Page 75 of Lady and the Hitman
I opened the lid and blinked. A stacked club sandwich on toasted sourdough, kettle chips on the side, and a little paper cup of coleslaw that looked way better than it had any right to be.
“You had diner food delivered to the jet?” I asked, incredulous.
He gave a small shrug. “Figured you’d rather have something comforting than caviar.”
I smiled before I could stop myself. “And you couldn’t wait until Charleston?”
“I didn’t want you hungry.”
The way he said it—simple, unapologetic—made my stomach twist for reasons that had nothing to do with food.
We ate in silence, perched across from each other,our knees brushing every so often in the narrow aisle. I sipped a tiny bottle of Coke and tried not to think about what it meant that I was already learning his habits. That I knew how he took his coffee. That I’d already let him see me naked.
I should’ve been embarrassed. I should’ve felt regret.
But instead, I felt something that scared me more.
Comfort.
The kind of comfort that made you forget to be careful. That made the lines blur between fantasy and reality until you started wondering if maybe this wasn’t just a story you’d stepped into for a night. Maybe it was the beginning of something else. Something that had no neat ending.
I leaned my head back against the leather seat, the hum of the engine a soft backdrop to my thoughts. Outside, the clouds glowed faintly with the fading light. Inside, the cabin smelled like coffee and citrus and him.
Ronan sat across from me, his elbows on the table, fingers loosely laced. His watch glinted under the recessed lighting, and his gaze hadn’t left me for long since we’d boarded. But he wasn’t crowding me. He was letting me drift. Letting me think.
Charleston.
The word kept echoing in my mind like a summons and a threat. He wanted to see me there. Had said it more than once. But Charleston wasn’t like Miami. It wasn’t all heat and escape. It was roots and reality. It was my job, my townhouse, my mom. The nursery where I grew up running between rows of camellias and dogwoods. It was expectations. Reputations.
It was my real life.
And he wanted to enter it.
“You ever going to tell me your last name?” I askedsuddenly, because it felt safer than asking the other questions pressing at my chest.
He exhaled through his nose, slow. “It’s usually against the rules.”
I lifted a brow. “Rules?”
He leaned back in his seat. “Alpha Mail has guidelines. Protocols. Discretion is part of the appeal—for both parties.”
“And you follow the rules?”
A beat passed. “I try.”
I watched him. “But you’re not a rule follower, not really.”
He cracked the barest smile. “No. But the guy who started the service is a friend. We served together. I owe him a lot. And when I left that world, he gave me something else to do. So yeah. I try to follow the damn rules.”
I waited.
He looked at me, jaw tight. Then finally, “Hale.”
I blinked. “That’s your last name?”
He nodded once. “Ronan Hale.”
It landed heavy. Like it changed something. Made him more real. More traceable. Like now I could Google him and maybe find fragments of a man the world hadn’t known what to do with.
