them, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the water or the fact that I could practically feel his gaze burn through the steam.
I bit my lip. I couldn’t look at him, but I couldn’t not think about him.
“You’re thorough,” he said finally, his voice low, steady, carried into the shower by the acoustics of all that stone and glass.
I jolted. Soap slipped from my fingers.
Heat shot up my neck. “Do you always narrate women’s showers?”
“Only when they’re putting on a show.”
The nerve. The audacity. The absolute accuracy.
My laugh came out choked. “Maybe I like clean skin.”
“Maybe you like being watched.”
The words hit me so squarely in the chest I had to grip the tile again. I squeezed my eyes shut, water pouring down my face, trying not to drown in the truth of it.
Because he was right.
I did like it. The shame, the power shift, the way my body betrayed me by responding harder, faster, under the weight of his stare than it ever had alone.
“Atticus—” I started, but the rest of the sentence dissolved in steam.
When I finally turned, water slicking down my breasts, I found him exactly where he’d been—shoulder against the frame, arms folded, expression unreadable. His shirt clung to his biceps, fabric dark where the steam had kissed it.
He looked like he could stand there all night.
And I realized: that was the danger. Not the possibility that he’d pounce. The possibility that he wouldn’t.
That he’d let me unravel myself until I begged.
I swallowed hard and reached for the faucet, shutting off the spray. The sudden quiet made my pulse sound loud, like it had taken over the room. Drops slid down my body, pooling at my collarbone, tracing lines across my stomach.
The air felt colder without the water, goosebumps chasing the heat.
I grabbed a towel from the rack, but before I could wrap it around myself, his voice stopped me.
“Don’t.”
Just one word.
It rooted me to the tile.
My arms lowered slowly, towel dangling useless in my hand. I turned my face toward the window instead, the city blurring through the damp glass. I felt his gaze move down my back, linger on the flare of my hips, the water still dripping between my thighs.
I had never felt so naked. Not because of skin. Because of what he saw.
The towel slipped from my fingers to the floor.
The silence stretched until I couldn’t take it anymore. “What do you want from me?” My voice cracked—part defiance, part plea.
His answer was a long beat coming. Then: “Exactly this.”
I almost fell to my knees.
Because he meant it. He wanted me here, undone, exposed, vibrating with need. He wanted me to feel the tension so sharp it hurt.
He wasn’t touching me—not yet. And that was worse. That was better. That was everything.
I took a shaky breath and stepped out of the shower. Water pooled on the marble, my wet footprints leading toward him. Each step made me more aware of what I was doing: walking willingly into the lion’s den, skin bare, pulse wild.
When I reached him, I had to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes. He still didn’t move. Didn’t reach for me. Just let me stand there dripping, waiting, aching.
“Why aren’t you touching me?” I whispered.
His mouth curved, the faintest hint of a smile. “Because you’re not ready for what happens when I do.”
My whole body clenched at once.
He pushed off the doorframe then, slow, deliberate, but instead of reaching for me, he brushed past, heading into the suite. His shoulder skimmed mine, a whisper of contact that set every nerve alight.
“Champagne’s open,” he said over his shoulder. “Drink. Then we’ll talk.”
And just like that, I was left standing naked in a hotel bathroom with the city spread beneath me, dripping water onto marble, wondering if restraint was the cruelest—or the kindest—thing he could do.