Chapter 21
WYATT
Ilooked at her across the table, holding that photograph of Jonesy like it was oxygen, tears still wet on her cheeks catching candlelight, and something in me made a decision before my brain could stop it.
"Can we pretend?" I asked quietly.
She blinked, confusion flickering across her face. "Pretend what?"
"That the rest of the world doesn't exist. Just for tonight."
I knew it was the coward's way out. I knew I was avoiding everything—Klein showing up like a ghost from my past, Dominion Hall waiting for an answer I didn't know how to give, the fact that I'd planned to disappear, to let her go, to do the right thing for once by staying the hell away from her before I ruined her like I ruined everything I touched.
But I shoved that thought away hard, buried it somewhere deep where it couldn't reach me.
I wanted her. The girl I'd known. The woman she'd become. Right here. Right now. In this candlelit corner of Charleston where nothing else could touch us.
Tomorrow could destroy me. But tonight was mine.
Sophie gave me a look—uncertain, guarded, like she was trying to read between the lines, figure out what I was really asking, whether this was another retreat disguised as intimacy.
"What do you mean?" she asked carefully, her voice soft but steady.
I leaned closer across the table, close enough that I could smell her perfume—something floral and warm that made me want to bury my face in her neck.
My voice dropped to something low and honest, rougher than I intended.
"I want to be selfish tonight. I want you for myself.
All for myself. No past. No future. No complications.
Just ... this. Just us. Is that too big an ask? "
Her expression softened immediately, melting into something warm and open and trusting that made my chest ache, and when it did, I drooped inside.
Some part of me—some self-destructive, masochistic part that knew better—wished she'd tell me no.
That this wasn't what she wanted. That she'd see through me and call me out, tell me to get my shit together before asking her for anything, before dragging her into whatever mess I was making of my life.
But she didn't.
And I was too far gone to stop myself now.
"Okay," she whispered, her eyes holding mine like an anchor. "Tonight."
We talked. We drank. We ate.
And somewhere between the second glass of wine and the steak that melted like butter on my tongue, I fell for her.
Not slowly. Not carefully. Not in the safe, measured way I'd told myself I would if I ever let it happen, if I ever let my guard down enough to feel something this consuming.
Deeply. Wholly. Completely.
Like falling off a cliff with no intention of catching myself, no parachute, no safety net, just the certainty of impact and not caring because the fall felt worth it.
I noticed everything. The way candlelight caught copper in her hair and turned it molten, like precious metal I wanted to run my fingers through.
The shape of her mouth when she smiled—the way her top lip curved just slightly, the small dimple that appeared on the left side of her face, the flash of white teeth.
The way her hands moved when she talked—gesturing, reaching, painting pictures in the air, alive with energy and expression.
The way she shifted in her chair, leaning forward when I said something that interested her, her elbows on the table like she needed to be closer, needed to close the distance between us.
Leaning back when she was thinking, her head tilting slightly to the left, eyes narrowing like she was solving a puzzle I'd accidentally presented.
Every detail felt significant. Essential. Like I was memorizing her for a test I didn't know I'd have to take, like I was cataloging proof that this moment had existed in case I needed evidence later that something this good had been real.
It was like the gods had made her just for me.
If only they'd known the sinner they'd gifted her to. If only they'd known I'd waste her light trying to illuminate my own darkness.
We talked about Valentine. About middle school. About the time we'd snuck into the old theater that was already falling apart and watched a terrible horror movie while eating stale popcorn we'd brought from home because we were too broke to buy it there.
We talked about Austin. About her friends. About the first time she'd realized she didn't want to be a counselor anymore but didn't know what else to do, how she'd felt like she was disappointing everyone by walking away from something she'd worked so hard for.
We didn't talk about war. Or mothers with Alzheimer's. Or FBI agents who showed up uninvited with old vendettas and new threats.
Just us. Just the parts that were still good, still untouched by everything we'd survived.
By the time dessert came, we were both a little drunk. Not sloppy. Not out of control. Just happy. Loose. Real in a way that felt dangerous and perfect at the same time, like we'd temporarily suspended the laws of consequence.
The manager appeared with a towering chocolate creation—layers of dark cake and mousse and ganache and something that looked like it belonged in a magazine spread instead of in front of two people who'd barely kept their hands to themselves through dinner.
"What's the occasion?" he asked kindly, smiling like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it, anyway.
I blurted it before I could think, the alcohol making me honest in ways I usually wasn't. "I found my best friend."
Sophie's eyes went wide for half a second, surprise and something deeper flashing across her face, then she laughed—bright and real and unguarded—and added, "I did, too."
The manager's smile widened, knowing and gentle. He didn't believe for a second that's all we were, but he was kind enough not to say it, kind enough to let us have our fiction.
"Congratulations," he said simply, like he understood exactly what we weren't saying, and left us alone.
We each took a bite of the dessert. It was delicious—rich, decadent, the kind of thing you wanted to eat slowly and savor, let melt on your tongue.
But Sophie was staring at me now, and suddenly chocolate didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered except the look in her eyes.
"What?" I asked, my voice rough, catching on something in my throat.
"I'm done," she said.
My stomach dropped, panic flaring hot and immediate. "What does that mean?"
Her voice went husky, low, deliberate in a way that sent heat straight through me, pooling low in my gut. "I want you to take me to bed."
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 said good luck and enjoy yourselves and remember 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.
"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.