Chapter 14
W e didn’t stay another night in Miami.
After breakfast, after the beach, after Ronan had ruined me with his mouth and then told me to be patient—he didn’t say it, but I felt it—we boarded his private jet bound for Charleston.
I didn’t ask how he got clearance so fast. I didn’t ask how he had a plane on standby, or yet another black SUV waiting at the edge of the sand like we were just stepping out of some luxury photo shoot.
He was the kind of man who made things happen without effort, who kept backup plans for his backup plans. I should’ve been used to it by now.
But every time he did something like this—quietly, confidently—it made my pulse skip.
I had work I should’ve been doing. Emails I hadn’t answered.
Deadlines waiting for a version of me that hadn’t just let a stranger turn her inside out on a towel beneath the palms. And my mom—she was probably already texting.
If I didn’t check in soon, she’d start calling, worrying.
Asking questions I wasn’t prepared to answer.
But I couldn’t make myself care. Not yet.
We didn’t speak much in the car. The air conditioning blew soft and cold against my skin, drying the last traces of salt water from my thighs.
I’d redressed in the white cover-up and tied the damp green bikini into a neat knot inside my tote.
My body was still humming from what he’d done to me.
My mouth still ached to say things I wasn’t ready to say.
The jet was waiting at Opa-locka, sleek and gleaming with tinted windows and polished steel steps.
He helped me inside without fanfare, settling me into a wide leather seat before he ducked into the cabin with a murmured phone call.
A few minutes later, a crew member appeared with a tray of food—takeout boxes still warm.
“From Café Solana,” Ronan said when he rejoined me, his voice low. “Another one of my favorites. They boxed it up just in time.”
I opened the lid and blinked. A stacked club sandwich on toasted sourdough, kettle chips on the side, and a little paper cup of coleslaw that looked way better than it had any right to be.
“You had diner food delivered to the jet?” I asked, incredulous.
He gave a small shrug. “Figured you’d rather have something comforting than caviar.”
I smiled before I could stop myself. “And you couldn’t wait until Charleston?”
“I didn’t want you hungry.”
The way he said it—simple, unapologetic—made my stomach twist for reasons that had nothing to do with food.
We ate in silence, perched across from each other, our knees brushing every so often in the narrow aisle. I sipped a tiny bottle of Coke and tried not to think about what it meant that I was already learning his habits. That I knew how he took his coffee. That I’d already let him see me naked.
I should’ve been embarrassed. I should’ve felt regret.
But instead, I felt something that scared me more.
Comfort.
The kind of comfort that made you forget to be careful. That made the lines blur between fantasy and reality until you started wondering if maybe this wasn’t just a story you’d stepped into for a night. Maybe it was the beginning of something else. Something that had no neat ending.
I leaned my head back against the leather seat, the hum of the engine a soft backdrop to my thoughts. Outside, the clouds glowed faintly with the fading light. Inside, the cabin smelled like coffee and citrus and him.
Ronan sat across from me, his elbows on the table, fingers loosely laced. His watch glinted under the recessed lighting, and his gaze hadn’t left me for long since we’d boarded. But he wasn’t crowding me. He was letting me drift. Letting me think.
Charleston.
The word kept echoing in my mind like a summons and a threat.
He wanted to see me there. Had said it more than once.
But Charleston wasn’t like Miami. It wasn’t all heat and escape.
It was roots and reality. It was my job, my townhouse, my mom.
The nursery where I grew up running between rows of camellias and dogwoods. It was expectations. Reputations.
It was my real life.
And he wanted to enter it.
“You ever going to tell me your last name?” I asked suddenly, because it felt safer than asking the other questions pressing at my chest.
He exhaled through his nose, slow. “It’s usually against the rules.”
I lifted a brow. “Rules?”
He leaned back in his seat. “Alpha Mail has guidelines. Protocols. Discretion is part of the appeal—for both parties.”
“And you follow the rules?”
A beat passed. “I try.”
I watched him. “But you’re not a rule follower, not really.”
He cracked the barest smile. “No. But the guy who started the service is a friend. We served together. I owe him a lot. And when I left that world, he gave me something else to do. So yeah. I try to follow the damn rules.”
I waited.
He looked at me, jaw tight. Then finally, “Hale.”
I blinked. “That’s your last name?”
He nodded once. “Ronan Hale.”
It landed heavy. Like it changed something. Made him more real. More traceable. Like now I could Google him and maybe find fragments of a man the world hadn’t known what to do with.
“Thank you,” I said softly.
He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. But it was. We both knew it.
It was.
For a few minutes, we just sat in the quiet of the cabin, the hum of the engine soft as the jet began its descent. I sipped the last of my Coke, trying not to overthink what came next. What this meant. Whether it meant anything at all .
Then he broke the silence.
“Are you free tomorrow night?”
I blinked. “Tomorrow?”
He nodded. “There’s somewhere I want to take you.”
My pulse stuttered. The question was casual. The look in his eyes was not.
I gave a short laugh, more nervous than amused. “That depends. Am I allowed to see you again without filling out another form?”
His mouth tugged into a half-smile. “I’ll allow it. But only if you say yes.”
I hesitated, fingers tightening around the armrest. “I have work. And my mom’s going to want to know where I’ve been. I’m sure I’ve already missed several of her calls.”
“So, call her.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
I didn’t answer. Because I couldn’t explain how dangerous it felt to even think about fitting him into my real life. Ronan wasn’t normal. He wasn’t safe. He wasn’t someone I could introduce over coffee or casually bump into at the nursery.
But I didn’t want to say no either.
“You’ll come,” he said quietly. Not demanding. Just certain.
My voice was almost a whisper. “Where?”
“I’ll let you know.”
The jet touched down in Charleston just after sunset.
And everything felt different. The air was softer. The landscape wider. Spanish moss draped from trees like secrets. And I remembered what my life was supposed to look like—routine, controlled, untouched .
He reached for my hand in the car. I let him hold it.
“I want to show you something,” he said.
I didn’t ask what.
The driver took a turn I hadn’t expected—off the main road and onto Johns Island, past familiar landmarks. My parents’ nursery came into view, its faded wooden sign and bright planters as unchanged as ever. I craned my neck, heart thudding. A pang hit somewhere in my chest.
He’d said he wanted to see me in Charleston. I didn’t know he’d already seen the city himself. I had no idea where he lived, actually.
“You’ve been here before,” I said quietly.
He didn’t answer. Just gave my hand a light squeeze.
A few turns later, we pulled into a long driveway framed by cypress trees and low-slung fencing. The house came into view slowly—massive, modern, but rooted in Southern lines. Wide porches, warm light glowing through tall windows, and beyond it, a private dock stretched into a tidal inlet.
“You live here?” I asked, voice barely audible.
He nodded. “Been here for years.”
“You never mentioned?—”
“I didn’t know how long I’d stay in your life,” he said. “Didn’t want to start with proximity.”
That word. Proximity.
I stared at the house. It couldn’t have been more than a mile from my parents’ place. Maybe less.
“You live next to my childhood,” I whispered.
He looked at me then—soft, serious. “No. I live next to your roots. There’s a difference.”
My chest pulled tight.
And then, as if he could feel the pressure building, he said, “I’ll bring you back here. When you’re ready. ”
We didn’t go inside.
Instead, he had the driver take us to my townhouse, quiet and neatly lit, flowers blooming in their pots just like I’d left them.
But when the car pulled up, I saw another surprise.
My mother.
Standing on the steps like she’d sensed something. Like she already knew.
She wore a soft blue sundress and held her phone in one hand, her brow knit with concern as the headlights washed over her. The second the car rolled to a stop, she stepped forward—hands on hips, squinting toward the windshield like she could see through the tinted glass.
I panicked.
“Shit,” I whispered, turning toward Ronan. “She’s not supposed to be here.”
He looked entirely unfazed. “You going to introduce me?”
“No.” I shoved at the door, heart racing. “Stay here.”
“Zara—”
“Please.”
He didn’t argue. Just leaned back and gave a single nod, eyes unreadable.
I climbed out and shut the door behind me with a little too much force.
“Mom,” I said quickly, trying to sound breezy, casual, like I hadn’t just flown home on a private jet after being hunted in a zoo and thoroughly ruined on a towel in Miami. “What are you doing here?”
She arched a brow. “I was about to ask you the same thing. You didn’t call back last night. I thought you might’ve been mugged or murdered.”
“Mom—”
“And then a black SUV pulls up in front of your place and you step out looking like someone who’s been on a—” she stopped, narrowed her eyes “—vacation.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. “It was just a quick trip.”
“Uh-huh.” She crossed her arms. “With who?”
“No one.”
Her eyes dropped to the SUV, the shadow of a figure still visible inside.
“Is ‘no one’ going to walk you to the door?” she asked, voice rising ever so slightly.
“He was just giving me a ride,” I said quickly, too quickly. “It’s not?—”
Before I could stop her, she stepped around me.
No. No, no, no.
“Mom—”
But she was already at the curb, peering through the tinted window like she owned the place. And because the universe has a cruel sense of humor, Ronan—my dark, devastating secret—chose that exact moment to get out of the car.
Slowly.
Like he’d been preparing for battle.
The door clicked shut behind him and he walked up to her with the same lethal calm he used when threatening drivers who dared glance my way.
“Hi,” he said evenly. “I’m Ronan.”
My mother froze. Took him in slowly. Then turned to me with a look that was part confusion, part concern, part ... curiosity.
“Well,” she said. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. My tongue felt like it had turned to sandpaper.
She gave Ronan another once-over, her brow lifting slightly. “Not your usual type. ”
I cleared my throat. “He’s just?—”
“A friend?” she offered, tone dry.
I nodded. Too fast.
Ronan didn’t flinch. Just stepped forward, calm and confident like nothing about this situation was awkward for him.
She looked between us. Her gaze softened. “He’s very handsome. Tall, too.”
“Mother.”
“I’m just saying.”
Ronan extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
She shook it, looking impressed despite herself. “Hope Hughes. Zara’s mom. My husband, Greg, and I run a nursery on John’s Island. Maybe you’ve seen it.”
“I have,” Ronan said smoothly. “Beautiful property.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You live around here?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “I do.”
I could’ve strangled him.
My mom glanced back at me. “Well. I was going to invite you to come by tomorrow, but maybe you’re busy.”
“I’m not,” I said quickly, shooting Ronan a warning glance.
“Wonderful,” she said. “We just finished planting a whole round of lemon balm and butterfly bush. It smells like heaven. If your friend wants to join, remind him we have a big pool out back. Might want to bring a swimsuit.”
There was a pause then—a beat too long. “We’ve had to cut back on landscaping a bit,” she added lightly, like it didn’t matter. “But it’s still nice. Still home.”
My stomach pinched. My mom never commented on money. Not even when things were tight. And lately, there’d been more of these little remarks. Just enough to make me wonder what I wasn’t being told.
I made a strangled sound.
Ronan’s lips twitched. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
And then—mercifully—she kissed my cheek and turned toward her car.
“I’ll call you in the morning,” she said.
“Okay,” I mumbled.
She waved at Ronan like they were already friends and drove off.
The silence that followed was thick.
“I turned toward him, arms folded. “You just let her interrogate you.”
“She didn’t scare me.”
“She terrifies me.”
“She’s protective. I like that.”
I sighed and started up the steps. He followed.
But even as I tried to shake off the moment, my thoughts drifted to my dad.
If my mom was protective, Greg Hughes was a damn fortress.
He didn’t raise his voice or make dramatic pronouncements—he just observed.
Quiet. Intense. And when something didn’t sit right with him, the silence got louder.
I could already imagine the look on his face if he ever met Ronan.
The calculation in his eyes. The way he’d size him up, trying to decide if this man belonged anywhere near his only daughter.
And I already knew the answer. My dad had spent his life building things with his hands, grounding himself in family and soil and legacy.
A man like Ronan? He’d see him as a threat.
A storm. A wrecking ball wrapped in good suits and bad intentions.
And maybe he wouldn’t be wrong.
At the door, I turned. “Thank you for bringing me home. ”
Ronan’s voice was low. “You sure you want me to leave?”
I didn’t answer right away.
Because no—I wasn’t sure. Not at all.
But I nodded anyway. “For now.”
His eyes searched mine. And then he leaned down, kissed my cheek like it was a promise.
“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “Tomorrow night.”
And then he left.
Leaving me standing on my porch, heart racing, pulse humming, and absolutely no idea how I was going to make it through the next twenty-four hours.