The boat rocked gently beneath us, but the world felt perfectly still.
18
CHARLIE
The weight of Sloane in my arms, her breath soft against my chest, hit me like a tidal wave—shock and homecoming tangled together in a way I hadn’t felt since I was a kid, running wild on Sullivan’s Island with my brothers. Lying on the stateroom bed, the yacht rocking gently beneath us, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was both impossible and inevitable, like finding a piece of myself I didn’t know was missing. Sloane Carrington, the airport brat I’d pegged as trouble, was the woman in red, her fire still burning through me, and every touch, every glance, felt like it was rewriting my rules.
The ocean stretched endless outside, and for a moment, it was perfect—her warmth, her scent, the quiet hum of something real. I traced the curve of her spine, my fingers memorizing her, and let myself believe we could stay like this, far from Charleston’s gilded cages and my family’s shadows.
But perfection never lasts, and the spell cracked when her phone buzzed on the nightstand, a sharp, insistent vibration that cut through the haze. She ignored it, her body tensing againstmine, but it buzzed again, then again, the screen lighting up with “Momma” like a warning flare.
I propped myself on an elbow, glancing at the phone as it vibrated a fourth time, the sound grating against the stateroom’s quiet.
“You gonna answer that?” I asked, my voice low, trying to keep the moment from slipping.
Sloane sighed, her eyes flicking to the screen, then back to me, a mix of defiance and dread in her gaze. She shook her head, but the buzzing didn’t stop, each call a reminder of the world we’d left behind at the country club.
I nudged her gently, my hand on her hip. “Might as well. They’re not gonna quit.”
She hesitated, then grabbed the phone, her thumb hovering over the screen before she hit accept, putting it on speaker so I could hear. The air shifted, heavy with whatever was about to spill out.
Sylvia Carrington’s voice came through, sharp and worried.
“Sloane, where are you? The valet said you left with some man in a truck—do you have any idea how reckless that looks?”
Sloane’s jaw tightened, her eyes meeting mine, a silent question in them—should she tell her? I nodded, my gut twisting with a mix of nerves and resolve.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
She took a breath, her voice steady but edged.
“I’m with Charlie Dane.” The line went dead silent, so long I thought the call had dropped, and Sloane frowned, glancing at the screen. “Momma? You still there?”
When Sylvia spoke again, her tone was different—cold, almost frightened, like she’d just heard a ghost’s name.
“Are you okay, Sloane? Has he … are you safe?”
I bristled, but Sloane’s hand found my cheek, her touch soft, sending a thrill through me that cut through the sting of her mother’s words.
“Of course, I’m okay,” she said, her voice firm, her fingers stroking my jaw. “I haven’t been kidnapped, Momma. I’m fine.”
Sylvia’s voice tightened, pressing harder. “You need to come home. Now. There are things to discuss—Marshall was very forthcoming about your prior issues, and your father is beside himself.”
Sloane’s face went cold, her hand dropping from my face, her eyes narrowing like she’d been slapped.
“Marshall?” she snapped, her voice ice. “You’re listening to that weasel? Don’t believe a word he says.”
Sylvia’s tone turned desperate, almost frantic, like she was teetering on a panic attack.
“Sloane, this is about our family’s name. You can’t just run off with—with a Dane. Come home. Your father’s a wreck, and we need to sort this out.”
I nudged Sloane’s arm, my eyes meeting hers, silently telling her it was okay, that I could get her back.
She sighed, her shoulders slumping, and spoke into the phone, her voice sharp with snide defiance.
“I’ll be home, Momma. Don’t know how fast a megayacht can go, but I’ll tell the captain to step on it.”
She hung up before Sylvia could respond, the silence ringing in the stateroom like a gunshot.
