Chapter 9
MEGHAN
I lay sprawled across his chest, heart finally slowing, hair damp at the nape of my neck. The tile floor was cool against my legs, the air tinged with salt, sweat, and steel. My restaurant—my domain—had become something else entirely. And so had I.
Caleb’s fingers moved lazily through my hair, like he wasn’t in any hurry to return to the outside world. Like he could stay wrapped in this moment forever.
I tried to match his pace. Tried to let myself melt into the curve of his body, the rise and fall of his breathing.
But stillness had never been my strength.
Especially not now.
“You’re thinking,” he murmured, voice low and rough.
I angled my head to look at him. “I’m not.”
“You are. I can feel it.” His hand stilled. “You’re somewhere else already.”
“I’m right here.”
He didn’t argue. Just let his gaze roam over my face like he was memorizing it. His eyes were sharp, deep-set beneath dark brows, his mouth full and kiss-bruised. His hair had fallen forward—dark, thick, tousled with just the faintest trace of silver glinting near his temple.
And that body …
Jesus.
He looked like the kind of man sculpted for war.
Shoulders broad enough to block the light, chest ridged with definition, abs taut and cut so deep I could trace them with my tongue—and had.
His thighs were slabs of muscle, his arms carved from stone.
And somehow, with all that power, he still touched me like he was trying not to break something.
“You’re really not from here,” I said.
“Nope.”
“You don’t talk like you’re from Montana.”
“What do Montanans sound like?”
“Less like that.” I ran a fingertip down his chest, stopping just above his navel. “More hayseed. Less danger.”
“I can do hayseed if it turns you on.”
I snorted. “You’re not funny.”
“I could be.”
He leaned in and nipped at my bottom lip, but I pulled away before the tension could spool back up. I could already feel it—a low hum in my gut. If I let it, it would consume the night.
Him. Me. Us.
But my brain had other ideas.
“I have prep to finalize tomorrow,” I said, sitting up.
He raised an eyebrow. “Now?”
“Not prep-prep. Just ... ideas.” I stood, reaching for my blouse. My whole body ached—in that good way. The way that came from being used and wanted. I didn’t bother with my bra. Just slipped the shirt back over my shoulders and glanced around for my pants.
He didn’t move from the floor. Just watched me with those sharp eyes like he was trying to read a second layer of dialogue beneath my words.
“You get inspired after sex?”
I blinked. “What?”
“You’re glowing. And muttering to yourself.”
I hadn’t realized I was.
“Sometimes it’s like that,” I admitted. “When I can shut my brain off for long enough, everything clicks afterward. Flavors, textures, menus. It’s like clearing a cache.”
He smiled. “So, I’m your creative reboot.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I shook my head and found my pants, stepping into them one leg at a time.
“The fall tasting menu isn’t final yet. I was on the fence about the venison course, but I’m thinking now maybe we cure it—serve it raw.
That depth of flavor could use acid though.
Maybe blackberry. Something tart but sticky. ”
He sat up slowly, muscles flexing like a predator unfurling. “You just got fucked on your kitchen floor and you’re thinking about blackberry purée?”
“Gastrique,” I corrected, pulling my long dark hair into a quick knot. “It’s different.”
Caleb stood then. Unapologetically naked. He didn’t reach for his clothes. Just stood there, glorious and wrecked, stretching like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Do I get credit on the menu?” he asked, voice low.
“For the inspiration?” I smirked. “You want me to call it the Caleb Course?”
“Sounds masculine. Dominant. Pairs well with red.”
I laughed, but the sound was breathless now. I was slipping back into my world—my rhythm—whether I wanted to or not.
My mind raced.
I needed to test the acidity levels in the glaze. Rework the plating. Check with the forager—if he could still get wood sorrel this late in the season, it would tie the whole thing together. And the duck. I’d have to rethink the duck. Maybe brine it differently. Or dry-age.
I glanced at the clock over the oven and cursed softly. “Shit.”
“What?”
“I have a 7 a.m. call with the local food critic. He’s previewing the fall menu for his piece in the Post & Courier .”
Caleb crossed his arms, biceps bulging. “You’re kicking me out?”
“No. I’m ... I just—” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
His voice dropped. “You regretting it?”
I looked at him—really looked. At the way his eyes darkened, jaw tensed. Like he was preparing for impact. Like he’d been here before. Left behind. Shut out.
“No,” I said softly. “Not even a little.”
Something in him eased, but only slightly.
“I just need to focus,” I said. “The restaurant—this place—it doesn’t run itself.”
“I’m not asking it to.”
“I can’t fall apart right now.”
“Who said you were?”
The silence stretched.
I walked toward the prep table, trailing fingers along the stainless surface where I’d just surrendered myself minutes ago. “You don’t understand. I’ve worked my whole life for this. Every dish. Every night. It’s all calculated. Controlled. The minute I start letting things slip?—”
“I didn’t ask you to slip.”
“I slipped, anyway.”
He stepped closer, voice quiet. “You can’t even let yourself enjoy it, can you?”
“I did.”
“But only for a second.”
My throat tightened. “A second was all I could afford.”
Caleb was quiet then. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. “You ever wonder what might happen if you gave yourself more than that?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
Because I had wondered. More times than I’d ever admit.
But wondering was a luxury. And I’d grown up with none.
“You should go,” I whispered.
He held my gaze for a long beat. “You sure?”
I swallowed. “No.”
That smile again—faint, crooked, knowing. But there was no smugness in it. Just something that looked a little too much like sympathy.
He stepped into his slacks and bent to grab his shirt. “You always run after sex?”
“I don’t usually do sex.”
“Shame.” He buttoned the top few buttons, then left the rest undone. “You’re really good at it.”
I snorted despite myself. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“It’s supposed to make you think twice.”
“I’m still thinking.”
He nodded, pulling his belt through the loops. “Let me know how that goes.”
As he moved toward the back hallway, he paused by the wine shelf. Turned back.
“You ever need help curing venison,” he said, his voice low and rough, “or turning off that brain of yours again ... you know where to find me.”
I hesitated, heart lodged somewhere between my ribs and my throat.
But the truth was—I didn’t know where to find him. Not really. Not unless he came back through that door. Not unless he wanted to be found.
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
He paused near the shelves of wine, half-turned, watching me with something unreadable in his eyes. Then he reached into the back pocket of his slacks, pulled out his phone, and held it toward me.
“Here,” he said. “I’ll make it easier.”
I stepped forward and took it without speaking. The contact was already open. Blank. Waiting.
“Caleb Dane,” he said, like it wasn’t a secret but also not something he offered often. “I’m at The Palmetto Rose for now.”
I typed my name in, added the number, and handed the phone back.
“How long are you in town?” I asked, the question quieter than I meant it to be.
He looked at me for a long moment. Then shrugged, slipping the phone back into his pocket. “Wasn’t planning to stay long.”
I nodded, trying not to let the disappointment register.
“But now?” He stepped closer, gaze raking slowly down my face. “I’m starting to think Charleston might be worth sticking around for.”
My breath caught.
“That because of the venison?” I asked, voice unsteady.
He smirked. “That’s part of it.”
We stood there in the silence for a moment—my feet bare on the tile, his shirt still half-unbuttoned.
Then he reached for the door, fingers brushing the frame.
“Wait,” I said suddenly. “Did you say Dane?”
He turned back to face me, brows lifting. “Yeah. Caleb Dane. Why?”
My heart gave a funny little jolt. “Are you one of the Danes?”
He blinked, clearly not following.
I stared at him. “As in Dominion Hall? Big private estate—iron gates, armed security, the whole bit?”
Something flickered behind his eyes—faint recognition, then caution. “You’ve heard of it?”
“Heard of it?” I stepped closer, arms folding instinctively.
“People around here treat Dominion Hall like a myth. Seven brothers, all former military. Billionaires, or trillionaires depending on who you talk to. The stories are wild—no one really knows what goes on in there, but everyone agrees on one thing: you don’t cross a Dane.
I hear they even keep a venomous snake as a pet. ”
He held my gaze. “Seven?”
“That’s what they say.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Ryker never mentioned that.”
My brows lifted. “Ryker?”
He nodded once, slow. “Met him. He brought me in for something. Never gave a last name. Never mentioned brothers.”
“You’ve been inside Dominion Hall?” I asked, voice sharper now. “No one gets in unless they’re vetted.”
“I figured that out pretty fast,” he muttered, then ran a hand through his hair. “The place was like walking into a fortress. Not just guarded—calculated.”
A strange tension wove through his words—respect, unease, maybe even a little regret. Something unspoken lingered.
“So, Ryker recruited you for what?” I asked.
Caleb’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Didn’t say. Just hinted. He knew things no one should’ve known—classified shit. Stuff I never told anyone.”
My stomach flipped. “That sounds … intense.”
“It was,” he said. “Dominion Hall doesn’t feel like a house. It feels like a test.”
Silence fell between us, thick with implication.
Then he tilted his head. “I wonder if we’re related.”
“You don’t know?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Grew up on a ranch in Montana. Only family I knew were my brothers and our parents. I never thought much about extended family. Or whatever.”
“Then maybe it’s true,” I said, goosebumps rising along my arms. “You’re one of them.”
He didn’t speak. Just stood there, visibly piecing it together. The quiet kind of shock, not theatrical—but deep. Personal.
I gave a soft laugh, trying to lighten the sudden gravity between us. “Guess that means you really don’t bluff.”
His gaze was steady. “I told you I don’t lie.”
And somehow, I believed him even more now.
“Well, you know where to find me now,” he said again, quieter this time, glancing over his shoulder. “I hope you’ll do it.”
The door creaked as it opened, letting in the salt-sweet scent of the harbor.
And then he was gone.
Just like that.
Gone—but not erased.
Not even close.
The door clicked softly behind him.
And still—I stood there. Silent. Breath shallow.
The space he’d occupied seemed too large now. Too loud with absence.
I glanced at the floor where we’d laid, then at the wine glasses still half-full, and finally at the clock again.
I ran a hand through my hair.
Already late.
Already behind.
And still ... his touch lingered.
Not only on my skin.
In my thoughts.
Because for the first time in a very long time, I wasn’t just thinking about menus or critics or produce deliveries.
I was thinking about what it might feel like to be held without having to hold everything else together.
And it scared the hell out of me.