Chapter 3
3
CLAIRE
T he second I left the pier, the weight of Charleston’s humidity clamped down on me, thick and smothering, curling against my skin like something alive.
The ocean breeze barely cut through it as I stalked toward the main road. My shoes kicked up sand, my recorder still clenched in my fist, Marcus Dane’s voice ringing in my ears.
Prick.
I yanked open the door of the first Uber idling near the beachside bars, ignoring the way the driver—an older guy with a salt-and-pepper beard—eyed me like I was trouble.
“Where to?” he asked, slamming the trunk shut after tossing in my bag.
“The Palmetto Rose,” I said, sliding into the back seat.
As the car pulled away, I exhaled, rolling my shoulders. The heat, the damp air, the too-quiet streets—it was all pressing in, making me feel out of my element. But none of it compared to the storm still unraveling inside me.
Because I hadn’t just met some local with a chip on his shoulder back there.
I’d met Marcus Dane.
And he was going to be a problem.
As we pulled away from the curb, I rested my elbow on the window’s edge, taking in Charleston’s postcard-perfect scenery. The historic homes with their pastel facades, the wrought-iron balconies, the moss-draped oaks lining the streets—it was charming in that old-money, Southern hospitality kind of way I’d read about. But I wasn’t here to play tourist.
I was here because something wasn’t adding up.
An explosion at Folly Beach Pier didn’t just happen. Not in a place like this. Someone, somewhere, was pulling strings. And if there was one thing I was good at? It was pulling them right back.
The cab rolled onto Meeting Street, the heart of downtown Charleston, and the city unfolded before me like something out of a history book. Cobblestone streets stretched beneath grand live oaks, their sprawling branches draped in veils of Spanish moss. Pastel-colored townhouses lined the sidewalks, their wrought-iron balconies adorned with flickering gas lanterns that seemed to burn even in the daylight.
A horse-drawn carriage clattered past, its wheels rattling against the uneven stones as the driver, dressed in suspenders and a straw hat, gestured animatedly to his passengers. A group of tourists sat wide-eyed in the back, cameras ready, drinking in the charm of a city that felt untouched by time.
On the sidewalks, people moved at a different pace than I was used to—leisurely, as if they had all the time in the world. No one shoved past in a hurry, no one barked into their phones while power-walking to the next obligation. A couple strolled hand-in-hand, pausing to admire a flower box overflowing with pink camellias. A woman in a sundress leaned against a historic marker, sipping from a sweating cup of sweet tea like she had nowhere else to be.
And the smell—God, the smell.
Salt water, thick and briny, but cleaner than the air back home. The scent of it mixed with something warm and rich, the aroma of fresh pralines wafting from a nearby candy shop, mingling with the earthy, slightly bitter smell of old brick that had soaked up centuries of sun and rain.
The cab passed a corner where a street musician played a slow, lazy tune on his saxophone, his case open for tips. The deep, velvety notes curled through the humid air, adding to the languid, dreamlike quality of the city.
This wasn’t New York.
This was something else entirely.
By the time we reached the hotel, my shirt was sticking to my back, and my patience was wearing thin.
The Palmetto Rose was grand in that old-world Charleston way—towering doors, wrought-iron accents, and gas lanterns flickering against the sky. The kind of place dripping with wealth and history.
I strode inside, my shoes squeaking against the marble floor as I approached the front desk. Two women stood behind it, deep in conversation.
The first had sleek dark hair and striking brown eyes, a natural confidence in the way she carried herself. The second—taller, with warm brown skin and loose curls—was idly tapping a pen against the desk, her expression somewhere between amused and unimpressed. They looked friendly enough.
Both turned when I reached the counter.
“Checking in?” the brunette asked, her Southern accent soft but unmistakable.
“Yeah.” I slid my ID and credit card across the polished wood. “Claire Dixon. I booked a suite.”
She nodded, typing something into the computer while the other girl studied me, her head tilting slightly.
“You’re not from around here,” she said.
I exhaled. “That obvious?”
Her lips twitched. “A little.”
The first woman slid my key card across the counter. “You’re in the Magnolia Suite. Elevator’s to your left.”
I tucked the card into my bag. “I need something else.”
They both looked at me.
“I’m looking for someone,” I said, keeping my tone casual. “Marcus Dane.”
The atmosphere shifted.
Subtle, but there. A pause too long, a glance too sharp.
Bingo. So they knew him.
The encounter at the pier had been on his terms, his timing—him catching me off guard, throwing me off balance. If I was going to get what I needed, I’d have to be the one setting the rules next time.
I needed to find him again. But this time, on my terms.
The brunette’s fingers tensed, while the other girl’s gaze sharpened ever so slightly.
I leaned forward. “You know him?”
The brunette’s expression stayed polite, but there was a coolness to it now. “Why are you looking for him? ”
“I host The Unseen ,” I said smoothly. “A true crime podcast out of New York.” I let that hang in the air, watching for a reaction. When none came, I pressed on. “I came down to look into the explosion at Folly Beach Pier. My listeners like the truth, and this whole thing smells like a cover-up.” I tilted my head. “I heard the Dane brothers run some kind of high-end security operation … or something like that. Thought Marcus might have some insight. I was told he was the one to talk to.”
The woman with the curls—who I was realizing had a faint New York accent herself—offered a polite, measured smile. “He’s not exactly easy to pin down.”
I arched a brow. “So you do know him.”
The brunette behind the desk gave a small, noncommittal shrug. “Charleston’s a small town. People talk.”
I exhaled, keeping my tone even. “Look, I just need a meeting. If there’s any way to get in touch with him?—”
The woman with the curls let out a small, knowing smile, shaking her head. “Marcus Dane isn’t the easiest man to find.”
“I just need five minutes of his time,” I pressed.
The first woman glanced at her coworker before exhaling softly, folding her arms. “He’s … particular about who he talks to.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The other woman hesitated before offering a careful smile. “Just that Marcus values his privacy. If he wants to be found, he’ll find you .”
A thrill shot through me.
So I was onto something.
I held her gaze, steady. “Thanks for the insight. ”
“Of course.”
The brunette sighed, rubbing her temple. “Claire, was it?”
“Yeah.”
The memory of him at the pier clung to me, impossible to shake. The way he’d stood—broad and unmoving, radiating that quiet, dangerous confidence—had sent something sharp and electric curling low in my stomach.
Marcus Dane was the kind of man who would ruin a woman in bed—rough hands gripping, pinning, taking. I knew it. The kind who wouldn’t ask permission but would make it so damn good she wouldn’t care. I could still hear his gravel-rough voice taunting me, feel the weight of his stare as if he were stripping me down just to see how I’d react.
If he wasn’t so damn insufferable, I might have let myself wonder what it would feel like to have that smirk brush against my skin, to hear his voice drop lower—not with sarcasm, but with raw, undeniable want.
I swallowed hard, pushing the thought away.
This was going to be fun .