Page 76 of Lady and the Hitman
“Thank you,” I said softly.
He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. But it was. We both knew it.
It was.
For a few minutes, we just sat in the quiet of the cabin, the hum of the engine soft as the jet began its descent. I sipped the last of my Coke, trying not to overthink what came next. What this meant. Whether it meant anything at all.
Then he broke the silence.
“Are you free tomorrow night?”
I blinked. “Tomorrow?”
He nodded. “There’s somewhere I want to take you.”
My pulse stuttered. The question was casual. The look in his eyes was not.
I gave a short laugh, more nervous than amused. “That depends. Am I allowed to see you again without filling out another form?”
His mouth tugged into a half-smile. “I’ll allow it. But only if you say yes.”
I hesitated, fingers tightening around the armrest. “I have work. And my mom’s going to want to know where I’ve been. I’m sure I’ve already missed several of her calls.”
“So, call her.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
I didn’t answer. Because I couldn’t explain how dangerous it felt to even think about fitting him into my real life. Ronan wasn’t normal. He wasn’t safe. He wasn’t someone I could introduce over coffee or casually bump into at the nursery.
But I didn’t want to say no either.
“You’ll come,” he said quietly. Not demanding. Just certain.
My voice was almost a whisper. “Where?”
“I’ll let you know.”
The jet touched down in Charleston just after sunset.
And everything felt different. The air was softer. The landscape wider. Spanish moss draped from trees like secrets. And I remembered what my life was supposed to look like—routine, controlled, untouched.
He reached for my hand in the car. I let him hold it.
“I want to show you something,” he said.
I didn’t ask what.
The driver took a turn I hadn’t expected—off the main road and onto Johns Island, past familiar landmarks. My parents’ nursery came into view, its faded wooden sign and bright planters as unchanged as ever. I craned my neck, heart thudding. A pang hit somewhere in my chest.
He’d said he wanted to see me in Charleston. I didn’t know he’d already seen the city himself. I had no idea where he lived, actually.
“You’ve been here before,” I said quietly.
He didn’t answer. Just gave my hand a light squeeze.
A few turns later, we pulled into a long driveway framed by cypress trees and low-slung fencing. The house came into view slowly—massive, modern, but rooted in Southern lines. Wide porches, warm light glowing through tall windows, and beyond it, a private dock stretched into a tidal inlet.
