Chapter 7
JOY
The meeting itself blurred once I left Portia’s sitting room.
Not the details—I remembered those clearly. Timelines. Flights. Varieties. The way Portia listened without interrupting, the way she decided things like they were already hers.
But what stayed with me wasn’t the business of it.
It was him.
I’d stepped outside because my chest felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with nerves or intimidation. I needed air. Space. Something real under my feet after all that velvet confidence and whispered laughter.
That was when I’d run into him.
Not literally—thank God—but close enough to feel like the universe had nudged us into the same narrow strip of stone and green at the exact wrong moment.
He’d been tall. Broad. Quiet in a way that didn’t invite conversation. The kind of man who looked like he knew how to hurt people and had done it often enough that it no longer showed on his face.
Military, I’d thought immediately. Or something adjacent to it.
I’d seen men like that around Charleston before—at the airport, in certain restaurants, moving through the city with a watchful stillness that made you step aside without knowing why. They’d always seemed … distant. Dangerous in a way I’d never been curious about.
Until him.
The exchange itself had been brief. Awkward. Worse than awkward.
He’d dismissed flowers like they were meaningless. A waste. Said it flat, like it was a fact, not an opinion.
And I—sweet, polite, careful me—had snapped.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. But enough that my voice had sharpened, enough that I’d said something true and personal and then walked away before I could regret it.
I’d been proud of myself for that.
I was still proud.
But pride didn’t explain why my hands had been shaking as I’d left the path. Or why his voice—low and rough and maddeningly calm—had followed me long after I’d put distance between us.
Back inside, Dominion Hall felt different.
Too warm. Too enclosed.
I moved through it like I was underwater, nodding when people spoke, answering when necessary, my thoughts circling one thing over and over again.
The way he’d looked at me.
Not like the men who’d called me sweet. Or safe. Or good.
He’d looked at me like I was something unexpected.
Something that didn’t belong where it had appeared.
I didn’t linger.
I made my polite goodbyes, accepted assurances that we’d be in touch, and left Dominion Hall with my heart thudding too hard for a simple business meeting.
The drive home was a blur of green and asphalt and half-formed thoughts.
By the time I reached my condo, my body felt restless in a way I didn’t have words for. My skin too tight. My thoughts looping back to the same image over and over again.
Him.
His stillness.
The weight of his attention, even when he hadn’t been trying to give it.
I told myself it was nothing.
Just nerves.
Just embarrassment.
Just the residue of being out of my depth.
But when I closed the door behind me and leaned back against it, the quiet hit all at once.
And with it—something else.
Heat.
Low. Insistent. Unfamiliar.
I slid my sandals off and crossed the small living room, heart racing like I’d done something wrong even though I hadn’t done anything at all. My bedroom felt like a refuge and a confession at the same time.
I sat on the edge of the bed and pressed my palms into the mattress, trying to breathe.
This was ridiculous.
I didn’t do this.
I didn’t react like this.
I didn’t think about men who scared me.
And yet my body had already made a decision my mind was scrambling to catch up with.
I lay back slowly, staring at the ceiling, cheeks burning as awareness pooled low and heavy inside me. I’d never felt want like this—raw and physical and completely detached from romance or fantasy.
There was nothing sweet about it.
It was need.
My hand moved before I could talk myself out of it.
Tentative at first, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of my panties, brushing over skin that felt too hot, too sensitive. I was already slick there, shamefully so, my body betraying how desperately it craved something I'd never allowed myself to fully explore.
Then bolder, pressing firmer, circling that swollen bundle of nerves with a pressure that made my hips jerk involuntarily.
The way I imagined he’d be—direct, unflinching, unconcerned with whether I was ready or not.
Those strong, callused hands pinning me down, taking without asking, claiming every inch of me like I belonged to him already.
I bit my lip, stifling a sound as sensation crested too fast, too sharp, my body responding like it had been waiting for permission all along.
My fingers dipped lower, sliding through wet folds, parting them to tease my entrance before pushing one inside—slowly, experimentally, the stretch foreign and aching in a way that made me gasp.
I was so tight, so untouched, and the thought of him forcing his way in, thick and relentless, made me clench around my own finger.
I added another, scissoring gently, pumping in and out as my thumb worked my clit in frantic circles. Heat coiled low in my belly, building with every thrust, every imagined growl of his voice telling me I was his to break, his to ruin.
His face flashed behind my eyes—not kind, not gentle, not careful.
That chiseled jaw set in determination, those piercing eyes dark with hunger, broad shoulders and sculpted chest gleaming under dim light, every muscle honed for dominance.
The way he'd looked at me earlier, like he could see straight through my innocence, stripping me bare without a single touch.
Now, in my mind, he loomed over me, shirtless and unyielding, his powerful body caging mine as he drove into me hard and deep, no mercy for my inexperience. Watching. Judging. Deciding I wasn't enough—yet making me beg for more, anyway.
My breaths came in shallow pants, thighs trembling as I fucked myself faster, harder, chasing that forbidden edge.
Slick sounds filled the quiet room, obscene and intoxicating, my arousal coating my fingers, dripping down to soak the sheets.
I was mortified by how much I wanted this—wanted him—how my naive body arched and writhed for a stranger whose name I didn't even know, a man who screamed danger and control.
But I couldn't stop; the need was too raw, too overwhelming, awakening something dark and hungry inside me that terrified and thrilled in equal measure.
I came quietly, breath shuddering, the aftermath leaving me flushed and stunned and mortified all at once.
When it was over, I lay there in the hush of my own apartment, heart pounding, one hand pressed to my mouth like I could take it all back.
What was wrong with me?
I rolled onto my side, curling in on myself, heat slowly ebbing into something softer and more unsettling.
This wasn’t who I was.
Was it?
I’d spent my life cultivating order. Gentleness. Men like him didn’t belong in that world.
And yet.
Something in me had woken up.
And it didn’t feel sweet at all.
I lay there longer than I meant to, staring at nothing, listening to the quiet hum of my refrigerator and the distant sounds of traffic outside. Normal life. Ordinary life. The kind I’d always known how to navigate.
My body, on the other hand, felt foreign.
Too aware. Too awake.
My cheeks burned all over again, shame curling tight in my chest—not because touching myself was wrong, exactly, but because he was a stranger. A man whose name I didn’t know. A man who’d dismissed the very thing I’d built my life around and somehow lodged himself under my skin, anyway.
I pressed my palm flat against my sternum, trying to slow my breathing.
Get a grip, Joy.
This wasn’t me. I didn’t spiral over men. I didn’t fixate on someone after a single uncomfortable interaction. I didn’t unravel because of a look—a look that hadn’t even been kind.
Especially not someone like him.
I pushed myself upright and swung my legs over the side of the bed, the floor grounding me. I needed to move. To do something ordinary enough to stitch myself back together.
Work.
McKinley Flowers didn’t pause because I’d had some kind of internal meltdown. Britney was covering the shop today, but she wasn’t meant to do it alone for long. I’d told her I’d be in after my meeting.
I glanced at the clock.
Still time to pretend this hadn’t shaken me.
I changed clothes quickly—jeans, a soft blouse, flats. The mirror reflected someone familiar. Sweet, capable, put-together.
If I hadn’t been inside my own head, no one would’ve known anything had shifted.
When I stepped into the shop, the bell chimed its familiar note, and Britney looked up from the counter with a grin.
“There you are! I was just about to text you.”
Relief loosened something in my chest. “Everything okay?”
“Totally. We had two walk-ins, and Mrs. Kline called to confirm her order for Friday.” She tilted her head, studying me. “Big meeting?”
I hesitated—just a beat too long.
“Yeah,” I said finally. “A lot to think about.”
Britney nodded like that made perfect sense and went back to trimming stems. The normalcy of it—the snip of shears, the rustle of greenery—settled me further.
I moved behind the counter, opened my laptop, and pulled up invoices. Numbers behaved. They didn’t look at you like they could undo you with a glance.
As the afternoon wore on, the edges smoothed. The heat faded. The shock dulled.
But something remained.
Not guilt. Not regret.
Awareness.
Like I’d been walking through my life with a door locked inside me—and someone I didn’t even like had brushed past and turned the key.
I didn’t know his name.
I didn’t know what he did.
I didn’t even know if I’d ever see him again.
But as I arranged flowers and reassured customers and built beauty with steady hands, one thought returned again and again, quiet and unsettling in its certainty.
Men like him didn’t belong in my world.